VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 463: Unspoken Blood

Chapter 463: Unspoken Blood

The journalists cluster near the gym entrance, microphones raised, voices overlapping as they fire off questions. Ryoma leans casually against the doorway, hands in his pockets, responding with the same calm ease he shows in the ring.

Comments about his short-term goals, upcoming defenses, and recent title win slide off him like water, met with polite, measured words that keep the tone almost conversational.

It’s too casual, no bite, that makes Aki think about changing the topic to create some spark. She leans slightly toward Nakahara, teasing lightly. “So, Nakahara-san, think you might make the trip to Utsunomiya to watch Shimamura Suzuki’s fight? Still your former boxer, after all.”

Nakahara waves her off without glancing up. “I have no interest. He’s no longer my boxer.”

The words barely leave his lips when a sharper voice cuts through. One of the journalists, digging deep, asks casually, “Is it true Shimamura Suzuki is… your grandson?”

All at once, eyes widen. Sera blinks, momentarily speechless, while Hiroshi’s jaw tightens, caught between disbelief and confusion. The other boxers under Nakahara exchange looks, some shuffling their feet, unsure if they heard correctly.

Nakahara himself stiffens, his face paling for a fraction, though he quickly masks it with controlled composure.

“Who said that?” he denies. “I’ve had no wife, no children. How could I have a grandson?”

He turns on his heel, motioning to the staff to continue moving inside the gym, ignoring the question entirely. The group of journalists pauses, tension filling the space, the interruption hanging awkwardly between flashes of cameras and shuffling feet.

Aki senses it immediately, and leans toward Kenta, softening her voice. “You were close with Shimamura, right? Are you planning to watch the fight?” She glances at Ryoma, a subtle nudge, an indirect invitation.

Kenta hesitates. He’s already bought a ticket, but his eyes flick toward the gym, caution written clearly in his posture. “Utsunomiya’s too far,” he says finally.

Okabe jumps in before the silence stretches too long. “We’ve already got tickets, me and Ryohei. We could take the van.”

Ryohei nudges Ryoma with a grin. “That is, if the guy here lets us use it.”

Ryoma tilts his head toward Nakahara. “Ask the old man,” he says, then addresses the journalists, “If there’s nothing else you need from me, I’ll be heading home now.”

The reporters nod, pens lowering slightly, cameras retracting. Ryoma gives a brief, polite nod, then turns and walks toward the gym, leaving the murmurs and the flashes behind him.

One by one, the other journalists gather their notebooks, cameras, and recording devices, murmuring among themselves as they leave, until only Aki remains.

Aki approaches Ryohei with a casual stride, her tone drops to a near whisper. “I actually came to ask about your preparation for your title fight,” she begins, leaning closer, voice low, “but… is it true? Shimamura is Nakahara-san’s grandson?”

Ryohei and Okabe exchange a quick glance, uncertainty in their eyes.

“We… have no idea,” Ryohei admits finally, shrugging.

Aki’s gaze shifts to Kenta, the oldest among Nakahara’s seniors.

“I was just as surprised by the question,” Kenta says carefully. “Shimamura’s been around this gym long before I joined. Since he was ten, actually. We were close… but him being Nakahara’s grandson? That’s news to me. I don’t even know if the old man has any family in this town.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, catching the weight of his words, the unspoken confirmation that no one in the gym had expected this revelation.

The quiet lingers for a beat, tension unspoken but understood, before Aki leans back slightly, jotting a note into her pad while still keeping her attention on the small group.

***

By the time the last crate is stacked and the mats unrolled, dusk is settling over the gym. Everyone looks exhausted, but there’s a quiet satisfaction in the air.

Only the coaches remain: Nakahara, Sera, and Hiroshi. The most senior boxer, Kenta, lingers too, the familiar routine of living in Nakahara’s apartment keeping him close by.

They pause for a moment, surveying the gym now gleaming with new equipment and the gleaming minivan parked outside.

“We can’t just leave it here,” Sera mutters, nodding toward the Aqualis-branded vehicle.

“Why don’t you take it home?” Nakahara suggests casually, his eyes flicking toward the van. “Ryoma left it for us. There’s no space near his apartment to park it.”

“I… can’t drive,” Sera admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I can’t either,” Hiroshi raises both hands, almost sheepishly.

Nakahara exhales, shoulders settling into a familiar weight. His gaze lands on Kenta. Of course, Kenta can drive, and that means he’s taking the van.

Kenta nods, carefully closing the gym doors behind him. The electric scouter stays put, safe inside. Only then does he ease the van onto the street, the three of them settling into the seats. The Aqualis logo gleams under the last rays of the sun, a quiet statement of the day’s work and the journey still ahead.

