VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

It will take time for everything to settle. The new ring won’t be usable today, the mounts still need calibration, and half the equipment is boxed or mid-install.

Nakahara watches the controlled chaos for a while before clapping his hands once.

“That’s enough,” he says. “Training’s done for today. Come back tomorrow.”

There’s a brief pause, confusion and disappointment, before the youngsters nod and head inside to grab their bags.

But no one really leaves. They drift back out in small groups, lingering along the sidewalk, pretending to stretch or check their phones.

The street in front of the gym grows busier than usual, packed with familiar faces that refuse to go home.

Someone points across the road. “Let’s just go to the coffee shop,” one of them suggests. “We can watch from there.”

They’re halfway through the door when Hiroshi’s voice snaps after them. “No coffee during training.”

One of the boys turns, grinning. “What training? You just ended it.”

Hiroshi frowns. “You finished training. That still counts.”

“What about juice?”

“…Juice is fine. No coffee.”

That’s enough. They pile in, ordering drinks and crowding the windows, eyes glued to the gym across the street. And excited chatter fills the café.

“That’s Ryoma-senpai for you,” Satoru says, leaning forward. “Just last December, he bought new fitness equipment. And now, just a week after becoming OPBF champion, he upgrades the gym again.”

Beside him sit his juniors from Kamisaka High. Two of them are Furuse and Yahiro, both third-years, the longest to stick around since Satoru first dragged them in.

Furuse exhales softly. “I’m glad I didn’t quit.”

Yahiro nods. “The guys who left just couldn’t handle it. Weak will.”

Satoru watches the gym, eyes bright. “Our seniors… our coaches… they really think about our future. They’re not greedy like those big stables.”

“Still,” someone adds, “Ryoma-senpai must’ve earned a ton. OPBF title fight. Even as a replacement.”

Satoru smiles. “Yeah. But look at him. He doesn’t change. Instead of spending it, he stays here with us, helps us train, even with his hands still injured.”

Outside, Ryoma stands near the entrance, talking quietly with Nakahara, watching the gym change shape around them.

“And today,” Satoru finishes, voice full of pride, “he upgraded the gym again.”

Furuse leans back in his chair, eyes still on the gym across the street. Then, as if something has just clicked, he glances at Satoru.

“Hey. Satoru,” he says. “You’re lightweight too, right?”

Satoru nods. “Yeah. Same class as Ryoma-senpai.”

Furuse grins. “Then why don’t you take the title for him?”

Satoru blinks. “What are you talking about?”

“The Japanese title,” Furuse says plainly. “He could’ve taken it anytime. They just never gave him the shot.”

Yahiro joins in, tapping the table. “That’s true. And lately, Coach Nakahara’s basically handed you over to Ryoma-senpai. Not even mentoring anymore. He’s teaching you.”

“That’s exactly it,” Furuse says, warming to the idea. “If you’re his first disciple, then you should be the one to win it. Beat Sinichi Yanagimoto. Fix Ryoma-senpai’s image here.”

The table goes quiet. Satoru looks down at his glass, their words already weighing his shoulders.

He has only one pro fight to his name. A messy one. A loss he still doesn’t like to think about. Back then, he’d told himself it was poor preparation, that the coaches were focused on Ryoma and the seniors.

He never said it out loud, never blamed anyone. They deserved that attention.

But lately, it’s different.

Training under Ryoma has changed something. His balance, his timing, the way punches connect in his head before his body moves.

He’s improved a lot. He knows it.

But still…

“Japanese champion is too soon,” Satoru says quietly. Then he looks up, firmer. “But I’ll win the All-Japan Rookie King first.”

The others perk up. “That’s big,” someone says.

“It’s something Ryoma-senpai never got,” Satoru continues. “He forfeited due to circumstance.”

Furuse smiles. “Might as well win the Class A final. Like Ryohei-senpai.”

“And after that,” Yahiro adds, “you get a straight path to challenge Yanagimoto.”

“That’ll take years,” Satoru says. “And there’s no guarantee Yanagimoto will still have the belt.”

“Then just keep winning,” Furuse replies simply.

“Hey,” another junior cuts in. “What about us?”

Yahiro turns. “Us?”

“Shouldn’t we ask the old man about getting our pro licenses soon?”

Furuse raises an eyebrow. “You think we’re ready?”

The boy shrugs, half-grinning. “We can’t wait until we’re ready forever, can we?”

Laughter ripples around the table. But then, movement on the street pulls their attention back to the window.

“Hey,” one of the juniors murmurs, leaning forward. “Those guys…”

Across the road, a small cluster of people has gathered near the gym entrance. Cameras come out. Not broadcast rigs, but press cameras; shoulder bags, notepads, phones already lifted.

“Journalists?” Yahiro says.

“Looks like it,” Furuse replies. “They’re not even waiting.”

Sure enough, a few cameras are already up. Lenses track not only Ryoma, but the wider scene; the gym frontage, the unfamiliar minivan parked out front, the Aqualis logo crisp and impossible to miss against the narrow street.

One reporter lowers his camera slightly. “That’s a statement,” he says, eyes narrowing. “A small stable doesn’t roll out branded logistics like this by accident.”

“Especially not this fast,” another replies, snapping a close-up of the logo. “Ryoma’s contract with them just by the end of last December, right?”

“Yeah, not even three months,” says the first.

A third chuckles under his breath. “Depends how you sell it. Ambition, if you’re generous. Pressure, if you want heat.”

“Either way,” someone adds, already typing, “it’s movement. And movement makes copy.”

A short distance down the block, a black Lexus glides into view, polished to the point of arrogance, easing neatly to the curb as if it has the right to be there. The engine cuts, smooth and restrained.

The Lexus remains still for a moment, idling quietly at the curb. Inside, Aki and Reika observe the situation with narrowed eyes.

From behind the windshield, Reika sees what the journalists are already circling: the new minivan parked out front, the Aqualis logo crisp against fresh paint, delivery crews moving with purpose.

“So that’s how far it’s gone…”

She doesn’t need anyone to explain it to her. The branding alone tells the story. Whatever her father had tried to secure through NSN, Aqualis has moved faster, and louder.

This isn’t a private agreement quietly buried in clauses anymore. It’s visible, claimed, broadcast. She even suspects they’ve called those journalists for publication.

Her jaw tightens, anger and contempt simmering.

Beside her, Aki leans forward slightly, interest sharpening. “Well,” she murmurs, already half in work mode, “this is perfect timing. The story practically writes itself.”

But Reika simply turns the key, and the engine comes back to life. She doesn’t drive toward the gym. She turns the car around.

Aki blinks. “Hey… Where are you going?”

Reika pulls away from the curb without answering.

“Reika,” Aki says, more sharply now. “Stop. At least drop me off. I still need the interview.”

The car slows, then stops again a short distance down. Aki opens the door, stepping out with her bag in one smooth motion.

Reika watches in the side mirror as Aki walks back toward Nakahara’s gym, already blending into the press gathering at the entrance.

Her hands tighten around the wheel. Then she slams it, the dull impact swallowed by the insulated cabin.

She leans forward, pressing her forehead briefly against the steering wheel.

“…You think you’re done with us, Ryoma?”

Lifting her head, she catches his reflection in the side mirror, surrounded by noise and attention that should have been hers to control.

Her voice drops, low and possessive. “…You’re still mine. You don’t get to walk away from me.”