VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 548: The Ideal Specimen

Chapter 548: The Ideal Specimen

The afternoon session begins nearly two hours after lunch, when the heaviness in the stomach has settled into a quiet readiness. The air inside the gym feels denser, not because of noise, but because of expectation.

Today is not about experimenting with variations or testing new tactics. Today is about ten full rounds; structured, intense, and centered entirely on Ryoma.

In the corner of the ring, Dr. Mizuno stands beside Hiroshi. Before the final warm-up ends, he opens a compact case containing monitoring equipment arranged with precise order. His movements are economical, deliberate.

He explains each step in a calm, academic tone, making sure Hiroshi understands not only what to do, but why.

“This session is controlled stress exposure,” Mizuno says quietly. “We measure input, then we measure response. Do not skip steps, even if the pace accelerates.”

Hiroshi nods once. “Understood.”

A small adhesive patch from the Sweat Sodium Assessment Kit is placed carefully along Ryoma’s forearm just before the gloves are secured. Mizuno presses along the edges to ensure full contact.

“This collects sweat continuously,” he explains. “From the opening bell to the final round. We want total sodium loss across duration, not a partial sample.”

“So we don’t remove it between rounds?” Hiroshi asks.

“No,” Mizuno replies. “Accumulation matters more than fluctuation.”

Across the ring, each fighter receives a bottle of Aqualis Hydralyte Pro. The translucent container is marked with measured gradation lines, allowing intake to be controlled round by round.

Hiroshi distributes them as instructed, reminding each fighter to drink only to the indicated mark.

“It’s not about volume,” Mizuno adds, glancing at the bottles. “It’s about timing. Small, consistent intake prevents reactive dehydration.”

Hiroshi watches as Ryoma takes his first measured sip. “And this won’t alter performance variables?”

“It only supports recovery and fluid stability,” Mizuno answers evenly. “Nothing more. If conditioning shifts today, it will be from workload, not supplementation.”

He steps back toward the ropes, tablet in hand, eyes already tracking Ryoma’s breathing pattern before the first bell sounds.

Beside him, Hiroshi readies his notebook, no longer just a trainer for the afternoon, but an assistant to a method.

***

The first round begins with Kenta. The opening four rounds unfold mostly at center ring, the tempo measured and deliberate.

Kenta stands solid and disciplined as always, maintaining his structure and choosing his moments with patience. His guard remains compact, his stance balanced, his movements economical rather than flashy.

Across from him, Ryoma controls the space without appearing rushed. He adjusts distance by inches, not steps, guiding the rhythm rather than chasing it.

His lead foot tests angles, then withdraws, then re-enters. He sways like a pendulum, almost lazy, but nothing wasted.

In the opposite corner, Sera watches Kenta closely, his voice firm but controlled.

“Don’t wait too long, Kenta. Step in behind the jab.”

Kenta shifts forward, probing.

“Good. Hold the center. Don’t follow him. Cut him.”

Kenta tries to anchor himself in the middle, forcing exchanges in tighter lanes. The sound of high-cushion gloves thuds dully against guard and shoulder as both men test reactions without loading full power.

In Ryoma’s corner, Nakahara’s instructions are quieter, almost conversational.

“Don’t circle wide. Half-step. Make him reset.”

Ryoma slips a probing jab and pivots just enough to change the line.

The rounds continue in that restrained intensity.

Kenta remains composed, never reckless, never emotional. He absorbs clean touches without visible frustration, answering only when the opening feels correct.

Ryoma lands with clarity but without excess, choosing precision over volume.

“Own the line,” Nakahara reminds between exchanges. “Make him come to you.”

“Close the distance with intention,” Sera counters from the other side. “If you enter, commit.”

The bell ends the first round, then the second begins with the same controlled friction. The atmosphere inside the gym stays taut, not explosive but concentrated, as two disciplined fighters test structure against fluid control under the steady eyes of their coaches.

From ringside, Mizuno speaks very little. His attention stays fixed on the small adhesive patch along Ryoma’s forearm, where a faint sheen of sweat has begun to gather beneath the transparent film.

He watches the timing between rounds with equal precision. Then he gestures subtly toward the bottle in Ryoma’s hand and signals the marked line.

“Do not wait until you feel thirsty,” he says evenly. “We want a stable physiological response, not reactive correction.”

Hiroshi observes intently and records the intake. He follows the timing exactly as instructed, glancing occasionally at the stopwatch before looking back at Mizuno for confirmation.

Dr. Mizuno gives a small approving nod and returns his gaze to Ryoma’s breathing pattern as the next bell sounds.

***

The following four rounds bring in Ryohei, and the tempo shifts immediately. The footwork becomes lighter, more elastic, and the exchange of jabs turns sharper.

