VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

By the time Nakahara steps back into his gym, the place is alive again, the quick thud of jump ropes, the sharp rhythm of mitts, the smell of sweat and canvas. But the moment Kenta notices him, all of it seems to fade.

Kenta jogs over, gloves half-unlaced, worry written plainly across his face.

“Coach, you’re back? How was it?”

Nakahara doesn’t ease into it. He’s exhausted, his nerves raw from the long ride and the gamble he’s just committed to.

So he delivers it straight. “You’re fighting Liam Kuroda.”

The words land like a punch. Kenta’s expression flickers, shock, and then he feels something tighter, a brief involuntary fear he tries to mask with a stiff nod.

Nakahara continues, “And Aramaki will fight Hanazawa Matsusuke.”

Aramaki’s face lights up instantly, thrilled at the chance. But Kenta says nothing. He lowers his gaze, jaw clenched, breath uneven in a way only a trained coach would notice.

And Nakahara notices everything. That tiny hesitation, that swallowed panic. And he clearly doesn’t like it.

After everything he just endured in Kobe, in that office, in that gym, under those downgrading stares, mockeries and humiliation, seeing fear now only twists the knife deeper.

He holds it in, but just barely.

“Hiroshi!” he calls, voice sharper than he intends. “Training camp starts tomorrow. Six weeks. No excuses, no shortcuts.”

He looks at Aramaki first, then at Kenta, long enough for the boy to realize this isn’t just about a fight. This is about everything Nakahara staked for them.

Then the old man’s frustration finally cracks through, not in shouting, but in a low, controlled growl as he locks eyes with Hiroshi.

“Push them,” he says. “Hard. Harder than ever. I don’t care if they hate me for it. I want them to come out of that camp afraid of nothing but us.”

The gym goes quiet for a moment. Kenta stiffens, nodding quickly, as if trying to signal he understands, that he won’t let that fear show again. Aramaki stands straighter, adrenaline buzzing through him.

Hiroshi absorbs the order with a slow, serious breath. “Understood.”

Nakahara turns away before anyone can see the weight on his face, heading toward his office, shoulders rigid.

But on the way, he notices Ryohei and Okabe practically vibrating in excitement.

“Finally! A real camp!”

“Man, I’ve been dying for this…”

Nakahara’s voice cuts clean through their excitement.

“No.”

Both freeze mid-smile.

“…Hah?” Ryohei blinks. “Coach, what do you mean no?”

“You two are staying here,” Nakahara says, not slowing his stride. “Your Class-A tournament is less than two weeks away. You train with me and Sera.”

Okabe’s face crumples. “Oi, that’s favoritism! Total favoritism!”

“Life’s unfair,” Nakahara replies, already inside the office. “Deal with it.”

Their groans echo behind him, but he doesn’t look back.

Ryoma and Aramaki, however, exchange a quiet, understanding glance. They’ve known about a training camp coming, but not tomorrow. And this is not something either of them can just walk into unannounced.

“Hiroshi, think I need to head home,” he says, already grabbing his bag. “I can’t leave for six weeks without telling my mom.”

Aramaki raises a hand. “Same here. I need to talk to my wife first. If I vanish tomorrow morning, she’ll barricade the gym when I come back.”

Hiroshi gives a curt nod. “Fine. Be here before sunrise.”

The two gather their bags and head toward the exit, leaving the gym’s tension muffled on the other side.

They walk a short distance in silence before Aramaki speaks first, his voice low.

“…Good thing you told me to move,” he says, almost sheepish. “At least my wife won’t be alone this time. I just hope they won’t trouble your mom.”

Ryoma lifts a hand dismissively. “Not trouble. Honestly, it helps me too. You know my mom’s condition. Having Kaori around makes things easier.”

What Aramaki doesn’t know is that Ryoma, stirred by the system in his mind, had been preparing for this kind of situation since the beginning. It may be manipulative, but it benefits both sides.

***

The next morning, before the city has even begun to stir, four men gather outside the gym with their bags slung over their shoulders.

Hiroshi checks the time once, then looks toward the Shimizu Soba van waiting by the curb. Shimizu is already behind the wheel, one arm hanging out the window as he waves them over with a bright grin.

“Come on, boys! Mountain air’s not gonna wait for you!” he calls, cheerful as ever.

