VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma slips inside, shoulders tight, body coiling into a clean right aimed straight for Aramaki’s ribs. The moment Aramaki sees the motion, too sharp, too committed for a simulation, he goes rigid.

Something cold crawls up his spine, hollowing out his stomach.

“Oh… shit…?”

He has no time to block. All he can do is brace, jaw clenched, ready for the blow to fold him in half.

But the punch never comes. It only taps his ribs, light and controlled, more a reminder than a threat. Ryoma drops his glove, and nods once.

“You’re improving,” he says, voice calm. “But your counter came too late.”

Aramaki blinks, swallowing hard. He then laughs in that awkward way people do when they’re terrified and don’t want to admit it.

“Yeah… I didn’t think you’d actually fall for it, so my follow-up just… froze for a second.”

Ryoma studies him for a moment, and then presses a firm fist against Aramaki’s chest, right over the heart.

“Remember all those failed attempts. In a real fight, you’ll face the same thing. But don’t let failure make you hesitate. When the moment finally opens…”

His fist taps once, solid and direct.

“Your heart needs to move before doubt does. You can’t afford to miss it.”

Ryoma steps back, rolling his shoulders once before turning toward the ropes. “That’s enough for today,” he says, almost too casually. “If we keep going, I won’t have the gas for a real spar anyway.”

Aramaki nods, relieved to stop. But Kenta can see it, the faint stiffness in Ryoma’s jaw, the way his eyes flicker as if reacting to something no one else can see. Like he’s still fighting something internal.

As Ryoma steps out of the ring, his expression tightens, just for a breath. His thoughts aren’t on fatigue. They’re on the whisper threading through his skull like a cold draft slipping under a door.

>

Ryoma shoves the voice down with a slow exhale, willing it to dissolve into the tired ache in his muscles.

He wipes his face with a towel, masking everything under the blank, disciplined calm he’s grown used to wearing.

Kenta watches him from outside the ropes, relief easing over him, but only slightly.

Ryoma didn’t snap this time. He didn’t lose control, didn’t hurt Aramaki. But something is still wrong.

Kenta saw it clearly in the sparring: the grim sharpness in Ryoma’s eyes, the way he stalked openings like a man preparing to end a fight, not simulate one.

Every time Ryoma had an opening to unleash something dangerous, he pulled back. It’s barely, but he did.

Still, the unease doesn’t leave Kenta’s guts.

Beside him, Hiroshi glances at his watch, breaking the tension. “Alright. That’s enough for the day. I need to head out.”

Kenta turns. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah. Okabe and Ryohei are fighting in the Class A tournament tonight. I need to be there before it gets dark.”

Kenta wipes sweat from his chin. “Then let me come with you.”

Hiroshi shakes his head immediately. “No. I need you here. Someone has to keep an eye on them.”

His gaze flicks, just briefly, toward Ryoma. Not long enough to draw attention, but long enough for the worry in his eyes to show.

It’s like a quiet unspoken message: don’t let anything happen while I’m gone. He looks back at Kenta before the meaning can settle too deeply.

“I’m leaving them to you. No more sparring. Just rest. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

Kenta nods, though he doesn’t look satisfied. Hiroshi grabs his bag and leaves the gym, the old wooden door groaning shut behind him.

Ryoma is sitting on a bench, head lowered, towel draped over his neck. Aramaki is off to the side, stretching and humming something tuneless.

The session is officially over. But Kenta doesn’t take off his gloves. He walks to the heavy bags instead.

He starts working, thudding lefts, steady rights, breath controlled. But every few minutes, when he pauses to catch his breath, his eyes drift back toward Ryoma.

He’s still watching, assessing, with concern tightening in his chest like a rope pulled slowly, knot by knot.

Whatever is happening to Ryoma… it isn’t stopping. And Kenta knows he can’t let his guard down, not even for a moment.

***

Ryoma spends the few minutes drifting around the gym like a restless ghost. He’s not hunting for trouble, not looking for anyone to bully, just bored out of his skull.

Every machine, every bag, every shadow feels like it’s offering nothing worth hitting. Eventually, his eyes land on Kenta, still hammering the heavy bag with disciplined rhythm.

Ryoma walks over, gloves still dangling at his sides. “It’s been a week here. You’re the only one who hasn’t sparred. Don’t you think you need one? You’ll get rusty.”

“I’m good,” Kenta answers without looking at him.

Ryoma scoffs. “What? You scared I’ll hurt you? Come on. You’re the oldest, the biggest, the heaviest, the strongest. I’ve punched you a hundred times and you never even flinched.”

