VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 498: Control Yourself First

Chapter 498: Control Yourself First

Almost two weeks pass since the controversial purse bid, and with no formal announcement from the OPBF commissioner, the discussion refuses to cool. If anything, it mutates.

Ryoma’s unexpected appearance at the rookie tournament weigh-in, as a registered Chief Second, adds a new angle. Nakahara Boxing Gym, once discussed only in terms of money and risk, now finds itself pulled into another narrative entirely.

Today marks the opening round of the East Block Rookie Tournament.

Mismatches are nothing new here. Every competition wants its brightest prospects to survive longer. Favorable draws are expected, sometimes engineered.

Kaga Shigetaka stands at the top of the list, four professional bouts, four knockouts, the most favored rookie of the season. And Satoru Yoshitomo, with one fight, and one loss, is the weakest entrant on paper.

But with Ryoma’s name entering the picture, the narration changes its tone. Senior journalists, names rarely seen covering rookie tournaments, begin filing short columns and analysis pieces.

One article circulates quickly online:

“Since 2015, every fighter produced by Nakahara Boxing Gym has entered tournaments from the blue corner, labeled an underdog. None of them lost—except Okabe’s Class A final. Even that defeat remains controversial, widely criticized for questionable judging.”

Another piece digs deeper:

“Upsets are not anomalies for Nakahara Gym. They are patterns. Raging Fox Gym learned this the hard way when both Hanazawa Matsusuke and Liam Kuroda fell on the same night to Tatsuki Aramaki and Kenta Moriyama. More recently, Ryohei Yamada dismantled Uchida Nori to claim the Class A title.”

The conclusion is blunt.

“Kanagawa should be careful. Records decide expectations, not outcomes. And Nakahara Gym has built its reputation on punishing anyone who believes paper tells the full story.”

A day before fight night, only half the tickets are sold. At this stage of the rookie tournament, still the opening round, that number is normal, even expected.

But after the articles circulate in the wake of the weigh-in, something shifts.

Online sales begin to climb steadily through the morning, nothing explosive at first, just a quiet consistent rise.

Names shared in group chats.

“Did you see who’s cornering that kid?”

“I heard it’s Ryoma Takeda, the newly crowned OPBF Champion?”

“He’s acting as a trainer? Isn’t he only twenty?”

“He turned twenty-one this year.”

“Even so… that’s awfully young to be standing as a chief second, isn’t it?”

By early afternoon, the pace changes.

At Korakuen Hall, the ticket windows draw an unexpected line. It’s full with office workers on their way home, students with phones still open to boxing forums, and older fans who recognize the gym’s name and remember past nights when underdogs refused to stay down.

By late afternoon, the spike is undeniable. Clerks call for additional staff. The board above the counter updates more often than expected.

Seats that were ignored days ago are suddenly hunted down, people asking what’s left, what angle gives the best view.

It isn’t just Kaga’s record that’s pulling them in. It’s the question the articles leave hanging.

Is this just another mismatch?

Or is it another night where Nakahara Gym turns doubt into habit?

By the time the doors open at Korakuen Hall, the narrative has already shifted. This is no longer just a rookie bout. It is a test of whether history is about to repeat itself, again.

***

By the time the clock above the corridor reads half past six, the noise inside Korakuen Hall has changed. It’s the Super Featherweight bout now. Applause rises and falls unevenly, polite but restrained.

A noticeable block of spectators wears Kanagawa colors. They lean forward in their seats, flipping through brochures, pointing at names.

“When’s Kaga’s fight?”

“Later. Lightweight.”

“He’s the favorite this year, right?”

Nearby, another conversation drifts louder.

“Is it true Ryoma Takeda’s acting as a chief second tonight?”

“Who’s his fighter again?”

“Satoru… Yoshimoto?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s had one fight. Lost badly.”

Someone snorts. “I watched his fight. It was terrible. Even Interhigh kids move better than him.”

Meanwhile, in the blue corner locker room, the mood is different.

Satoru warms up in front of Ryoma. Around them, other rookies and their teams pretend not to stare, but their eyes keep drifting back.

An OPBF champion holding mitts looks wrong enough to demand attention.

Satoru’s punches are honest, but nothing more. His reactions lag. His footwork is stiff, steps a fraction late, shoulders tense.

“No. Again,” Ryoma says, tapping Satoru’s guard into place. “You’re thinking too much.”

He adjusts Satoru’s stance, demonstrates once, slowly. The mitts come up again.

From the outside, it doesn’t look impressive, just a rookie being corrected, and a champion quietly doing the unglamorous work of a trainer.

Then Ryoma lowers the mitts. “Hey,” he says, voice dropping. “What is it? Feeling the pressure because the arena’s crowded?”

Satoru glances instinctively toward the other rookies, and then nods without offering an excuse.

“You know,” Ryoma continues, tone turning deliberately silly, “if you lose here, we might stick you on the undercard of my title defense.”

The image hits instantly; thirteen thousand pairs of eyes, judgment hanging in the air.