Ryoma, Kenta, and Aramaki haul their bags forward. Hiroshi does a quick headcount and herds them toward the van like a quiet but immovable wall.

Nakahara stands a few steps behind them, arms crossed, expression unreadable. As the boys load their things, Kenta glances back.

“Coach… you’re not coming with us?”

Nakahara shakes his head. “I’ve got work to do. A lot of it. I’ve already handed the full program to Hiroshi. You follow it to the letter. No slacking just because I’m not there to yell at you.”

Kenta nods slowly, though worry still sits behind his eyes. Ryoma and Aramaki exchange a quick look, resolved and steady, then climb in.

Hiroshi gives Nakahara a small bow from the passenger seat. “I’ll push them hard.”

“I know you will,” Nakahara replies.

The doors close. Shimizu thumps the side of the van once, signaling he’s about to take off.

“Alright! Off we go!”

The engine rumbles to life, and in a moment the van pulls away from the curb, carrying the three fighters and Hiroshi toward six weeks of punishment in the mountains.

Nakahara watches until the tail lights disappear around the corner. Only then does he exhale, long and heavy, as though the tension had been sitting under his ribs the whole morning.

There’s no time to stand still.

For almost an hour, Nakahara pretends to work, but his eyes keep drifting to the fax machine. He sent the sanctioning requests yesterday, and now all he can do is wait.

Then, at last, the machine sputters to life. A long sheet feeds through, lines printing slow and uneven. At first, OPBF approval, and less than an hour later, JBC sanction confirmed.

Nakahara exhales, a thin, controlled breath. All the humiliations in Kobe, all the risks he took, now they finally have weight.

He gathers the warm pages, straightens them once, and reaches for his phone. It’s time to make the announcement.

***

By midday, the gym is surrounded, camera crews wedged between parked scooters, reporters crowding the entrance, boom mics already angling toward the doorway.

A few call out the moment they spot Nakahara, asking for Ryoma, requesting “just five minutes,” insisting it’s urgent.

But Nakahara shuts it all down with a single raised hand. “He’s not here. Even if he were, I didn’t call you here for interviews. I called you here to make an official announcement about Ryoma’s next fight.”

The instant the words Ryoma’s next fight leave Nakahara’s mouth, the mood flips. Cameras rise, pens click, posture straightens.

Most of them already heard about Ryoma vs Paulo Ramos, rumors leaked days ago, and the Philippines champion’s name has been floating through every boxing blog in Tokyo. What they don’t know is the rest of the card, and that anticipation tightens the air like a held breath.

Nakahara opens the folded announcement sheet. “Event scheduled for December seventeenth,” he begins. “Location: Ōta City Gymnasium.”

“Main event: Lightweight OPBF–ranked bout. Ryoma Takeda versus Paulo Ramos of Bayan Warriors Boxing Gym, Manila. Current Philippine champion.”

Flashes go off. No surprise there, they’ve been expecting this. But Nakahara continues before the noise settles.

“Semifinal. Sanctioned by both the OPBF and the JBC. Welterweight. Kenta Moriyama versus Liam Kuroda of Raging Fox Gym, Kobe.”

This time, the reaction is instant, voices overlap, cameras jerk up, half a dozen reporters shout in disbelief. The stir becomes a full ripple of chaos, like someone dropped a stone straight through the center of the crowd.

At the back, two veteran reporters, Tanaka and Sato exchange a look that only comes from years of knowing the industry’s politics too well.

Tanaka leans in, low enough not to be heard. “…The old man actually poking the bear now.”

Sato exhales a faint laugh through his nose. “No… he’s marching straight into the den,” he replies. “Going after Ramos was already daring. But Kuroda? And an OPBF-sanctioned semifinal? That’s a declaration of war against every big stable that ignores him.”

Tanaka nods slowly, eyes narrowing with the sharpness of a hunter smelling a story. “Or perhaps, a desperate gamble that might just flip the whole table.”

Sato raises his camera again. “Either way… this is going to be big.”

And at the front, Nakahara stands alone before the chaos he’s unleashed. He gives the journalists a moment to settle, then resumes listing the rest of the card.

He delivers them calmly, one after another, revealing nothing of how much he has wagered to put his boys on this stage.