Kenta keeps working the bag like Ryoma isn’t even there. “Hiroshi said no sparring. Then there’s no sparring.”

From the corner, Aramaki calls out with a grin, “You still want another sparring session? Aren’t you tired?”

“I’m dead tired,” Ryoma fires back. “But this dude definitely needs his turn. Problem is, when he decides to be obedient for once, there’s nothing I can do.”

He gives up and turns away. “Whatever. I’m showering.”

Ryoma heads out of the gym. Only when he’s fully gone does Kenta finally stop punching. He stares at the doorway Ryoma disappeared through, shoulders tight.

Aramaki notices almost immediately. “Oi… what’s up with you?”

Kenta doesn’t answer right away. He pulls off his gloves, sits on the nearest bench, and starts peeling away his hand wraps slowly, thoughtfully.

Then, finally: “Aramaki… don’t you feel anything off with that kid lately?”

Aramaki blinks. “Off? Like what?”

Kenta lifts his eyes, sharp. “You sparred with him. Didn’t you feel anything?”

Aramaki hesitates, scratching the back of his head. “Well… yeah. There were moments where I felt dread. But that’s normal, right? It’s Ryoma. That kid’s dangerous sometimes.”

Kenta nods once, saying nothing more.

But Aramaki presses. “Wait… don’t tell me you’re actually scared of him?”

Kenta’s brow twitches. “Me? Scared? Since when has he ever dropped me? Never.”

Aramaki laughs at that, letting the tension break, and gestures toward the door. “Come on. Cool down outside before we shower.”

They head out. Dusk is settling in, the mountain air crisp enough to bite their lungs. They stand for a while under the fading light, breathing in the quiet.

When they return to the lodge, they find Ryoma already sprawled on his futon, dead asleep, still half-wrapped in a towel he probably didn’t even finish drying off with.

Aramaki just shakes his head. “Unbelievable. He passed out like a dead fish.”

***

They’re lucky the lodge comes with a flat-screen and a cable package generous enough to include tonight’s Class-A tournament.

Kenta and Aramaki settle on the floor with snacks and water bottles, waiting for Okabe and Ryohei’s match.

Their bout isn’t up yet, so they just relax and watch the undercards, letting the sounds of the crowd fill the room.

But it doesn’t last long. Something shifts behind them, soft and strange, a noise neither of them has heard in a week of sharing a room with Ryoma.

He’s murmuring. “The ribs…”

“Oh, he woke up,” Aramaki whispers.

Kenta turns first, and looks confused. Aramaki follows, blinking. Ryoma still lies on his futon, still asleep, but his brows are drawn tight, breath uneven.

Both boys glance instinctively toward the TV.

“What was that?”

“I thought he’s shouting cues at the fighters.”

But when they look back, Ryoma’s eyes are still shut, body limp in sleep.

“…injured his ribs in training…”

“…aim at the ribs…”

“Oh, he’s dreaming,” Aramaki says, voice restrained.

Kenta stifles a laugh. “He’s still boxing in his dreams.”

Aramaki covers his mouth, trying not to snort. “Man… he never stops. Even unconscious he’s corner-coaching.”

Then suddenly, Ryoma chuckles, a small unsettling break in the tension. He even lifts one hand lazily, as if raising a glass.

“…drinks on me…”

“Drink like it’s the end of the world…”

“I may not have the money… but look at this ticket…”

Kenta and Aramaki exchange a look, eyebrows up.

“…Is he winning a bet right now?” Kenta whispers.

“Looks like it,” Aramaki says, amused. “He does love gambling. Should I wake him?”

Kenta grins. “You’re gonna ruin his victory celebration. Let him enjoy it.”

But suddenly, Ryoma’s whole body jolts. He jerks upright with a violent gasp, clutching his chest.

His eyes fly open wide, too wide, glassy with raw panic. The color drains from his face as if the world had been ripped out from under him.

His breath comes in short sharp bursts, like he’s still hearing the echo of something fatal. As if he’s just met death.

Kenta freezes. Aramaki’s smile collapses instantly. Neither of them has ever seen Ryoma like this, shaking, pale, and terrified.

The air in the room changes, heavy and cold. The joking dies in their throats.

“Nightmare…?” Kenta says quietly.

But Ryoma doesn’t answer. He’s still gripping his chest, staring at nothing, lost in a fear neither of them knew he carried.

It’s just a nightmare, yes. But for someone with a memory as vivid as his, it felt painfully real. And he can’t hide it.

For the first time, he lets someone else see this fragile side of him.