VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

A few days later, Reading…

The Iron Borough Boxing Club is already alive with the usual violence of a boxing gym pretending to be a perfectly normal workplace. Heavy bags swing from the rafters, skipping ropes slap against the canvas, and the air carries the familiar mixture of sweat, leather, disinfectant, and someone’s regrettable breakfast.

In the centre ring, Malik Adebayo is sparring with a domestic contender, while half the gym has quietly stopped pretending to be busy.

”Don’t let him set his feet. And stay on the outside.”

”There. Again.”

”Don’t chase the head! The body! Punish him on the body.”

”He’s giving you the angle. Take it.”

”Two and out.”

”That’s the distance. Don’t lose it.”

”Again, Malik. Same entry. Make him turn.”

Malik moves with the pendulum principles of the old Soviet school, only with considerably less interest in taking his time to dance.

His feet bounce in and out with quick, aggressive precision, constantly changing the distance before his opponent can settle.

Then the punches arrive: a textbook jab, a straight right, another jab, each one driven through the target with enough speed and weight to make the contender’s gloves look suddenly underqualified for the job.

Dug. Bugh! Thud!

Dug. Dug. Dsh! Bugh! DSH!

Malik is not throwing wild shots. Every punch travels along a clean line, every step puts him exactly where he wants to be, and the transitions between them happen with almost insulting efficiency.

The domestic contender tries to answer with a combination of his own, but Malik slips outside the first punch and is already moving forward before the second one has finished its journey.

His pendulum step suddenly turns into an explosive entry, his rear foot snapping as he fires a straight right that thuds into the guard.

A left hook follows, compact and vicious, forcing the domestic contender backward before Malik closes the gap again with another sharp one-two.

Dug. Bugh!

For a man who supposedly spends half his time bouncing on his feet, Malik covers an alarming amount of ground when he decides to move forward.

And Malik is not being prepared for just one style, either. Ryoma has built a reputation for changing his approach in the middle of a fight, sometimes switching between high-level systems as though choosing another tool from a very expensive toolbox. That makes conventional preparation rather useless.

So his camp has assembled a rotating cast of sparring partners, each bringing a different problem to the ring: old-school Soviet fundamentals, American boxing, the peek-a-boo system, aggressive Mexican pressure, and the elusive Cuban style.

The idea is simple enough. If Ryoma intends to make Malik solve five different boxing problems on fight night, Malik might as well start solving them now.

And apparently, one domestic contender is not considered sufficient homework.

”Next!” Coach Darren Cole calls from outside the ring. ”Keep the pace up, Malik. We’re changing the style, not the intensity.”

Malik is hardly inexperienced himself. Across his thirty-four professional fights, he has already faced opponents from nearly every major boxing system, giving him plenty of experience with the problems his camp is now recreating in the gym.

Along the ropes, several journalists watch Malik’s session with increasingly attentive expressions. A few have stopped writing altogether, their notebooks hanging loosely in their hands as they follow the exchanges.

”Jesus. His speed hasn’t dropped much.”

”Neither has the power. Look at the way he’s sitting down on that right.”

”And they’re bringing another guy in already?”

One journalist glances at the clock before looking toward the line of sparring partners waiting their turn beside the ring.

”Four different sparring partners. Twelve rounds. That’s a bloody hard session.”

”Look at the size of that next guy.”

”Bigger than the last one.”

”They’re trying to make his life difficult.”

A brief laugh passes between them before another exchange catches their attention.

”Still, this is a serious camp.”

”Has to be. Ryoma’s not exactly the sort of opponent you prepare for with three rounds on the heavy bag and a motivational speech.”

The journalist beside him smiles faintly. ”Imagine getting into the ring and realizing the bloke in front of you has already seen every trick you know.”

”Or worse, he sees something you haven’t shown yet.”

”Well, at least they seem to be making sure Malik gets plenty of practice finding out.”

One sparring partner replaces another, and Malik tears through each of them with the same ruthless efficiency.

By the end of the session, he has already completed twelve rounds against four domestic fighters. Whatever else can be said about Malik Adebayo, his conditioning has apparently never received the memo that twelve rounds are supposed to be tiring.

