VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

For a moment, Nakahara just stares at him, caught between confusion and doubt. But in the end, he exhales and slides the mitts on.

There’s not much else he can do. Ryoma’s right hand still isn’t at full strength, and the kid’s stubbornness has a gravity of its own.

“Alright,” Nakahara mutters. He lifts the mitts into guard. “Do it your way. I’ll hold.”

Ryoma nods once, eyes glinting with focus.

“Here I come.”

Kenta, the senior, chuckles from where he’s stretching. “This brat never makes it easy, does he? Flicker jab with a week to go… tch, unbelievable.”

Ryohei shakes his head, smirking. “That’s Ryoma for you. Always chasing something.”

To Coach and gym mates, Ryoma’s just a stubborn kid: reckless, restless, always impatient to achieve somthing.

But Ryoma knows his edge; years ahead with accumulated experience and knowledge, Vision Grid sharpness, and a lifetime regressed into youth. Together, they work like a cheat code only he can access.

Pak, pak, pak!

His left hand keeps snapping, sharp flickers rising from low guard. The rhythm is fast, but uneven.

“Too stiff!” Nakahara barks, twisting the mitt away. “Relax your shoulder, let it whip. You’re forcing it like a straight.”

Ryoma exhales, loosening. The next jab darts faster, wrist cracking up into the mitt.

Snap!

“Better. Again!” Nakahara shifts the mitts. “Hide it under the rhythm of your steps. Don’t show me, surprise me.”

Ryoma shifts too, heel tapping the floor, then launches another.

Pak, pak!

His Vision Grid keeps analyzing every angle, replaying Nakahara’s cues in real time. Each adjustment is instant, every flaw ironed smoother.

Nakahara narrows his eyes. “Tch… You’re already blending it, huh? Most kids take weeks just to stop slapping the mitt. Alright… flick, flick, and straight. Go!”

Ryoma obeys, sending two snapping flickers, then a solid jab down the pipe.

Pak, pak… Thud!

“That’s it! Don’t get greedy, though,” Nakahara reminds. “Remember, the flicker ain’t your main gun. Just a trick. Variety.”

Ryoma nods, sweat dripping, eyes sharp. He knows exactly what Nakahara means, but also knows, deep down, that variety is what makes him dangerous.

Pak, pak! Thud!

He rattles off the rhythm, but stil…

“Don’t square your hips!” Nakahara snaps, moving the mitt sideways. “Angle, always angle. Flicker’s useless if you’re standing like a scarecrow.”

Ryoma shifts, lead foot tapping a sharper line.

Pak, pak!

“Good. Now loosen that shoulder. You’re still jabbing like a straight. Snap from the elbow, not the chest. Think whip, not hammer.”

Ryoma exhales, lets the arm dangle a fraction freer. And the mitt pops crisp.

“There it is.” Nakahara grins. “Again. Double. Triple. Mix your tempo, don’t let me count it.”

Ryoma obeys, pak-pak-pak flickers at uneven beats, sliding his head to the right as he finishes.

“Better! Now hide behind it. Step in, flicker, flicker, then drop the left hook…”

“No, keep the elbow in tighter! Don’t flare!”

Pak, pak… BOOM!

The mitt jerks back, Nakahara’s wrist stung by the hook’s weight.

He laughs under his breath. “Damn brat. That was something!”

Ryoma only grins, eyes locked, hungry for more.

But Nakahara lowers the mitts, breathing heavier than Ryoma despite not throwing a single punch. He studies him for a moment, then lets out a low whistle.

“…I take it back,” he mutters. “You’re not just adding flavor. With that tempo, a week might be enough to sharpen it into a weapon.”

He drops the mitts onto the bench and jerks his head toward the far corner.

“Come on. Bags.”

Ryoma wipes his mouth with the back of his forearm, nodding without a word. The gymmates glance at each other as they follow the two with their eyes.

The three high schoolers—Satoru, Yahiro, and Furuse—watch from the sidelines with wide eyes.

Yahiro whispers, “Isn’t that, like, Mashiba’s move in Hajime no Ippo?”

Furuse nods eagerly. “Senpai’s really gonna try it? That’s insane!”

Satoru keeps quiet, though the grin tugging at his lips betrays how impressed he is. He’s certain now joining this gym wasn’t a mistake.

Here, there’s a coach who treats his boxers like family. And a role model who never stops chasing growth, always hungry to learn something new.

Nakahara slaps the side of the heavy sandbag with his palm, making it sway. “Mitt’s for rhythm. But flicker? You build it here. Feel the resistance. Hear the snap. If it doesn’t sound like a whip cracking, you’re doing it wrong.”

Ryoma squares up. His left hand dangles loose, shoulder rolling like he’s testing a new joint. He’s tested it for a while, and tried the form. Now, he believes it only needs to put more weight behind it.

Pak, pak, pak!

The bag pops with sharp, irregular beats, the leather snapping back toward him.

“Looser,” Nakahara corrects, circling him. “Make it looser. Don’t drive it, but flick it. Let the elbow guide, not the fist. And move your damn head, don’t be a pole standing in front of it!”

Ryoma adjusts, his torso tilting, weaving with each flicker. His eyes narrow, every punch clicking into his internal grid.

Pak, pak… pak… pak, pak, pak!

The rhythm builds, whip-like strikes peppering the bag. The sound isn’t dull thuds, but smacks, sharp and fast, like a branch slicing the air.

Behind them, Kenta folds his arms, eyebrows lifting. “Tch… this kid’s eating it up.”

Ryohei whistles low. “One week, huh? If anyone can do it, it’s him.”

***

The bag session ends with Nakahara clapping his hands.

“Enough. Take some rest, kid. Don’t burn yourself out a week before the fight.”

Ryoma nods, sweat dripping down his jaw, but instead of reaching for his towel or water, he drifts toward the mirror wall.

For a moment, he just stands there, eyes half-lidded, as if staring at someone only he can see. Then he closes his eyes, his breath steadies.

Inside his head, he starts rewinding every flicker, every angle and every snap, playing it back frame by frame. Not just his own, but Junpei’s flicker jabs from yesterday, each motion etched clear and replayed in his mind’s eye.

When his eyes open again, he slides into stance; left hand low, shoulder loose, body swaying with subtle rhythm, like the stillness before the storm.

It’s nothing but posture, but it pulls every gaze in the gym. Even Nakahara, halfway to the office, pauses and turns back, brows furrowed.

And then, Ryoma moves…

Whssht… whssht, whssht…

The flicker jabs slice through the air, his body weaving as though the mirror itself were his opponent.

Each motion is smoother from before, sharper, guided by the silent overlay of his Vision Grid. There are red lines, imaginary grids, corrections no one else can see.

He adjusts mid-combo, shoulder drop, elbow angle, recoil snap, and the difference is immediate. The whip-crack rhythm grows tighter, more alive.

Shadowboxing, he looks nothing like a kid trying a new move. He looks like a man returning to an old weapon he’d mastered long ago.

Okabe murmurs, almost in disbelief, “The hell… wasn’t he just learning this?”

And Nakahara, silently watching from the door to his office, feels a shiver run down his spine. Then Hiroshi steps up beside him, keeping his voice low.

“Coach… honestly, I was anxious. Letting him fool around with something new a week before the fight… I thought it was a reckless idea.”

Nakahara doesn’t answer right away, his eyes fixed on Ryoma’s shadowboxing. Then his lips part, a mutter slipping out almost to himself.

“I thought the same. But watching this now… maybe he really can pull it off.”