First Hiroshi, then Sera, are dropped at their respective homes, lengthening the drive. The route isn’t the usual; Kenta takes a winding path, partly out of habit, partly curiosity. As they pass through a familiar neighborhood, something unusual stops him cold.

Shimamura, he’s stepping out of his house, sweater snug against the cold, stretching. Kenta eases the van to a stop, hesitation written across his face.

Nakahara’s eyebrows narrow. “Why’d you stop?”

Kenta gestures toward Shimamura. “Feels… awkward to pass. Maybe let him leave first?”

Nakahara snorts. “Stupid. We’re in a car. He won’t notice us.”

Kenta frowns at himself. He starts to shift the gear, but Nakahara halts him again. “No. Stay put. If we move suddenly, it’ll look suspicious.”

Kenta doesn’t argue. He just nods, the engine humming softly in the cold evening air.

Nakahara’s eyes narrow slightly. Shimamura has never been the type to push himself beyond what’s necessary. And he doesn’t need to cut weight like Ryoma, so there’s no reason for this extra effort.

Yet here he is, running in the cold, sleeves rolled up, stretching and warming as if preparing for a long session.

The two of them watch as Shimamura begins running, roadwork, in the twilight, moving toward them but oblivious to their presence.

Kenta mutters under his breath, “Doing roadwork in this cold… that’s not like him.”

Nakahara hums softly, almost dismissively. “Maybe the title fight changes him.”

The old man’s eyes linger, tracking Shimamura’s retreating back. There’s a quiet weight there, melancholy, something almost protective, though none of it passes his lips.

Kenta notices the subtle shift and, hesitantly, asks, “Sorry… but… is it true?”

Nakahara glances sharply at him. “True what?”

“Shimamura… your grandson?”

The old man smacks his forehead, muttering under his breath. “Stupid! Didn’t I say it before? How could I have a grandson without…”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Kenta says, rubbing his forehead. “You don’t even have a family.”

“Now start driving,” Nakahara commands, voice firm.

Kenta shifts the gear, easing the van forward slowly.

As they near Shimamura’s house, Nakahara’s eyes flick to it again, catching small details, the familiar doorframe, the sidewalk, the fading light.

He notices Kenta stealing glances at him and, without comment, looks away, hiding whatever emotion briefly surfacing behind his stoic mask.

***

Mid-March, the day of the Japan Lightweight title fight.

Early afternoon, the quiet of the gym is interrupted by Okabe and Ryohei, who approach Nakahara cautiously.

“Coach,” Okabe begins, “may we borrow the van? We’d like to go to Utsunomiya for Shimamura’s fight.”

“Ask Ryoma,” Nakahara says flatly.

The two exchange glances, shrug, and move toward Ryoma, repeating their request. And Ryoma, calm as ever, tilts his head.

“Ask Coach Nakahara,” he replies.

Their shoulders slump in unison, pouting like scolded children.

As they walk back, Ryohei halts Okabe. He leans close, whispering, “Let’s just tell him Ryoma said yes.”

“Good idea,” Okabe agrees with a grin.

They return to Nakahara. Okabe puffs his chests slightly. “Ryoma said we can use it.”

Nakahara finally looks up, lips pressing into a thin line. He says nothing. After a pause, he gestures toward Kenta.

“Take them. I don’t trust the van to you alone.”

Kenta swallows hard, hesitation clear. “I… actually bought a ticket too,” he admits quietly.

“So what?” Nakahara cuts him off sharply. “It’s your choice. Has nothing to do with me.”

With that settled, the three begin preparations to leave. Okabe grins at Ryoma and Aramaki.

“Come with us for the last bit!”

Ryoma ignores him, attention fixed on the younger boxers’ drills.

Aramaki hesitates. “I didn’t buy a ticket…”

“You can buy it there,” Okabe replies cheerfully. “Sinichi’s fights never sell out.”

Aramaki exhales, and nods. “Okay, I’ll tell my wife first.”

By just before four in the afternoon, the van rolls out.

And minutes later, Nakahara steps outside, taking the electric scouter with him, leaving Sera in charge of the gym.

“Where are you going?” Hiroshi asks.

“Something to do,” Nakahara replies, shrugging into his heavy jacket.

Ryoma watches in silence, catching the brief moment the old man glances down at something in his hand before turning away.

Nakahara can’t fool his eyes. It’s a ticket for Shimamura’s title fight.

Ryoma only exhales softly, the corner of his mouth lifting as he shakes his head once, then turns toward Sera.

“So,” he says casually, “is it true? Shimamura’s the old man’s grandson?”

Sera shrugs. “No idea. That rumor caught me off guard too.”

“And the part about him not having a wife?”

“I heard he did, but didn’t last.” Sera hesitates, then adds, “They divorced when his boxing career went nowhere. Too much instability. Too much obsession.”