VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Even without Ryoma around, Nakahara Gym doesn’t slow down. If anything, the place feels busier than ever.

It’s Sunday morning, cold air still lingering from last night’s frost, and the gym floor is already packed. The sound of jump ropes slapping against the mat mixes with the rhythmic thud-thud of gloves hitting sandbags.

A group of new faces stands near the entrance, some of them high schoolers from Kamisaka, dragged in by Satoru, grinning like they already belong here. But most are strangers.

Even two junior high boys in oversized hoodies have shown up too, eyes wide as they stare at the ring.

“Too young, kids!” Nakahara says, crossing his arms. “Come back when you’re a little older.”

“Aw, come on, old man,” one of them shoots back. “We heard Ryoma started at our age!”

“Old man?” Nakahara’s eyebrow twitches. “Kid, Ryoma only started when he was in high school. And not here, but in his school club. Now get back to your mom before I throw you out myself. Teaching you boxing now will only turn you into delinquents.”

The boys shrink a little, but not enough to hide their excitement.

From across the room, Okabe calls out, grinning, “Come on, Coach! They say it’s better to start ’em young!”

Ryohei joins in, smirking. “Yeah, and it’s our job as adults to teach them manners too.”

Nakahara narrows his eyes at the two of them. “Adults, huh? Since when?”

He glances at the boys, then back at his “role models.” “The fame’s really going to your heads, isn’t it?”

The gym bursts into a few quiet laughs. Even Satoru smirks behind his mouthguard.

Finally, Nakahara sighs through his nose, rubbing his forehead. “Fine… Hiroshi! Get two parental consent forms for these kids.”

“On it, Coach!” Hiroshi shouts, jogging toward the office.

“YEEEESSS!!!” The two boys jump in excitement, practically vibrating on their feet.

But Nakahara steps closer, leaning down until his shadow covers both of them. His voice drops low, calm but sharp enough to cut through their giddiness.

“I’m only letting you join after your parents sign those forms. Got it?”

“Sure! I already told my mom!” one of them blurts.

“Me too!” says the other. “My mom knows you, old man!”

Nakahara’s brow twitches again. “Stop calling me old man! The first rule in my gym is respect. For your trainers, your staff, your seniors… and even each other. Understand?”

“Yes… Nakahara-san!” the two chorus immediately, standing straighter.

“Good. And one more thing.” His tone hardens. “You never use your fists outside this gym. No fighting, no brawling, no bullying. Once you do, there’s no warning… you’re out.”

Both boys nod fast. “Yes, sir!”

Nakahara studies them for a moment longer, then straightens his back and waves them toward the locker room.

“Now go change. You’ll start with warm-ups. No punching anything yet. Just follow your senpais for roadwork later.”

They dash off, sneakers squeaking on the floor, their excitement trailing behind them like noise.

Okabe watches them with a grin. “Guess we’re babysitting now, huh?”

Nakahara groans. “You? Babysitting? God help those kids.”

Ryohei chuckles. “Hey, every champion starts somewhere.”

Nakahara mutters under his breath, “Yeah. Usually somewhere less annoying.”

He turns toward the ring where the morning group is sparring. For a brief second, he imagines Ryoma standing there again, calm, focused, dangerous. The image fades as a glove hits the mat with a dull thump.

Finally seeing the gym this lively, old man Nakahara can’t hide his grin. It’s been decades since he’s seen it this full of noise and energy.

For most of his life, the question was always the same: shut it down or survive another month. But now, watching the steady rhythm of gloves and jump ropes, he dares to dream a little bigger.

Maybe, this place will outlast him, carry on for another generation.

Soon, the front door slides open with a soft clack. Someone steps in, shaking off the cold air. Coming late, as usual, is Kenta, the most senior among the boxers still training here.

“Oh, what a crowd,” Kenta mutters, slinging his gym bag onto a bench as he looks around. “Where’s Ryoma? Still down with that fever?”

“I stopped by his mom’s shop yesterday,” Nakahara says. “She said the kid caught the flu after forcing himself to go on a dawn roadwork.”

Kenta chuckles. “Typical Ryoma. Can’t stay still for a week, huh?”

“You shouldn’t let him beat you,” Nakahara shoots back. “Now get changed and take the new kids out for their run.”

“Alright, boss.”

Kenta peels off his sweater, stretches his shoulders, and soon the chatter fades as he and the other seniors gather the newcomers.

One by one, they head out through the side door for roadwork, their sneakers slapping the pavement outside.

“Go easy on them!” Nakahara calls after them. “There are two kids in the group!”

He stands by the door for a while, watching them disappear around the corner. The sight makes his chest tighten, not with worry, but with pride.

The next generation is already forming, right before his eyes.

Hiroshi steps up beside him, arms crossed. “We should start finding opponents for Kenta and the others too.”

“Of course,” Nakahara says, still gazing at the street. “But before that, we need another staff member. I can’t handle them all by myself anymore.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“I do,” Nakahara says, turning toward his old bike parked by the wall. “I’m planning to see him today.”

He grips the handlebars, ready to start the engine. But before he can, a sleek Lexus glides into the parking space outside.

He and Hiroshi exchange a look, expecting for Aki and Reika again.

But when the car door opens, a tall Westerner steps out from the driver’s seat, holding a big envelope in one hand. Broad-shouldered, sharp suit, the kind of man who looks out of place in a small Tokyo gym.

Neither Nakahara nor Hiroshi has ever seen him before, but something about his presence makes both men straighten their posture. The air feels different, heavy and expectant.

Then Reika steps out from the passenger side, adjusting her blouse and bag before offering a polite smile.

“Good morning, Nakahara-san, Hiroshi-san.”

“Morning,” Nakahara replies, already letting go of the bike. His eyes flick toward the foreigner, then back at her. “Um… Reika. Is this your father?”

“Yes,” she says softly, still smiling.

Before she can say more, the man steps forward, extending his hand with a calm motion.

“I’m Logan Rhodes,” he says in English, then continues in careful Japanese. “Reika has told me a great deal about you, and about this gym. And of course, about Ryoma Takeda. I’ve had some business with him before… so I came to settle that matter.”

“A business?” Nakahara repeats, blinking.

Then he recalls the story Ryoma mentioned days ago.

“Ah, yes, yes. He told me a bit about that. But he’s not here today, caught a fever. Still, please, come in. Make yourself at home.”

Logan glances briefly at Reika, then nods and follows Nakahara inside.

Even without Ryoma present, there’s a quiet certainty in his stride, as if he already knows this visit won’t end with just one conversation.