***

After all the sparring, Malik still looks remarkably lively as he entertains the journalists with his usual collection of terrible jokes, treating the post-training media session less like an obligation and more like a daily stand-up routine that nobody had officially booked.

”If I bring that WBO belt home, Britain will have two lightweight world champions. At that point, I think we’re legally allowed to invade the division and put the belt in a museum. You lot seem to enjoy collecting things from other countries anyway.”

The journalists laugh, a few shaking their heads while others exchange amused looks. Malik’s jokes are terrible, but unfortunately for everyone involved, they keep working.

When the laughter finally dies down, there’s a brief silence as Malik appears to have exhausted his entire comedy repertoire for the day.

One journalist clears her throat before raising her recorder. ”Malik… Ryoma has spent his camp training alongside a WBC world champion, and they’ve obviously had plenty of rounds together. You, meanwhile, have been working with domestic contenders. Do you think that gives him an advantage?”

Malik gives her a wounded look, as though she has just insulted his entire gym. ”Please don’t say it like that. You’re making these lads sound like they’re just cannon fodders. They’re professionals. Very brave professionals, obviously, because they’ve agreed to spend their afternoon volunteering as my punching bags.”

A few journalists laugh, some covering their smiles behind their notebooks while trying to maintain a professionally serious expression.

”I’ve got nothing but respect for them,” Malik adds. ”They’re giving me good work, and they’re getting paid to let me bully them. That’s a beautiful professional arrangement, if you ask me.”

Malik grins before adding, ”And I suppose Ryoma’s in a similar position. He’s just getting paid a lot more to stand there and let Elliot hit him. Sounds like another beautiful professional arrangement to me.”

One of the journalists raises a hand, still smiling. ”Well, according to the rumors, it’s actually Elliot who tends to struggle against Ryoma. Doesn’t that worry you?”

Malik gives him a look of exaggerated consideration before shrugging. ”I mean, I’ve beaten Elliot three times myself. We’ve known each other since we were amateurs, and back then, I kept beating him whenever we were fighting for the spot to represent Britain at the Olympics.”

He spreads his hands with a grin. ”Elliot’s a world champion now, so I suppose he’s doing alright. I just hope nobody tells him I used to beat him. He might start asking for a rematch. And I’m afraid I’m not quite ready for that yet. I might as well make as much money as I can once I become a world champion myself before I start thinking about unification.”

The journalists clutch their stomachs, a few still giggling into their hands as they try to recover whatever professional dignity the last joke has left them.

Among them, however, Aki remains completely unmoved, her expression suggesting she has been waiting patiently for the comedy to end.

Once the laughter finally settles, Aki raises her recorder. ”Mr. Adebayo, may I ask you something?” she begins politely. ”Your preparation seems unusually focused on versatility, especially with Ryoma’s ability to change styles during a fight. But you seem so relaxed about everything. You’re joking with everyone, you look comfortable in training, and you don’t seem worried about what he might bring. Are you really that confident you’re going to win?”

Malik’s easygoing expression gradually fades. The smile remains, but only barely, replaced by a cooler confidence as he studies Aki for a moment.

Her features, hairstyle, clothes, and unmistakably Japanese accent make her background fairly obvious. So does the sharpness of the question.

There is something personal beneath it, a quiet pride in the fighter she has come to represent, and Malik can see it quite clearly.

”Well, I suppose I should be worried,” he says. ”The man did warn Londoners that the rain could kill them. But hey… If he’s already having trouble with the weather, I’m not sure how he’s planning to survive twelve rounds with me.”

Malik finishes with a laugh, but Aki’s expression turns slightly sour. He notices the change immediately, and instead of letting the moment pass, he deliberately laughs a little louder.

”Come on, I’m only joking,” he says, barely managing to sound apologetic. ”But if Ryoma really thinks rain can kill him, maybe I should ask the referee to check the forecast before the fight. Wouldn’t want him to see a cloud and retire before the opening bell.”

The laughter erupts around her, loud and unrestrained. Some journalists double over while Malik slaps his knees.

Aki, the only Japanese in the room, stands there like a naive kid who has wandered into the wrong neighborhood, only to discover the locals have decided she makes an excellent target for verbal bullying.