VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Around the ring, several pairs of eyes drift toward Ryoma as he continues his mitt session with Nakahara. The sound of impact is sharp but controlled, each strike landing with intention rather than excess, and the rhythm between fighter and coach carries a tension that pulls attention almost against their will.

Tap. PAKK!

Tap–tap. PAKK!

Aramaki and Okabe pause their drills without realizing it. Even Ryohei finds his gaze pulled away from his own warm-up.

There is something different about the way Ryoma moves now, something restrained but heavy, as if every punch is being filtered through judgment instead of instinct.

Sera notices it too, and he clicks his tongue softly before shifting his focus. “Enough sightseeing,” he says sharply. “Ryohei! You’ve got your own fight to worry about.”

Ryohei straightens slightly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off stiffness. “I know, Coach.”

“Do you?” Sera replies, his tone flat but edged. “Because honestly, your chances against Umemoto aren’t great. And yet you’re still messing around like this.”

Ryohei scoffs, confidence sitting comfortably on his face. “You don’t need to worry that much. I’ve studied Umemoto’s fights. His style isn’t complicated at all. It’s pretty straightforward.”

Sera spins on him, eyes sharp. “Umemoto is undefeated in twenty-two professional bouts,” he snaps. “If he were that simple, why do you think nobody has beaten him yet?”

Ryohei doesn’t hesitate. He smiles. “Because he hasn’t faced a fighter like me.”

From the corner of the ring, Ryoma hears it. His hands slow for just a fraction of a second before he forces the rhythm back into place, irritation flickering briefly across his eyes.

He has spent nights dissecting Umemoto’s habits, foot placement, defensive lapses, and timing, not for himself, but to help Ryohei prepare. Hearing the champion dismissed so casually grates against him more than he expects.

Sera exhales through his nose and turns away, clearly unimpressed. “Kenta,” he calls out. “You’re sparring with him. I want him to feel what it’s like when someone doesn’t play along with his fantasy. Let’s see how long that confidence holds once it’s tested.”

Kenta blinks in mild surprise, then nods easily as he climbs through the ropes. Despite being a class above Ryohei in both division and experience, his demeanor remains relaxed, almost friendly.

The bell rings, and the sparring begins.

Ryohei moves well, light on his feet, using hit-and-run tactics, darting in and out before Kenta can settle. Kenta follows, but without real urgency, allowing Ryohei space, letting him dictate the pace more than he probably should.

To an outside observer, it looks good. Ryohei lands clean touches, avoids prolonged exchanges, and walks away from combinations without punishment. His confidence grows visibly with each passing minute.

And Sera watches with a deepening frown. “Winning Class A has really got to his head,” he mutters under his breath.

Ryoma steps away from Nakahara and approaches Sera, lowering his voice. “Coach,” he says, “I’ve actually wanted to help him spar for Umemoto for a while now. I couldn’t because of my hands. But now… can I do it?”

Sera’s eyes light up, sharp and unsympathetic. “Oh, that’s perfect,” he says. “Why don’t you bring him back to reality and show him just how small his chances really are.”

Ryoma nods once, but before he can step forward, Nakahara places a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Change your gloves,” Nakahara says quietly. “Use the high-cushion ones.”

Ryoma hesitates for half a second, then complies.

By the time Ryohei and Kenta finish, both fighters remove their headgear without a single mark to show for the session. Ryohei looks energized, almost buoyant, riding the high of an easy spar.

As he prepares to climb down, Sera’s voice cuts in. “Stay in the ring, Ryohei. You’re sparring with Ryoma next.”

Ryohei freezes, then turns. His eyes land on Ryoma, already stepping up to the apron, the thick high-cushion gloves unmistakable.

A grin spreads across Ryohei’s face. “Oh? So now you’re sending our best man,” he jokes. “The OPBF champion himself to crush my confidence. Coach, isn’t that a bit much? You should be supporting your fighter, not destroying his pride.”

“Stop talking,” Sera snaps. “You get one minute or break. Then we start.”

Ryoma climbs into the ring and immediately begins light shadowboxing, loosening his shoulders, letting his breathing settle.

Across from him, Ryohei stretches his torso side to side, rotating his hips, still wearing that relaxed smile.

“Well,” Ryohei says lightly, “at least I get to test myself against the OPBF champ. Even if it’s just sparring.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. His eyes remain focused, calm, already measuring distance.

***

Sera strikes the bell, and the gym settles into a tense hush as the sparring begins.

