VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The meeting dissolves. Ryoma and Aramaki step back into the gym. The others glance up, curious and expectant, but say nothing.

Ryoma wraps fresh tape around his knuckles. The sound of it peeling and snapping fills the quiet like the ticking of a clock.

Aramaki rolls his shoulders, loosening the stiffness, and then pulls his gloves on with two sharp tugs.

When they both climb into the ring, Okabe leans closer to Hiroshi.

“Wait… what are they doing?”

“Sparring,” Hiroshi replies.

“Seriously?” Ryohei frowns. “Aramaki’s got his own promotional fight coming up. What if Ryoma breaks something again?”

Okabe grunts. “Yeah, what if he sends him back to the hospital?”

“We’ve got Nakahara here,” Hiroshi says calmly. “Okabe, take the bell and timer.”

“Right,” Okabe mutters, already hurrying to his post.

The two fighters stand across from each other. The ropes creak faintly as they shift their weight.

Coach Nakahara also steps into the ring, and then adjusts Aramaki’s headgear, making sure of his protection.

“Start light,” he says, then turns his gaze toward Ryoma. His tone sharpens just a little.

“Just rhythm work. Don’t overdo it. You hear me?”

Ryoma nods. “I know.”

For a moment, everything else in the gym fades to silence.

And then…

“Okabe, bell,” Nakahara says.

Ding!

Ryoma slides into his Philly Shell, left hand low, right tucked, shoulders angled. His upper body moves in small liquid motions, swaying like a branch caught in wind.

He flicks a jab, fast but soft, only a feeler.

Wsht!

Aramaki slips just outside, eyes locked on Ryoma’s rhythm.

He’s trying to read the movement, the subtle roll of Ryoma’s torso, the shift of his lead foot, the way his shoulder twitches before each flick.

But the timing is deceptive. Ryoma’s jab isn’t about power; it’s a lure, a rhythm trap.

He throws another, flick, retract, and then flick again, each one coming from a different angle.

Sometimes from the hip, sometimes from a lowered guard, so fast it’s almost invisible.

Another follows from a different angle.

Wsht!

And another.

Wsht!

Aramaki raises his guard high, trying to read it. But the punches come like rain — not heavy, just endless.

Wsht! Wsht! Wsht!

Each one tapping his gloves, forehead, cheek, forehead again.

The headgear softens the sting but not the humiliation.

He tries to step in. But Ryoma slides half a step back, and

Wsht!

Another left hits his headgear, heavier, stopping him mid-track.

Aramaki tries again, slipping left, moving his head. Ryoma dips, pivots, and another jab lands between the gloves.

Wsht! Wsht!

Each touch feels like a small reminder of the gap between them. The weight, power, speed, control, distance, everything.

“How the hell did he get this good…?”

The thought slips out between Aramaki’s heavy breaths.

“That fight in rookie tournament… I still remember every second of it.”

Aramaki grits his teeth. He knows this is not punishment, but lesson, and that makes it worse. The man in front of him, this Ryoma, moves like someone else entirely.

He used to see him as a rival. Now Ryoma treats him almost like an amateur who just started boxing.

At least, Aramaki tries to do something different. He lowers his stance, tries to feint right and lunge forward.

But Ryoma still reads it cleanly, shoulder-rolls and snaps another jab straight into his guard. The impact pops like a whip.

“Don’t just chase him!” Nakahara calls out, keeping his distance. “Cut the ring! Lead him to the corner.”

Aramaki obeys, but every time he tries to close the space, Ryoma’s already gone, a ghost sliding off the centerline, snapping three quick flicks before fading out of reach again.

Nakahara exhales through his nose, half a sigh, half a growl. “See? That’s what happens when you wait for your corner to tell you what to do. Your opponent’s already heard it first.”

Within a minute, Aramaki’s breathing hard. His gloves twitch, searching for timing. His forearms burn from blocking punches that never seem to stop.

On the other hand, Ryoma stays calm. There’s no grin, no swagger, only precision and maintaining rhythm. Each jab touches, irritates, and denies Aramaki’s effort.

“Damn it… Didn’t knew flickers would be this troublesome.”

Aramaki finally explodes forward, swinging a short hook meant to break through. Ryoma slips it by a hair and answers with a double jab to the face, soft and controlled, but perfectly placed.

And then comes a right cross…

Dsh!

…heavier, snaping Aramaki’s head back.

“Alright, alright!” Nakahara calls, stepping in. “Hold it there.”

Ryoma immediately stops, lowering his gloves.

Aramaki stays still for a second, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his chin onto the canvas.

He’s not hurt, but he’s been handled, completely. And he knows it.

Ryoma looks at him, expression steady. “You’re too linear. You rush in straight. I can read you every time.”

Aramaki exhales, half-smiling through the fatigue. “Then keep reading me till I learn how to make you miss.”

***

At the same hour…

Shinryu Boxing Circle, Kanagawa.

Junpei Teshima watches himself in the mirror, fists raised, flicker jab half-formed, the motion that once defined him now thrown with hesitation.

He flicks another jab, snap, pull, and snap. The form looks right, but it doesn’t feel right. His shoulder rolls late, his elbow doesn’t follow the rhythm, stripped of the confidence that used to make it sharp.

His coach, Suzuki Junji, watches from the side, arms crossed. “You’re tightening up again,” he says. “You’re thinking too much.”

“I’m just… adjusting,” Junpei mutters.

“Adjusting to what?” Junji’s tone stays even, but his gaze is sharp. “You had something rare. Good eyes, clean defense, perfect rhythm. And now you’re throwing it away trying to be someone else.”

Junpei lowers his gloves, wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Defense doesn’t win if the ref and the judges think you’re losing.”

Junji’s jaw flexes. “That wasn’t your fault, and you know it.”

Junpei stares at the floor, sweat dripping onto the boards.

He can still hear the sound of that bell, the one that ended his last fight too soon. He can still see the referee’s hand waving in front of him, like an executioner deciding he’d had enough.

The memory makes his stomach tighten. “I’m not letting it happen again. If they want action, I’ll give them action.”

He then moves to a sandbag, throws a one-two, then another. They’re sharper, faster and heavier than before.

But Junji shakes his head. “You’re forcing it. That’s not you.”

Junpei snaps back, “Maybe it needs to be forced.”

The coach exhales, turning away. “Then you’ll end up fighting like the rest of them. Wild. Predictable. Easy to read.”

Junpei ignores him and keeps punching, each strike louder than the last. The bag sways, the chains creak.

His breathing grows ragged. His rhythm breaks, timing dissolving into raw aggression.

When he finally stops, his chest heaves, and his reflection stares back at him. Not the technician, not the counterpuncher, but a man trying too hard to erase his own shadow.

Behind him, Junji’s voice softens. “Alright. If you’re serious about this, we’ll work on it. Not to replace your style, but to build on it. You’ll need more than defense when someone like Aramaki starts walking you down.”