Both men move in and out of range with quick pendulum steps, testing distance without committing too deeply. The rhythm feels livelier, though still controlled.

“Change the angle after the jab!” Sera calls from Ryohei’s corner. “Don’t reset in front of him.”

Ryohei circles, feints, and flicks another jab. But Ryoma remains composed, reading the foot placement before answering.

The gloves snap against guard and shoulder more often than cleanly against headgear. The exchanges look intense, but neither man grants the other an easy opening.

Between rounds, Mizuno notes a slight increase in respiratory rate and a marginally faster consumption from the bottle.

“Observe the difference,” he murmurs to Hiroshi. “Higher movement output, but no spike in visible fatigue. That suggests fighter’s efficiency.”

Hiroshi nods and writes it down with deliberate care. His expression is intensely focused, almost clinical, as if he is no longer watching a sparring session but observing controlled samples inside a laboratory.

The fourth round with Ryohei ends with both men still light on their feet. As the bell rings, Ryohei steps back and exhales through his mouthguard, shaking his head with a small grin.

“You’re still slippery as ever,” he says. “Four rounds, and you didn’t let me land one clean shot.”

Ryoma rolls his shoulders once, barely winded. “Maybe stop running and trade with me in the center.”

Ryohei snorts. “You want to keep going?”

Ryoma’s eyes narrow slightly in mock challenge. “If you’re brave enough.”

Before the grin can widen further, Nakahara’s voice cuts in.

“That’s enough, Ryohei. Get down here.”

Ryohei lifts both hands in surrender and steps out of the ring.

“And you,” Nakahara adds, turning to Ryoma, “this is conditioning. Not ego.”

Ryoma nods once without argument.

***

The final two rounds begin with Satoru. The contrast is immediate. The gap in experience is clear, even before the first exchange settles.

Still, Satoru’s posture mirrors the style of Thanid Kouthai close enough, and that similarity gives the rounds purpose beyond dominance.

Ryoma is visibly heavier in the shoulders now. His legs do not spring quite as lightly as before, yet his control remains intact.

He presses forward in measured bursts, touching guard, probing the body, guiding Satoru into defensive reactions. Even with high-cushion gloves, the accumulation is undeniable.

“Stay tight, Satoru!” Sera calls. “Guard high, don’t freeze!”

Outside the ropes, Aramaki cups his hands around his mouth. “Hang in there, Satoru! He’s tired!”

Okabe laughs. “Yeah, just wait until he falls over!”

Satoru absorbs another combination and manages a small pivot out.

“See?” Aramaki shouts. “He moved! That counts!”

“Try hitting him back!” Okabe adds, half concerned, half amused.

Inside the ring, Ryoma eases the force behind his punches, careful not to overwhelm completely. He keeps the pressure steady but controlled, testing reactions rather than hunting a finish.

Nakahara watches closely, ensuring fatigue does not erode discipline.

“Stay sharp, kid!” he says quietly. “Tired is fine. Sloppy is not.”

While Ryoma remains inside the ring, easing the final exchanges with Satoru, Mizuno watches him without speaking for a while.

His eyes follow the pacing, the restraint, the way even fatigue does not distort structure.

“Aqualis was fortunate,” Mizuno says quietly. “Securing him was more than branding.”

Hiroshi glances at him. “You’re not just saying that to build trust?”

“That was my opinion even before I accepted Aqualis’ offer,” Mizuno replies.

He keeps his gaze on Ryoma. “For research, discipline matters more than talent. If the athlete is inconsistent, any irregular data can be blamed on effort. Then we cannot isolate the true cause. Whether it’s training load, conditioning structure, or formulation response, we can never sure.”

Hiroshi nods slowly. “Ah, I get it. With Ryoma, the variables become cleaner.”

“Exactly,” Mizuno nods. “His compliance is stable. When numbers shift, we know it is physiological, not behavioral.”

Inside the ring, Ryoma steps back after a controlled exchange, breathing hard but measured.

“And he’s not even in his ideal division,” Mizuno adds. “He operates under constraint. Weight management, output control, recovery pacing. Yet he still pursues optimal performance.”

Hiroshi exhales faintly, a small smile forming. “We’re fortunate too, you know. Talent and discipline in the same body. It’s rare to have that combination.”

Mizuno gives him a slight nod. “That combination is uncommon.”

“For a company like Aqualis,” Mizuno says calmly, “an athlete like him provides clarity.”

Hiroshi folds his arms. “Actually, for a gym like ours, he provides standard. The Benchmark.”

Neither of them says more. Inside the ropes, Ryoma removes his mouthpiece, unaware that beyond the sweat and fatigue, he has become something else entirely.

He’s not just a fighter now. He’s a controlled constant in a field of variables.