“No way…” Satoru stammers. “I’d never be ready for a stage like that.”

“That’s why you’d better win this one,” Ryoma says.

He steps closer, voice steady now. “Look, nobody expects anything from you. I believe in your boxing, your potential. Still, this is your fight. I don’t want you stepping into that ring thinking you’re carrying the gym’s reputation. Or mine.”

Satoru stays quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “That’s still how they’ll see it. They’ll use me to judge you as a trainer.”

Ryoma exhales. “Then what makes you different from your opponent? Or any rookie here? Every boxer carries expectations.”

He then points to the monitor on the wall. A messy exchange unfolds on screen.

“What do you think?” Ryoma asks.

“It’s… chaotic,” Satoru says. “And…”

“Terrible,” Ryoma finishes.

“I wouldn’t say it’s bad,” Satoru replies. “I’ve seen my own fight. That was worse.”

“Exactly,” Ryoma says. “This is rookie level. Your opponent’s undefeated, sure. But he fights like them on the screen too. That’s why I keep telling you, before you control the ring, you have to control yourself first.”

He raises the mitts again. “Come on. Focus here. Forget everything else.”

Satoru nods, lifts his gloves.

“Loosen your shoulders,” Ryoma says.

A breath. A visible release.

Then Ryoma begins.

“1–2!”

Pak-pak.

“1–2–3!”

Pak-pak-pak.

The rhythm builds. Combinations grow longer. Angles change.

Once there’s improvement, Ryoma starts testing him. Hooks flick in, forcing slips, parries, counters.

“Tighter.”

Pak-pak.

“Tighter.”

Pak-pak-pak.

Now the room is watching, not Ryoma, but Satoru, waiting for a mistake that never comes.

When Ryoma finally lowers the mitts, Satoru isn’t gasping. He’s sweating, but calm, with clear-eyed.

“That’s it,” Ryoma says quietly. “Lose your cool, and everything collapses. Keep it, and the ring gets simple.”

And this time, Satoru believes him, no more doubts in his eyes.

***

Moments later…

Satoru stands in the ring with his cornermen still beside him. The noise presses in from every direction, heavier now because there is nowhere left to hide.

Ryoma watches his face and sees the tension creeping back. But he only smiles.

Then Kaga Shigetaka slips through the ropes on the opposite side, roaring to his supporters, arms wide, soaking in the cheers like fuel.

“Look at him,” Ryoma says quietly, nodding toward the other corner. “Dangerous, right? But he’s forcing it. Trying too hard to drown out the pressure. He’s going to come at you like a madman from the start.”

“So what’s the plan?” Satoru asks.

“You get one job this round. Calm your mind,” Ryoma says, tapping Satoru’s chest lightly. “Don’t think about winning. Don’t rush. Watch him. Feel the ring, feel him. Full-contact defense only… until the bell, or until I say otherwise. Got it?”

“…Got it.”

Ryoma rubs Satoru’s right shoulder, gives it a firm pat before slipping through the ropes.

The bell rings.

Ding!

Just as promised, Kaga explodes forward. No rhythm, no setup, just raw intent.

He throws heavy punches in bunches, feeding off the crowd, trying to end everything in a storm.

Satoru raises his gloves just below eye level. His stance tightens, and his gaze stays clear for one job only.

Block. Absorb. Read.

Kaga hammers the guard again and again. The blows are heavy, but wild, rookie punches fueled by adrenaline more than structure.

Satoru doesn’t answer. He lets his arms take the weight, lets his body memorize the force.

From the outside, it looks one-sided.

“Shigetaka pressing hard early,” one commentator says.

“The rookie Yoshitomo is under siege right now,” the other adds.

And it’s true, Satoru is under pressure.

But a minute passes, but no clean shots land. And inside Satoru’s head, the noise begins to thin.

Kaga finally traps him near the ropes. A punch thuds into his side. Satoru absorbs it, and then, for the first time, he answers.

A short jab, compact and light.

Dug!

Kaga blocks it easily.

But Satoru keeps the left extended, pins the glove for a heartbeat, steps aside, pivots.

Space opens, and a double jab comes to live.

Dug. Dsh!

The second lands clean.

Satoru pivots again and slides back toward center.

Ryoma’s eyes narrow, confirming that control is starting to form.

Finally, the cues arrive.

“Stay calm, Satoru! Pivot! Move your head more.”

Kaga charges again, fiercer now. But this time Satoru mixes his guard with slips, small steps back, subtle angles.

When he’s forced to the ropes again, he escapes in one smooth motion; probe, check, slip outside, pivot, and switch.

Kaga turns, still hunting, still rushing.

But then…

Dsh! Dsh!

A sharp one-two snaps his head back. Twice.

The roar in the arena dies mid-breath.

“Oh…!” one commentator blurts.

“That wasn’t pressure,” the other corrects quickly. “That was patience.”

Kaga freezes for a moment, eyes blinking, and legs rooted.

And for the first time, everyone understands, Satoru’s not really under pressured. He’s using the first round studying his opponent.