VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

But Ryoma doesn’t press. He adds only a single left hook to the ribs, fully controlled, the kind that lands without malice, and then he steps away, opening space instead of taking it. Oyama stumbles half a step, breath catching, but he’s given time to recover.

It’s clear that Ryoma showing restrain. But Nakahara’s eyes shine anyway.

It isn’t just the counter that stirs him. It’s the chain; the slip outside, the weight transfer, the uppercut knocking the head up, the cross breaking balance.

The exact sequence Nakahara drilled into Ryoma only yesterday, now unfolding cleanly, instinctively, despite under pressure.

“This kid…” Nakahara mutters, lips curling despite himself. “He really doesn’t stop surprising me.”

Starting from the third round, the spar returns to politeness. Oyama pushes forward, earnest, trying to reclaim something he can’t quite name.

But Ryoma is always gone by the time punches arrive, slipping outside, stepping around, always just off-line.

The opening for that invisible uppercut appears again, and again. Same angle. Same mistake. Same invitation.

Even Ryoma’s Vision Grid lights up, cue after cue stacking cleanly in his awareness, urging him to take the shot.

But every time, Ryoma refuses it. He just slides past Oyama’s lead foot, drifts to his back shoulder, resets without throwing a single punch.

No exclamation point, no reminder, only showing off his smooth movements.

Around the ring, the reactions are subtle but telling. Aki lowers her pen, eyes flicking toward Tanaka.

“Is he restraining?” she whispers.

Tanaka doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “Yeah. He’s been doing it since that first counter.”

Sato folds his arms tighter. “That’s not hesitation,” he adds. “That’s restraint.”

Oyama, meanwhile, looks increasingly lost. He turns, swings, resets, but each time arriving a beat too late. Like a bull chasing a matador who no longer even needs the cape.

When the bell finally sounds, Oyama exhales hard, shoulders dropping.

He bows briefly, says nothing. “Thank you,” he says.

But there’s irritation there, lingering and unspent. The kind that comes from being led, from swinging at air, from realizing too late that the fight never truly opened on equal terms.

His jaw tightens, breath still uneven, pride bruised more than his body.

Then Ryoma bows, not just a formality, but actually deeper than necessary, voice clear and unguarded.

“Thank you very much, Oyama-san. You helped me a lot.”

The words land unexpectedly. Oyama blinks, the edge in his expression faltering for just a moment.

That isn’t the sound of someone gloating. It isn’t even the politeness of a winner. It’s genuine, almost earnest, as if the spar had been a lesson received, not a victory claimed.

From there, something settles in Oyama’s chest, heavy but quiet.

This Ryoma, the one who held back when openings begged to be taken, who moved without humiliating, who showed respect even after clearly gaining the upper hand, is nothing like the fighter Oyama knows from tape.

This is not the relentless finisher, not the crowd-pleasing destroyer. This Ryoma… is far from the Cruel King everyone knows.

This one is calmer, more deliberate. And somehow, that makes him harder to read.

***

The gym doesn’t erupt after the bell. There’s no applause, no raised voices. The mood stays polite, almost subdued, like everyone understands they’ve just witnessed something precise rather than loud.

Nakahara is the first to move. He approaches Oyama and Kozue with an easy smile, bowing once, deep and proper.

“Thank you for coming all this way,” Nakahara says, bowing. “That spar meant a great deal to us.”

Oyama nods, breath still settling. “It was good work,” he replies simply. “I got more out of it than I expected.”

Kozue follows with a small bow of his own. “Thank you for the opportunity,” he adds. His gaze lingers on Ryoma a moment longer than necessary, thoughtful. “It was… informative.”

They walk together toward the entrance, the old coach naturally falling into step beside them, talking lightly now, about how rare it is to get clean southpaw work on short notice.

It sounds casual, but there’s weight beneath every word of thanks.

And then, when they’re almost at the door, hurried footsteps echo behind them.

“Oyama-san, wait…”

Ryoma jogs over, hair damp with sweat, face open and bright in a way that feels almost out of place after such a controlled spar. There’s nothing calculating in his expression now, just plain eagerness.

“Um… if it’s possible,” he says, bowing quickly, a little too fast, a little too deep. “Would you be willing to come again sometime? Before I leave for Australia.”

Oyama blinks, caught off guard for the second time.

“I really felt it today,” Ryoma continues, words tumbling out with honest momentum. “Your timing, the pressure… it helped me see things I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. I’d be grateful if I could learn more.”

For a moment, neither Oyama nor Kozue responds. They exchange a brief glance, the same quiet confusion passing between them.

Then Oyama exhales, and lets out a short uncertain laugh. “You’re a strange one,” he says, and nods once. “Yeah. Just call me again.”

Relief flashes across Ryoma’s face. “Thank you very much!”

Nakahara bows immediately. “I’ll contact you.”

Ryoma bows again, just as deep. “Please be careful on your way home.”

As the door closes behind them, Aki stands frozen near the ropes, notebook forgotten at her side.

Then suddenly, Ryohei’s voice leans in from behind her, amused and knowing, far too close.

“Now you get what I told you yesterday?” he says quietly near her ear. “That kid’s always changing.”

Aki turns, blinking. And Ryohei just smiles faintly.

“And you still haven’t seen all his faces yet.”

***

At early afternoon, a few youngsters begin to drift in, gym bags slung over their shoulders, voices low and polite as they greet the seniors.

The sharp edge of sparring day has softened into something more familiar, more routine.

Ryoma is already showered. Hair still damp, T-shirt clean, he stands near the ring ropes talking casually with the three journalists.

There’s no intensity in him now, no trace of the rhythm from earlier, just relaxed posture and easy smiles. Whatever they’re discussing, it doesn’t sound like boxing anymore.

Across the floor, near the managerial office, Nakahara and Sera stand side by side, arms folded, watching him without meaning to.

“During the spar with Aramaki…” Sera speaks first, voice low, “I thought his performance dipped. Like fatigue was finally catching up.”

Nakahara nods once, his gaze stays on Ryoma “I felt it too. But after watching him with Oyama… I’m not so sure anymore. That didn’t look like a tired fighter. It looked like someone holding himself back. Like he’s being careful, too careful.”

Sera hums, considering. “Maybe Sagawa’s injury is already in the kid’s head. After hearing what happened to him, it wouldn’t be strange if he’s being careful.”

“Yeah,” Nakahara mutters. “Wouldn’t be funny if he ends up breaking his ribs too.”

A beat later, their eyes shift as Ryoma straightens from the bench, slinging his bag over one shoulder. He bows lightly to the journalists, excusing himself, then turns toward the two of them.

“Old man! I’m heading home,” he calls out.

Both coaches lift their brows, surprised.

At this hour, Ryoma usually stays, helps the youngsters, runs drills, lingers at least late afternoon.

But today, he doesn’t even wait for Nakahara’s response. He’s already walking toward the door.

“Now, another sparring back at home,” he mutters to himself.

>

“I don’t have much time,” Ryoma says. “Better use every chance I have.”

The door swings shut behind him.

Nakahara and Sera keep watching the empty space he left behind. Their concern creeps back in, quiet and unwelcome.

“Why don’t we just ask him directly?” Sera says at last.

Nakahara scoffs quietly. “Ask him? At a time like this?” He shakes his head. “If he’s fatigued, he’ll hide it. This is a replacement title fight, one he asked for himself. And you know him. He won’t admit to anything that sounds like regret.”

“But it’s concerning,” Sera insists. “If his fatigue actually shows up during the fight… we’ve seen how that ends. Kenta’s fights proved that.”