VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 585: Built to Break

Chapter 585: Built to Break

Ryoma exhales slowly, his focus steady and forward, no longer distracted by the noise beyond the room.

A moment later, the locker room door swings open, and the noise from the arena spills inside along with Ryohei’s laughter.

He enters first, towel hanging around his neck, hair still damp, face swollen but glowing with exaggerated triumph.

Hiroshi follows closely behind with the belt, Murakami at his side, and Sera bringing up the rear with his usual composed expression.

The tension that had filled the room only minutes ago breaks almost instantly.

“Oi,” Ryohei calls out as soon as he sees Ryoma. “Satisfied now?” He gestures broadly with his left hand, as if replaying the knockout in the air. “Did you see how wild they were out there? You saw what I did to end that fight, right?”

His voice is animated, intentionally playful, as though he is trying to sweep away whatever heaviness remains before Ryoma’s own bout.

Ryoma looks at him for a second, and then a faint salty grin forming. “Check your right knuckle first,” he says casually.

The shift in atmosphere is immediate, as celebration gives way to sharp, uneasy concern.

Nakahara’s eyes move to Ryohei’s glove. “You hurt your hand?”

Ryohei shrugs, trying to look unconcerned. “A little.”

The ring doctor, who has stepped in behind them, frowns sharply. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

Ryohei waves his left hand dismissively. “It’s fine. It hurt before this. Now it’s not too much.”

“That’s not your call,” the doctor replies firmly. “Sit down. We’re taking that glove off.”

Hiroshi helps him onto the bench while Murakami starts loosening the laces. The glove is removed carefully, followed by the layers of wrap.

As the fabric comes away, the swelling along the knuckles becomes visible, most pronounced across the second and third metacarpals.

The doctor presses along the ridge, and Ryohei’s jaw tightens despite himself.

“Pain there?”

“Yeah.”

“And here?”

The response is sharper this time, an involuntary inhale.

The doctor rotates the fingers gently, observing the stiffness and the swelling that continues to rise beneath the skin.

“We need imaging,” he says at last. “There’s a strong possibility you fractured a metacarpal. It could be a severe contusion, but given the force and the location, we can’t assume that.”

The word hangs in the room longer than anyone likes. Then Nakahara exhales through his nose and clicks his tongue in frustration.

“First one breaks his hand winning a title. Now the other might break his defending it. Why does this gym always pay extra interest for doing things the hard way?”

The ring doctor gives him a sideways look, the corner of his mouth lifting in dry amusement.

“I heard about how your champion won his OPBF belt,” he says calmly. “If I remember correctly, the other guy left with broken ribs, a shattered nose, and a jaw that needed wiring.”

He shrugs lightly as he continues examining Ryohei’s swelling knuckles. “Compared to that, a possible metacarpal fracture is almost polite. You can complain about your boys’ hands, Nakahara-san. The people on the receiving end usually have it worse.”

There’s no real malice in his tone, just blunt humor layered over experience.

Nakahara huffs but doesn’t argue. “How’s Hamakawa?”

The doctor pauses briefly before answering. “He’s already with the other medical team. I saw him a few minutes ago.”

“And?”

“He didn’t look good,” the doctor replies evenly. “There was immediate swelling across the bridge. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a broken nose. Maybe more, depending on the scans.”

The room grows quieter. Ryohei flexes his fingers again, slower this time, while Ryoma listens without speaking, the reminder settling into him just as firmly as the earlier warning about his own hands.

***

In the opposite wing of the arena, far from the noise of celebration and separated by concrete corridors and security staff, the atmosphere inside Narisawa’s locker room feels entirely different.

Hamakawa sits upright on a folding bench, back resting against the cold tile wall. He is fully conscious, eyes open and steady, but the aftermath is written across him.

A thick gauze pad is pressed gently against his nose, already stained through at the center. Blood has slowed but not fully stopped, and swelling spreads visibly across the bridge, distorting its natural line. One eye is beginning to narrow from inflammation, though it remains clear.

His breathing is careful, drawn through his mouth in controlled intervals. Every inhale expands his ribcage cautiously, as if he is measuring how far it can move without protest. Ryohei’s body work on him has left its mark; faint bruising is forming along the obliques beneath the ice pack strapped around his midsection.

The doctor shines a penlight into his eyes.

“Follow my finger.”

Hamakawa does. There’s no delay in his response, no confusion.

“Any dizziness?”

“A little when I stood up,” Hamakawa replies evenly. “It’s settling now.”

The doctor nods but doesn’t look reassured. He palpates along the nasal bridge, and even through discipline, Hamakawa’s jaw tightens.

“We need to send him to the hospital,” the doctor says finally, turning to Narisawa. “There’s a strong chance the nose is fractured. I’m also concerned about internal swelling. He’s stable and conscious, but we need imaging immediately.”

