VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Nakahara kneels beside Okabe, checking his pulse and pupils with quiet efficiency. His hands tremble slightly, maybe fatigue, maybe anger, or maybe both. But he said nothing about the knockdowns or the spar that has just turned the gym upside down.

Okabe groans in confusion, still too shaken to understand what exactly has broken him.

But Ryoma doesn’t spare him a glance. He wipes his gloves clean, walks to the heavy bag, and resumes his routine as if the spar has been nothing more than a warm-up.

The thuds echo through the gym, steady and merciless. And in the quiet between each strike, something stirs at the back of his mind.

>

The system whispers, its voice smooth and taunting, like someone watching him from a darkened balcony.

>

Ryoma ignores it, throwing another stiff right to the ribs of the bag. Sweat flew off his chin.

>

>

Somehow, a faint pulse of amusement runs through Ryoma’s skull.

>

Ryoma exhales through his nose, resetting his stance, refusing to rise to the bait.

But the voice hums amusedly, satisfied.

>

Ryoma slams a final hook into the bag, sending it swinging hard.

>

Ryoma doesn’t answer, not out loud, not even in his mind. But his next punches land harder and harder.

***

One week later, the weight cut begins. The gym feels colder despite the rising August heat, and Ryoma grows quieter with every passing day.

He arrives early each morning, already sweating, already dehydrated around the eyes. His cheeks sharpen as the water drains from him, yet his aura only grows heavier, denser, and much harder to read.

He barely speaks to anyone. Greetings vanish. Jokes disappear entirely. Even casual talk, once natural for him, is gone.

When he works with Hiroshi, he only speaks when required, replying with one of three clipped phrases: “Yes.” “Sure.” “I’m fine.”

The silence isn’t hostile, but it presses down on the room. People instinctively shift aside when he walks past, though no one can explain why.

The younger boxers, the ones who usually swarm around him, eager for tips, no longer approach him.

It started with two high schoolers working up the nerve to ask for corrections. They called out to him, polite, hopeful. But Ryoma walked past them without a word, eyes locked straight ahead.

Since then, none of the kids ever try again. They watch him from a distance instead, whispering among themselves, too intimidated to step into his orbit.

During mitt work, Ryoma’s punches stay clean and precise, but there’s no warmth in them, just the cold discipline of someone carving himself into whatever he has decided to become.

Hiroshi tracks his sweat loss and rehydration schedule carefully, yet even he finds himself speaking less. Standing next to Ryoma feels like standing beside a storm moments before it breaks; unnecessary words seem disrespectful to the intensity he’s carrying.

Even Nakahara, weathered by decades in boxing, unmoved by violence, watches him with a quiet, unsettled recognition.

Sera steps beside Nakahara, eyes fixed on Ryoma as he pounds the bag without a flicker of emotion.

“He’s changing faster than I expected,” he says, keeping his voice low.

Nakahara doesn’t look at him. “It’s what he needs to win at the level he wants.”

“Needed, maybe,” Sera murmurs, gaze narrowing. “But whether it’s good for him… I’m not so sure.”

Nakahara exhales through his nose. “He was too gentle before. Too forgiving. It held him back. Now he’s stripping everything off. Even the parts that made him… him.”

Sera lets that settle, his eyes following the sharp, mechanical rhythm of Ryoma’s punches.

“You’re not worried he’ll go too far?”

“I’m worried,” Nakahara admits quietly, “but I’m more worried about the world he’s walking into. If he stays soft, they’ll eat him alive.”

Sera gives him a sidelong glance. “And if he becomes what he’s turning into now?”

Nakahara finally looks away from Ryoma, his voice dropping even lower.

“Then we just have to hope he remembers who he is when the fight’s over.”

Sera doesn’t reply. Neither of them does. They simply watch Ryoma, the silent dehydrated figure carving himself into a sharper weapon.

Both are unsure whether they are witnessing a necessary transformation, or it’s the beginning of something they won’t be able to pull him back from.

***

The door chimes lightly, and Aki steps into the gym with her usual bright energy, waving as if the weight of the room doesn’t touch her at all.

Reika trails behind her, quieter but curious, eyes already scanning the space.

“Good morning!” Aki calls, smiling wide.

When she spots Nakahara and Sera, she jogs over.

“Coach, good to see you back! Are you feeling okay? Someone said you were rushed to the hospital?”

Nakahara waves a hand, brushing it off. “Just overworked. Nothing worth fussing about.”

Aki sighs in relief, though her brows stay knit with concern. Then her expression shifts, excitement lighting up her face.

“Oh… by the way, Ryoma’s fight? The tickets are already sold out. And I saw people outside the station selling shirts with his nickname on it. ’Cruel King of Korakuen Hall.’ It’s getting wild.”

Nakahara gives an awkward half-smile. “Ah… must be the Cruel King’s Army. I asked them to handle the merchandise.”

Aki laughs, impressed. Then finally, he notices the heavy relentless thud of Ryoma’s punches on the bag.

She blinks. “He looks incredible today.”

“He is,” Nakahara says. “But I can’t let you talk to him now.”

“Eh? Why not? He always talks to me.”

Nakahara doesn’t answer, because his eyes have already shifted past her, to Reika.

“Oh, no… someone should stop her,” he murmurs.

Aki just blinks, still not realizing the mood.

Reika stands near the edge of the ring, gaze locked on Ryoma with a spark of mischief. She waits for an opening in his rhythm, then steps closer, leaning slightly into his line of sight.

“Yo, Ryoma,” she calls softly, teasing, “you’re working too hard again.”

Ryoma doesn’t respond. His punches stop mid-combo, not out of interest, but out of irritation at the interruption.

Reika mistakes the pause for interest. She brightens, stepping in a little closer. “Anyway… after you win, how about dinner at my place? My dad keeps bringing you up, you know. He’s practically your biggest fan now.”

But Ryoma simply turns his back to her and walks away. Reika’s smile freezes mid-curve, her hand still half-raised before it slowly drops. The expression on her face falters as she’s left standing there with nothing to respond to.

When Ryoma leaves the pitiful bag, he walks past Okabe in the hallway. Instinctively, Okabe shifts his shoulder aside, giving him space without thinking.

Ryoma himself doesn’t even glance at him. He keeps walking, eyes fixed on something far beyond the gym walls, far beyond August 20th.

>

The system chuckles somewhere behind his skull, soft and amused.

>

A beat of satisfied laughter ripples through his mind.

>

By the end of the week, everyone understands: Ryoma isn’t just cutting weight. He’s drying into steel, stripping away what remains of the person he used to be.

What stays behind is something cold, focused, and inevitable. Something worthy of a nickname whispered with awe and fear alike:

The Cruel King of Korakuen Hall.