VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

In the elevator, Aki and Reika continue quietly, discussing Fumiko’s condition; how her mind records too much detail her eyes catch, a talent that sounds miraculous until you realize how heavy it feels.

“I still can’t believe it,” Reika murmurs. “That kind of condition, remembering everything you see, every detail… I can’t even imagine living like that. Calling it a superpower was too much. Turning someone’s pain into something extraordinary. You shouldn’t have said that.”

The elevator slows, a soft chime echoing before the doors open onto the lobby.

They step out into the clean brightness of the first floor.

Aki slides her hands into her coat pockets. “I wasn’t talking about his mother,” she says quietly as they pass the front desk. “I was talking about him.”

Reika glances at her, puzzled. “Ryoma?”

They push through the glass doors, stepping into the cold air of the parking lot.

“What do you mean?” Reika asks.

Aki stops walking and turns toward her, eyes sharp now. “Think about it. Everyone keeps talking about his defense, his timing, the way he moves just before the punch comes. Most fighters rely on reflex, right? Muscle memory. Training. But Ryoma… what he’s done so far is something extraordinary.”

Reika folds her arms. “That’s just the fruit of his training with Coach Nakahara.”

Aki shakes her head. “No, not like this. You saw his match, Reika. It’s like he knew what Serrano would do before he did it. Even top boxers in Japan don’t react that cleanly. That’s not instinct. It’s precision.”

Reika gives her a skeptical look. “So what are you saying? That he inherited some kind of… super-vision from his mother?”

Aki’s lips twitch into a half-smile. “You’re the one who said not to call it a superpower.”

“I’m serious,” Reika insists. “He trains like hell. I’ve seen him. That’s what makes him special.”

Aki studies her for a beat, then raises one eyebrow. “Then why don’t you come with me?”

Reika blinks. “Come where?”

Aki keeps walking, pulling her phone from her coat. “I’m thinking of paying a visit to a certain boxer.”

Reika narrows her eyes. “His next opponent?”

“Exactly,” Aki says, scrolling through something on her screen. “Kanagawa Block Rookie King. The guy Ryoma’s supposed to fight in the All-Japan final.”

Reika looks hesitant. “That’s… not exactly a casual visit.”

Aki shrugs, already walking toward Reika’s car. “All the more reason to go. If we want to understand Ryoma, we need to see the kind of monster he’s up against.”

The wind picks up as they cross the lot, rustling Aki’s hair. Reika follows a few steps behind, still half-unsure, half-curious.

“Where is he based?” she asks finally, unlocking the car.

Aki replies with a grin. “Kobe.”

Reika’s shocked. “Kobe? That’s six hours away!”

“It’s fine. We’ll stop for coffee halfway. If we leave now, we’ll be there by lunch.”

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

Aki opens the door with a satisfied smile. “If you’re really that into this sport, you don’t get to complain about traveling.”

Ultimately, the car pulls out of the lot, sunlight glinting off its windshield as it joins the slow stream of late-morning traffic. The air outside is cool but clear, touched with that faint dryness that hints at autumn.

***

The road to Kobe stretches under a pale autumn sun, the kind that glows soft through the glass instead of burning.

By the time they near the harbor, the air carries a faint trace of salt and diesel from the port, the smell of the sea threading through the city streets.

The gym sits just a block from the waterfront, “Kobe Harbor Boxing Gym” painted in bold red letters across the weathered front.

The muffled rhythm of mitts and footwork drifts out even before they step inside, blending with the distant cry of gulls and the noise of cargo cranes from the docks.

When they push open the glass door, warm air and the thick scent of resin and sweat hit them at once. Inside, boxers move like clockwork, jump ropes flicking, bags thudding, and the sound of a whistle snapping through the air.

At the far end of the ring, a lean fighter is in the middle of a mitt session with his trainer. Every move flows in rhythm. Step, slip, pivot, counter, his left hand flicking sharp as a blade, his right reserved and precise. His footwork barely stirs the canvas.

Aki stops just past the doorway, eyes fixed. “There,” she says quietly. “That’s him.”

Reika glances over. “He’s good.”

“Yeah,” Aki murmurs. “That’s Yoshiya Hiroyuki, The Super Featherweight Champion of the West Japan Rookie King.”

They watch in silence for a while. The trainer throws a flurry of punches with the pads, and Hiroyuki slips, ducks, rolls, weaving through them like a tide cutting around stone. It’s crisp, perfect, each motion ends exactly where it should.

Reika’s voice drops. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is.” Aki nods once, her gaze analytical rather than admiring. “But this is the gym. It’s supposed to look beautiful here.”

Reika frowns slightly. “Meaning?”

Aki crosses her arms. “Drills like that… they look flawless because they’re rehearsed. Every punch, every dodge, built into rhythm. Trainers repeat patterns again and again until their fighters move on instinct.”

“So what’s the problem?” Reika asks.

Aki tilts her head, still watching. “Once you’re in a real fight, you’re not dodging your trainer anymore. You’re facing chaos. People don’t move the way drills do.”

Reika thinks about that, eyes still on Hiroyuki as he pivots cleanly from the ropes. “So all this training… it’s useless?”

“Not useless.” Aki shakes her head. “It sharpens reflexes, builds rhythm, teaches composure under pressure. But it’s never the same. You can’t replicate the unpredictability of an opponent trying to hurt you. The ring’s too alive for that.”

“Still…” Reika murmurs. “I saw Ryoma fight. It was chaotic too.”

Aki glances sideways at her, faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Exactly. And that’s what’s strange. Because there was something different in his fight with Serrano, especially the third round.”

She pauses, eyes narrowing in thought. “If my memory’s right, it was the same thing I noticed in his debut fight against Kazuya Tōjō.”

Before she can continue, the rhythmic smack of pads stops. Kanzaki’s trainer, Hiraoka Sugimoto, lowers the mitts, wiping sweat from his brow as he turns toward them. His face lights up when he recognizes Aki.

“Well, well… You really came all the way from Tokyo? We’ve been expecting you.”

Aki smiles back, polite but sharp. “You make it sound like a pilgrimage.”

Sugimoto laughs, leading them toward his small office tucked behind the ring. Inside, the space smells faintly of coffee and antiseptic spray.

He gestures toward the worn couch. “Please, sit. You must’ve been on the road for hours. I prepared a few drinks, and some biscuits, if you don’t mind gym snacks.”

Reika bows politely, thanking him, while Aki wastes no time setting down her recorder on the table, this time with permission.

“So,” she starts, voice turning professional again, “how’s Hiroyuki’s condition? We’ve been hearing good things.”

Sugimoto chuckles modestly, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s in top shape. Sharp, calm, confident. But we’re not underestimating our opponent. The kid’s special, the way he reads rhythm, it’s… not something you teach.”

“So you think it’ll be close?” Aki asks.

“More than close.” The trainer’s eyes drift toward the ring, where Hiroyuki is shadowboxing now, every step soundless. “They’re similar fighters, same precision, same discipline. It’s going to be six long rounds of chess, not brawling. The kind of fight all purists love.”

Aki smiles faintly. “A mirror match, then.”

“Maybe,” Sugimoto says, laughing softly. “But mirrors don’t always reflect the same light.”