VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The footage continues to roll across the screen. Ryoma watches for a few more seconds, then reaches for the remote and turns it off.

He has seen enough. The man in front of him understands match pacing, career positioning, and talent framing in ways that cannot be improvised. The earlier dishonesty still lingers, but the competence feels real.

Yet inside his mind, the system speaks again.

>

>

But Ryoma lets the warning drift past without engaging it.

“I do not need a personal manager,” he says calmly. “I do not need someone to divide my purse, negotiate sponsorship clauses, or oversee my compliance with sanctioning bodies.”

Kurogane listens carefully, his earlier urgency replaced by focused restraint.

“I already work with a lawyer,” Ryoma continues. “My title paperwork, defense scheduling, and contract reviews are handled properly. I am not looking for someone to manage me.”

He shifts slightly forward, allowing the next sentence to carry more weight.

“But the gym needs a manager,” he adds.

The distinction is deliberate. And Kurogane’s attention sharpens by the shift.

“If you truly need work,” Ryoma says evenly, “come to Nakahara Gym tomorrow. Bring your full résumé. Present yourself formally… in a proper way.”

His tone remains level, but the conditions are unmistakable. “Do not repeat today’s approach. Do not assume ignorance. And do not attempt to pressure anyone before understanding their position.”

He pauses, then adds with quiet clarity, “And do not expect a large salary or long-term guarantees. We are not stable right now.”

Kurogane nods slowly, absorbing the terms without resistance. “I am aware,” he says quietly. “Everyone in this country knows the Nakahara story.”

He folds his hands together, no longer performing. “A former underdog gym rises too quickly. A champion emerges. Financial strain follows ambition. A postponed camp. A high-risk event ahead.”

Ryoma watches him carefully, measuring tone rather than words. “If you join us, you step into that instability. Let us see whether your experience can help us move through it.”

Kurogane nods once, his confidence no longer theatrical but grounded. “I am aware of the situation,” he replies. “I would not have approached you otherwise. And I have confidence with my ability.”

Ryoma does not soften at the optimism. “Confidence alone does not prevent collapse,” he says quietly.

He rises from the sofa, signaling the conversation has reached its end. Kurogane stands as well, adjusting his jacket as though preparing for an interview rather than leaving a negotiation.

They walk toward the door together, the earlier tension now replaced with something more measured.

Inside Ryoma’s mind, the system does not whisper this time. It presses harder.

>

The question lands without gentleness.

>

>

>

Ryoma keeps walking toward the door, his expression unchanged.

>

>

>

For a brief moment, something in Ryoma’s jaw hardens. But he does not answer.

He opens the door and turns slightly before Kurogane steps into the hallway.

“One more thing,” Ryoma says calmly, “In the ring, I can read my opponent within a few exchanges. Breathing patterns shift. Foot placement reveals hesitation. Intention leaks through posture.”

His gaze remains steady and unblinking. “Outside the ring… it’s much easier.”

The warning is quiet but clear. Kurogane holds his eyes for a brief second before nodding.

“I understand,” he says.

Ryoma closes the door and stands there for a moment, listening to the fading echo of footsteps. The apartment settles into silence again. And the system does not speak this time.

Ryoma walks back toward the coffee table, picks up the remote, and stares at the blank screen for a brief moment before pressing power.

Okabe’s reckless charge fills the room once more.

“Let’s see what I can do with you, Okabe…”

***

The next morning arrives just after dawn, with the air still cool along the Tama River. Ryoma runs beside Aramaki as he does every day, their pace steady and familiar, shoes striking pavement in quiet rhythm.

Neither of them speaks for the first stretch. The river flows to their left, carrying the faint silver of early light across its surface.

After several kilometers, Aramaki gradually slows his stride and exhales through his nose.

“Ryoma,” he says without looking over, “would you mind if I check on my farm for a bit?”

Ryoma adjusts his pace down without complaint. “Not at all.”

Aramaki nods once. “It won’t take long. I just want to see how it’s doing.”