Ryohei looks comfortable as he steps forward, loose shoulders, light feet. It is not confidence born from believing he can beat Ryoma, but something more casual and dangerous than that.

Ryoma is wearing high-cushion gloves. The risk feels lower. And at the very least, Ryohei gets to test himself against the OPBF champion without consequences.

But this time, Ryoma does not move like himself. From the opening second, his stance feels wrong. His gloves hang just beneath his chin. His posture is relaxed, almost careless. His feet barely shift, his weight anchored firmly in place, his head completely still.

There’s no pendulum sway at all. And it is unmistakable, he is copying Umemoto Kimitada.

The street-fighter style. Minimal movement. No wasted energy. A body that looks open and unguarded, daring the opponent to try.

But Ryohei doesn’t notice it yet. He is too full of himself, trying to do something with this OPBF champion.

He circles, light on his feet, probing. Ryoma’s head is right there, no head movement, no evasive rhythm.

Ryohei throws the first punch, aiming straight for that exposed head.

But Ryoma doesn’t move. He raises his glove at the last moment, blocking cleanly, the impact absorbed without reaction.

Another punch follows, then another. Each time, Ryoma’s gloves rise just enough to parry or catch the blow, his feet still planted, his body refusing to give ground.

Ryohei keeps circling, growing bolder. “What’s wrong?” he taunts lightly. “You look hesitant. Still worried about your hands?”

The moment the words leave his mouth, Ryoma moves.

There is no feint, no warning. One sharp step forward, impossibly fast, and the distance collapses.

And Ryoma doesn’t aim for Ryohei’s head. He drives his punch straight into Ryohei’s right glove instead.

It is not a strike meant to land.

It is a shove.

The impact slams into Ryohei’s guard with brute force, knocking his glove off-line and opening a narrow lane.

Before Ryohei can adjust, Ryoma fires a straight left through the gap.

Bugh!

And Ryohei’s head snaps back.

The headgear absorbs most of it, and the cushioning of Ryoma’s gloves dulls the damage. But the shock still rattles him.

Ryohei blinks, surprised, then grins despite himself. “Heh… OPBF champion really is something else.”

Ryoma does not respond. He resets, sinking back into that same static posture, feet rooted, gloves low.

Ryohei resumes his hit-and-run rhythm, darting in and out, circling, looking for angles. But Ryoma does not chase him. He does not cut the ring aggressively. He barely moves at all.

And yet, Ryohei cannot land clean.

Ryoma never slips, never ducks. His head remains there, exposed, unmoving. It should be an easy target.

But that stillness becomes a trap. Every punch Ryohei throws is predictable, and Ryoma meets each one with precise blocks and parries, always on time, always economical.

Then, without warning, Ryoma steps in again. One step, that’s all it takes.

Ryohei reacts quickly this time, stepping back, but Ryoma mirrors him instantly, closing the gap again with the same raw, efficient burst. There is no wasted motion, no setup, just sudden acceleration from stillness.

Again and again, Ryohei is forced to reset, his thoughts interrupted, his rhythm broken.

Until his back touches the corner, and Ryoma finally moves in.

There is no finesse now, no jabs, no tricks. He begins pounding Ryohei’s guard with sheer force. Gloves slam into gloves, forearms, elbows.

Each impact forces Ryohei’s defense wider, rougher, more desperate.

Then a punch crashes into Ryohei’s right glove, another into his elbow, and then a left slips through and clips his face.

Dsh!

Ryoma continues, driving blows into Ryohei’s shoulders from both sides, rocking him, pinning him in place. It is relentless, raw pressure, speed and strength overwhelming space itself.

Then Ryoma finishes it. He smacks Ryohei’s left hand away with a sharp straight left, and immediately follows with a powerful right to the face.

Dhuack!

Ryohei’s balance breaks. His feet tangle, and he drops to the canvas.

The bell doesn’t ring. But Sera doesn’t need it.

“So?” Sera says coldly, his voice cutting through the silence. “What do you think now? Still believe you’re that good?”

Ryohei pushes himself up, trying to laugh it off. “Yeah, yeah… you bring in the OPBF champion just to make a point. What can I say?”

Ryoma finally speaks. “I’m sorry, Ryohei,” he says evenly. “You weren’t fighting the OPBF champion.”

“Oh, am I fighting Satoru now?” Ryohei says, still taking it easy.

“That was Umemoto Kimitada,” Ryoma says. “And honestly… if you keep this mindset, you have zero chance of beating him.”