VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The next day…

Just before dawn, the sky still pale and colorless, Kenta rides the electric bike with Nakahara seated behind him, their breath misting in the cold morning air.

They reach the nearest station a little before six. Kenta eases the bike to a smooth stop, and looks behind.

“Coach… I can come with you. To Kobe. If you want backup.”

Nakahara steps off, tightening the strap of his bag. “No. I’m visiting the camp of your next opponent. Bringing you wouldn’t feel right.”

Kenta frowns. “…My next opponent? In Kobe? Who is it?”

Nakahara is already turning toward the station entrance. “Liam Kuroda.”

He leaves without waiting for a reaction.

Kenta stays there for a moment, frozen, hands gripping the handlebars. Liam Kuroda, the half-Australian powerhouse, respected in the OPBF, feared in Japan.

“Liam Kuroda… Can I really beat someone like that?”

Even as he rides the electric bike to the gym, that dread feelings keep grumbling in his stomach.

Even after reaching the gym, Kenta doesn’t slow down. The electric bike glides forward, until two familiar figures wave frantically from the sidewalk.

“Oi, Kenta!”

“Watch the speed, man!”

Ryoma and Aramaki’s voices jolt him back to the present.

Kenta brakes hard, the bike skidding just a little before settling. He exhales, turns back toward them, and forces a smile.

“You two are early,” he says, parking the bike beside the wall.

Ryoma raises a brow. “Where were you headed at this hour?”

“And where’s Coach?” Aramaki adds.

Kenta scratches his cheek awkwardly. “Ah… Coach is going to Kobe.”

“Kobe?”

Kenta doesn’t answer. Or rather, he doesn’t have an answer he wants to say out loud. He simply shrugs, pushes open the gym doors, and the three of them head inside.

They start stretching on the mats, the morning chill slowly giving way to body heat. Ryoma rolls his shoulders loose. Aramaki works through hip mobility drills.

And Kenta? He goes through the motions like muscle memory alone is moving him, but his mind clearly elsewhere.

A few minutes later, the door slides open again.

“Morning,” Okabe calls, dropping his bag.

Ryohei follows with a yawn. “Yo. Kenta. You’re early.”

Okabe snorts. “Lately he’s been beating all of us here.”

Ryoma shrugs toward them. “He lives with the old man now. You didn’t know?”

Ryohei blinks. “For real? Kenta, you ran away from home? What about your dad’s shop? Who’s helping him?”

But Kenta doesn’t answer. He’s not ignoring them. He’s just somewhere else entirely, buried in his own nerves. And Ryoma, sharper than he looks, has already noticed something off in him for a while.

Okabe nudges Kenta lightly. “Hey, Kenta. You good? You look like you didn’t sleep.”

Ryohei chuckles. “Yeah, man. What happened? Overslept? Underslept? Heartbreak?”

Normally, Kenta would fire back casually, maybe sarcasm, small teasing, something to keep things lively. But today, he barely reacts.

Now he finally shows a bit reaction with Okabe and Ryohei’s present.

“Oh you two… morning,” he mutters.

The two exchange a brief look, a tiny flicker of concern, but only for a second. Then they shrug it off, assuming Kenta’s just half-asleep or not fully awake yet. Without pressing further, they head toward the locker room, chatting casually as they go.

Ryoma doesn’t drop it so easily. He watches Kenta for a moment, and then asks outright, “You said the old man went to Kobe. Was it to look for an opponent for your next fight?”

This time, Kenta’s reaction slips through, a small twitch in his shoulders, a pause too long.

“Who is it?” Ryoma presses.

Kenta exhales. “…He said Liam Kuroda.”

Ryoma lets out a soft knowing laugh. “Ah. That explains a lot.”

Kenta forces a crooked smile. “Yeah. I’m kinda hoping the old man doesn’t get him, so he’s forced to find someone else.”

Aramaki looks genuinely startled. “Wait… Is he really that tough?”

“Yeah,” Ryoma answers before Kenta can. “The most balanced fighter in the entire welterweight division. Best technique in Japan. That’s what every outlet says.”

Kenta’s eyes drift downward, the pessimism settling in. “I barely scraped past Park Hyun-seok,” he mutters. “And now Coach is trying to throw me in with the OPBF’s number six… without even asking if I’m ready.”

Silence settles for a moment, heavy but understanding. Then the door slides open and Hiroshi steps in, bright and brisk as always.

“Morning! Oh, you guys look ready? That’s good. Warm up first. Road work in fifteen.”

The boys spread out automatically, beginning their stretches, though Kenta’s movements are slower, his thoughts clearly still stuck somewhere in Kobe.

***

By the time Nakahara reaches Kobe, the morning chill has already lifted. The sun hangs higher, warming the streets, and the air carries the mild salt of the nearby port.

From the outside, Raging Fox Gym looks calm, almost unremarkable. But stepping in, Nakahara is met by thick and warm air, the sharp clap of padwork, and the constant beat of gloves hammering canvas and leather.

The head coach, Masahiro Nishiyama, shaved head, late forties, glances at Nakahara with a frown. He doesn’t pause his fighter’s combination. He just calls out, loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Oi, old man. What’re you doing here? Are you lost? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of becoming a boxer at your age.”

Nakahara stops, unfazed. Before he can answer, a young assistant rushes from the desk.

“Coach! That might be Kenji Nakahara. We have an appointment with him today, remember? You confirmed it yesterday.”

But the head coach barely reacts. He waves a hand dismissively, still watching over his fighters’s training.

“I know who he might be,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I’ve ever seen his face.”

There’s no apology, no welcome either. He doesn’t offer tea, a seat, nothing. For a man visiting from Tokyo, it’s a deliberate cold shoulder.

And Nakahara catches the real reason in the tone, in the sideways glances from other coaches. He knows this is still the side effect of Ryoma’s alienation. The campaign against his gym, it all traces back here too.

After ignoring Nakahara for a moment that feels forever, Nishiyama finally turns to him, not to greet Nakahara, but simply to get a better look.

“Well?” he says. “What do you want? Make it short. Don’t waste my time.”

Nakahara doesn’t bother responding to the provocation. He goes straight to business. “I’m here to negotiate a fight. For my fighter, Kenta Moriyama. I want him against Liam Kuroda.”

Across the gym, a thudding rhythm stops. Liam Kuroda himself, half-Australian, half-Japanese, glances over.

There’s a flicker of interest, a slight raise of the brow. But before he can step closer, the head coach snaps.

“Hey, Liam! Back to the bag.”

Liam doesn’t argue. He turns and fires a hard right into the heavy bag, shaking dust from the ceiling.

Nishiyama wipes his hands on a towel and looks at Nakahara with a smirk.

“Kenta Moriyama?” he repeats. “Never heard of him. He a rookie? If so, forget it. I’m sick of rookies talking big these days.”

Nakahara’s brow twitches, the only sign he absorbs the humiliation. Around him, fighters and coaches spare him dismissive glances, cold and sharp, a silent reminder he’s unwelcome here. Or perhaps it’s the clearest sign yet that his entire gym has been shut out of this country.

Unbeknownst to Nakahara, Logan had already reached out to this gym in advance, an indirect push meant to make the old man recognize where he now stands.