Narisawa’s face hardens. Before this fight, Okabe had already sent Wakabayashi to the hospital. Now Hamakawa will follow. He lets out a low grunt, something between anger and contempt.

“Unbelievable. This is fucking unaccepted.”

Meanwhile, Thanid stands near his corner space with his hands fully wrapped, gloves resting beside him on the bench. Kiet Anurak, his chief second, remains close at his shoulder, while Preecha Lawson, the team manager, speaks in low tones with one of the assistant seconds.

They have all witnessed Hamakawa being helped in, and none of them pretend not to feel what it means for the night.

Kiet approaches Narisawa first. “I’m sorry about the result,” he says quietly. “It didn’t go the way we wanted.” There is sincerity in his tone, but beneath it, a shared resentment lingers.

Thanid steps forward next, eyes sharp. “I’ll pay them back,” he says, voice steady but cold. “I’ll break their main star twice as hard.”

The doctor looks up sharply at that. “You’re not going in there to break someone for the sake of it,” he says. “This isn’t about revenge. Deliberately injuring an opponent is unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary?” Narisawa snaps. “Tell that to them. They’ve sent two of my fighters to the hospital tonight. And it’s not just tonight. That gym has built a reputation on this kind of brutality.”

His voice rises, frustration spilling over. “They call it precision. They call it championship composure. But the result is always the same.”

On the bench, Hamakawa lowers the gauze from his nose and speaks, his voice hoarse but steady.

“Enough, Coach.”

The overlapping voices fade, and the entire locker room falls into strained, uneasy silence.

“We lost,” he says plainly. “They won.”

He looks up at Narisawa, one eye swelling but still firm. “Can you accept that reality for once and give them some respect? He fought me fair and square. The last thing I’d want is for him to show mercy. Or hold back his punch.”

His gaze drops briefly before returning forward. “If I’m going to fall, I’d rather fall to someone who didn’t hesitate.”

The tension in the room shifts again, but not toward peace, not really.

Then a knock comes from the door, followed by a staffer leaning inside. “Fifteen minutes,” he announces. “Thanid Kouthai’s camp, you’re up next. Please be ready.”

The door closes just as quickly. And the room shifts again, this time toward purpose.

Kiet straightens first. “You heard him,” he says quietly.

Thanid moves to his gloves. His expression hasn’t changed since Hamakawa spoke, but something colder has settled behind his eyes.

Preecha Lawson checks the laces personally, pulling them tight with efficient precision. Another assistant adjusts the tape around the wrist seam, ensuring no slack remains.

The earlier tension over Hamakawa’s condition is not gone, but it has been compressed into focus.

Kiet slips the mitts on, ready to help Thanid warm-up.

“Light first,” he says.

They begin with measured combinations; jab, cross, short hook. The sound of leather striking pads fills the locker room, steady and deliberate.

Then Kiet angles the mitts lower.

“Again.”

Thanid rotates cleanly, driving into the body-level target with controlled torque. The rhythm builds gradually, neither rushed nor wild.

After several sequences, Kiet lowers the mitts slightly and steps closer, his voice dropping so only Thanid can hear.

“It seems that gym has a habit,” he says in a restrained tone. “They build fighters who throw without hesitation. Heavy. Reckless.”

His eyes flick briefly toward the direction of the arena, toward where Ryohei had celebrated earlier, hinting that they know Ryohei had also injured his knuckle too.

Thanid’s breathing remains steady. Kiet then reaches forward and adjusts his posture subtly, guiding the elbows inward with his mitt.

“Keep this tight,” he says calmly. “Let your elbows sit on your sides. Cover your chin.”

He tilts Thanid’s head slightly downward. “It’s fine if the top half is open.”

Thanid’s stance settles into its natural shape. His trunks sit high, waistband nearly at his belly button. When he tightens his guard, his elbows rest exactly along the upper edge of the beltline, forming a compact barrier that shields the liver and ribs.

The bone of the forearm and elbow now align with the reinforced waistband, creating a hard wall beneath the gloves.

Kiet lifts the mitts again but continues speaking between combinations. “I’m not telling you to let him punch you,” he says evenly. “But if you can’t avoid it, make him suffer for it. His fists might have healed. That doesn’t mean they’re unbreakable.”

Thanid fires a short right into the pad.

Kiet nods once. “He reads heads well. He slips and dodges upstairs. So forget the head. Aim for the body. The shoulders. The arms if you have to.”

Another combination lands, harder this time.

“Blocked or not,” Kiet finishes quietly, “break him down. Make it ugly.”

Thanid exhales through his nose, eyes steady, stance unmoving.

Meanwhile, the doctor glances at them with clear disdain.

He understands this is boxing, that injuries are part of the profession, but he doesn’t like the intent he hears beneath the instructions.