VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Two days later, Tachibana Boxing Gym.

An assistant coach hurries inside, nearly tripping over a jumprope left on the floor. He waves an envelope above his head as if holding a prize.

“Coach Yoshizawa! Letter from JBC!”

In the ring, Yoshizawa is running mitt drills with his champion, Shinichi Yanagimoto. The sharp rhythm of punches fills the gym, until the assistant’s voice cuts through.

“Coach… finally, a letter from JBC.”

Shinichi lowers his gloves, breathing steady, while Yoshizawa pulls off the mitts and steps toward the ropes.

He looks curious. Since Shinichi claimed the title nearly two months ago, no official challenges have come in. This is the first envelope he’s received. He takes it from the assistant, his expression tightening with expectation.

Around them, several fighters pause their shadowboxing or rope-skipping, ears tuning toward the ring. A JBC letter always means something.

Yoshizawa tears it open and scans the contents. His brows lift at first, then slowly draw together.

“Well, look at that,” he murmurs. “Only the other day we mentioned them, and they already sent the challenge.”

Shinichi tilts his head. “Who’s it from?”

“Ryoma Takeda,” Yoshizawa replies. “Six fights, and he’s already lost his mind. And listen to this… they’re offering to take on half the event work. Production, costs, everything. That small gym is really desperate.”

The assistant brightens. “That’s great for us, isn’t it? Less burden, less risk. And he’s a rookie. Six fights? Sinichi should take him out easily.”

But Yoshizawa doesn’t look convinced. He flips the page, reading more carefully.

“Taking on half the work… but how far can they go?” he mutters. “They’re a tiny gym. I’ve never heard them organized any big event.”

Then his eyes stop on a line. He blinks, and reads it again.

“…Cooperating with NSN?”

The assistant leans closer. “Really? A small gym like them working with NSN?”

“NSN?” Shinichi repeats. “Who are they?”

“You don’t know NSN?” the assistant says, almost offended. “Big American company. Huge. They have a branch here in Tokyo. The exhibition event JBC hosted at Ōta Gym a while back? That was NSN’s production. People still talk about how massive it was.”

Shinichi’s eyes widen a little, already imagining the lights, the cameras, the roar of a large crowd, maybe bigger than his previous title fight.

But the name Ryoma Takeda wipes the spark from his face, replacing it with something uneasy.

“…Ryoma Takeda,” he murmurs, quietly.

The assistant grins. “Isn’t this great, Shinichi? Your first defense against a rookie, and you might get to do it on a huge stage.”

Shinichi doesn’t respond, only smiles faintly. Yoshizawa notices, and he doesn’t like what he sees in that smile, something brittle and insecure.

He slips the letter back into the envelope and exhales through his nose.

“Take a break,” he tells the champion, stepping out of the ring.

He walks to his office, shuts the door behind him, and sinks into his chair. For a long moment he just sits, the envelope resting on his desk like a weight.

He should be thrilled. The offer is tempting: less cost, massive production value, and the publicity of NSN’s involvement. And with the six-month expectation for a title defense ticking down, this challenge arrives at the perfect time.

A rookie challenger, convenient timing, and the chance for a big-money stage. On paper, it’s ideal.

But the truth is, Yoshizawa has been studying Ryoma’s past fights.

Everyone who pays attention has been. That boy’s last fight, the way he broke down a seasoned veteran, the monstrous power behind each punch, the cold composure in his eyes when he smells blood. You don’t usually see that in a six-fight rookie.

Yoshizawa leans back, fingers tapping the desk. If this were anyone else… he’d accept immediately.

But deep down, he knows. He knows his champion, knows Shinichi’s limits, and knows what Ryoma represents.

And the truth crawls up his spine like a slow, unwelcome certainty: He cannot picture Shinichi beating that kid.

Money, exposure, prestige… none of it matters if his fighter loses the belt.

Yoshizawa exhales again, heavier this time. He picks up the envelope, staring at Ryoma Takeda’s name.

He’d heard the rumors: a rookie who nearly toppled Renji Kuroiwa in a spar. And the same kid supposedly held his own against Elliot Graves, the world’s No. 9. The same Graves who had dismantled Kuroiwa in his first International fight.

“Why now…?” Yoshizawa exhales. “If this kid had been born ten years later, this would all be someone else’s problem.”

The thought hangs, heavy and bitter. Because Yoshizawa remembers all too well how long and how painfully they clawed their way to this belt.

For years, Renji Kuroiwa stood at the top of their division, unyielding and unshakeable, a wall disguised as a man.

Sinichi challenged him twice. Both times, Kuroiwa sent him home broken. The gym rebuilt him, patched up his pride, sharpened his technique… only to watch him fall short again.

No one could take the belt from Kuroiwa. The only reason Sinichi is champion now is because Kuroiwa relinquished the title on his own terms, moving up to the world stage.

They didn’t seize the throne. They just inherited an empty seat.

And now, barely two months after finally placing the belt around Sinichi’s waist, a new threat is already knocking. Not gradually, not respectfully, but violently, as if kicking down the door.

Ryoma Takeda. Six fights. A rookie on paper, but a monster in reality. The kind of explosive prodigy who shouldn’t even exist in their timeline.

Yoshizawa exhales shakily, the dread sitting low in his gut.

Two months, that’s all the peace they got.

Now the storm has arrived.

***

Two days after sending the challenge, Nakahara’s gym comes alive again.

Ryoma is back from his recovery break. Ryohei returns as well, ready to prepare for the upcoming A-class tournament. The atmosphere quickly fills with noise: the slap of mitts, the crack of punches, the barked instructions from Sera and Hiroshi.

Ryohei and Okabe especially train with the intensity of men who’ve already submitted their applications to the tournament. Their movements are sharp, hungry, fighting for every inch of improvement.

On the surface, everything looks normal.

But Nakahara isn’t himself.

Instead, he walks around with a quiet heaviness in his shoulders. His mind is clearly somewhere else, dragged down by the silence from the JBC.

Ryoma notices too. Though he trains harder than anyone, his expression stays dark. He knows the challenge was sent. And every hour without an answer feels like another nail hammered into his patience.

A day passes.

Then two.

Then three.

Finally, on the seventh day, the phone rings. The JBC finally calls them.

***

In the cramped office, Nakahara sits rigidly at his desk, holding the phone with both hands. Sera, Hiroshi, and Ryoma gather inside, the air thick with expectation.

The conversation on the phone is brief, too brief. Nakahara listens quietly, his face draining just a little more with every word.

When he finally ends the call, he keeps the phone lowered in his lap for a long moment before placing it gently on the desk.

Sera steps closer. “What did they say?”

Nakahara shakes his head, slow and defeated.

“They ignored us,” he says. “The champion’s camp didn’t give any answer. Instead… they accepted someone else’s challenge. Hisashi Murai. First contender.”

Ryoma’s fingers curl tightly into fists, jaw clenches hard enough to tremble.

Sera mutters a curse under his breath. Hiroshi exhales through his nose, arms crossed tightly.

And Nakahara can’t bring himself to look at Ryoma, because he knows exactly what this rejection will do to him.