Aramaki walks ahead now. His steps are no longer those of a boxer measuring distance and stamina, but of a man returning to something personal.

He crouches beside the rows of the lettuce plantation, and begins inspecting the leaves carefully. He brushes dirt from the base, checking for damage, turning one head slightly to examine its color.

“May’s still kind to them,” he mutters. “Before the heat starts acting arrogant.”

He takes his time, removing small weeds growing between rows and presses the soil back into place with his palm.

“You can tell a lot about discipline from how something grows,” he says casually. “Rush it, and it turns bitter. Ignore it, and it rots.”

Ryoma watches him for a moment, and then says quietly, “If you win your next fight, maybe you can stop doing this altogether.”

Aramaki lets out a short laugh. “You’re talking like it’s already decided. I’m not even sure I can pull it off yet.”

For a brief second, the doubt lingers honestly between them. Then something steadier resurfaces in Aramaki’s expression.

“But even if I become champion someday,” Aramaki continues, straightening slowly, “I don’t think I’d stop. Farming for me has stopped being about money a long time ago.”

Ryoma glances at him. “Not about money anymore?”

Aramaki shakes his head. “This reminds me where I started. It reminds me that growth takes repetition, patience, and discipline. Boxing isn’t different.”

He brushes the dirt from his hands and turns slightly, his gaze settling on the two cut tire sections nailed firmly into a tree trunk nearby.

“I used those every day before that fight at Rookie Tournament,” he says, eyes narrowing with memory. “I lost that night, and for a while, I believed that was the end of my ceiling. But look at me now. I’m still fighting, alongside you under Nakahara’s roof.”

Ryoma allows himself a faint smile at that, until then, something shifts behind his eyes.

“Now that I think about it,” he says slowly, “your old style is actually the closest to Okabe’s.”

Aramaki raises an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly flattering.”

“It’s useful,” Ryoma replies. “I think I can use you to improve him.”

“Using me?” Aramaki asks, amused but curious. “What do you mean?”

“I want to fix his flaws,” Ryoma explains. “But he’s not the type who absorbs theory. If I lecture him about angles and emotional control, he’ll nod and forget everything the moment he gets hit.”

Aramaki nods slightly, offering a silly laughter. He clearly understands Okabe well.

“Teaching him through sparring is the most effective path,” Ryoma continues. “But my current walk-around weight is super lightweight. I’m too big to spar him properly.”

Aramaki crosses his arms. “So you want me sparring with him in a certain way?”

“Yes,” Ryoma says. “But not as you are now.”

Aramaki studies him. “Then what should I do?”

“Let’s rehearse it,” Ryoma answers calmly. “Better than explaining with words.”

He steps back, rolling his shoulders once. “I’ll fight like Okabe. But with a clearer mind behind it. I’ll show you what his style looks like when it’s disciplined instead of impulsive. You’ll feel the difference.”

He adjusts his footing on the dirt, settling into a familiar stance. “Then when you spar him, you go back to your old style. Pressure him the way you used to pressure me. But apply what I’m going to demonstrate to you here.”

Aramaki exhales slowly through his nose, already reconstructing the angles in his head, replaying the habits he once carried into the ring.

“…Alright,” he says at last, a faint grin forming. “Show it to me.”

They begin a light, rehearsed sparring session, no full contact, just measured entries and controlled exits.

Ryoma moves with deliberate restraint, stopping at certain moments to reset the position and quietly point out what Aramaki should notice.

Through the flow, Aramaki starts recognizing the references. The pressure resembles Noguchi’s controlled chaos, while certain close-range manipulations echo Sekino’s method of breaking guards.

Yet the transitions are different, cleaner, more intentional, shaped by something distinctly Ryoma’s new ideas.

Aramaki exhales, understanding settling in. “You think Okabe can pull this off?”

Ryoma shakes his head slightly. “He doesn’t need all of it. Just use these against him in every sparring, as much as you can apply. If he can take even a few pieces and make them his own, that’s enough.”