VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Late afternoon settles over Nakahara Gym, yet the facility remains unusually busy.

At this hour, the gym is normally reserved almost entirely for the younger fighters. Most of the professionals have already finished their work by then, leaving the ring and equipment to the next generation.

Today is different. Ryoma's preparation for Yoyogi has shifted the entire schedule. The hours he spent at the police station earlier force his training plan to move backward, pushing part of the session into the late afternoon.

And although he has every excuse to skip the remainder of the day, he is the one insisting on continuing. In fact, he is far more stubborn about it than Nakahara himself.

The old coach raises the mitt pads once more.

"Come! Make it faster. Tighter."

Ryoma immediately responds. His left hand shoots forward; three straight punches land in rapid succession.

Pak! Pak! Pak!

Ryoma twists his lead shoulder inward for a brief reset, shifting his weight and reloading his hips.

Then he attacks again with another rapid combination; right uppercut, left overhand, right hook, left hook.

Pak-pak-pak!

PAK!!!

The final impact echoes across the gym floor.

Nakahara watches him for a moment before lowering the mitt pads.

"That's it for today," he says. "Now take a rest."

"No," Ryoma says. He bends slightly, drawing a long breath before straightening again. "Give me a short break. Then we'll have another round. And also, the slip-and-roll drill afterward."

Nakahara stares at him for several seconds, the mitt pads still hanging at his sides.

"Take a rest," he repeats. "A real rest. Cool down, and go home!"

Ryoma reaches for his water bottle. "I can still go on."

The old coach argues immediately. "You were just hit by a car this morning! A few centimeters in the wrong direction and we wouldn't even be having this conversation. Then you spent half the day at the police station giving statements…"

Ryoma lowers the bottle. "That's exactly why I can't waste any more time than this. I rarely have time for my own fight lately. Press conferences. Business meetings. Problems with the event. Problems with people trying to kill me."

He sounds tired more than anything else. "I know most of it is because of my own stubbornness. Which is why I can't afford to waste any more time."

Before Nakahara can respond, Ryoma turns away, looking for a space for a break, leaving no opening for further argument.

Several minutes pass while Ryoma cools down, drinks water, and lets his breathing settle. Then, almost as if the previous conversation never happened, he straightens and walks back toward Nakahara, raising his gloves.

"Let's go! We still have time before dark."

Nakahara looks at him for a moment before finally shaking his head. In the end, he lifts the mitt pads again.

"Fine. From the start. One-two!"

Pak! Pak!

Ryoma is clearly exhausted by now. The signs are impossible to miss. His breathing is heavier than before. Sweat has completely soaked through his shirt.

Every time he lowers his hands between combinations, there is a brief stiffness in his shoulders and legs.

Yet his form remains remarkably clean. The punches still travel along precise lines. The combinations remain sharp.

His footwork stays balanced. Even the timing of his weight transfers looks almost identical to what it did hours earlier. There is fatigue. But there is no sloppiness.

To ordinary observers like Keita and Shozo, the two officers assigned by Shibata to protect Ryoma, it feels like a rare privilege to witness.

Until today, boxing has always been a simple thing in their minds. Two men climbing into a ring and exchanging punches like mad men while thousands of spectators scream around them.

What stands before them now is something entirely different. It's discipline, dedication, routine, the reality hidden behind the spectacle.

They have been sitting in the gym for nearly five hours. Ever since arriving shortly after eleven in the morning, Ryoma has been training almost continuously.

Now the clock is approaching three-thirty, yet Ryoma still shows no intention of ending what Nakahara casually refers to as the 'morning session.'

Of course, he has not been working nonstop for five straight hours. There have been breaks; water, brief discussions, technical drills that demand concentration more than physical exertion. But even that seems exhausting.

Keita and Shozo can feel it themselves. And they are only watching. The mere act of following the instructions, combinations, corrections, and repetitions for hours has left them mentally drained. Neither wants to imagine what it would feel like to actually perform the session.

Keita lets out a long breath. "You know," he says, keeping his voice low, "before coming here, I actually thought about trying a professional boxer's training program while we are at it."

Shozo laughs awkwardly. "Me too. I thought sitting around all day would be boring. Figured it might be fun. Hit a heavy bag. Maybe do some sparring. Feel what it's like."

His eyes drift back toward the ring. "But after seeing all this..."

Keita nods immediately. "Exactly."

For a moment, both men watch Ryoma fire another combination into Nakahara's mitts.

Pak! Pak! Pak!

"I'm not sure I'd survive it," Keita admits.

Shozo lets out another laugh. "Survive? I'm not even sure I'd make it through the second drill."

Suddenly, a man appears and simply joins the conversation.

"And I heard he's currently in his weight program phase."

Keita and Shozo look up. Detective Tachibana is standing beside them, hands in his pockets, observing the ring without any need for introduction.

"Which means," Tachibana continues calmly, "he's going through all of this while not even in his best physical condition."

Both men immediately stand from the bench.

"Tachibana-san!"

"Ah, please… have a seat."

They hesitate only for a moment, waiting until Tachibana takes a seat first. Once he sits down, they follow his lead and sit back on the bench, attention already fixed back on Ryoma inside the ring.

The three of them fall into silence as they watch the training continue. Ryoma has moved on from mitt work, taking a short break, before working through a slip-and-roll drill inside the ring under Nakahara's supervision.

The rhythm is still there, but something has changed. The sharpness is no longer the same. Fatigue has begun to show itself in subtle ways.

His level changes are slightly heavier. His steps in and out of range lose a fraction of the snap he usually has. Even his hooks, followed by defensive rolls, carry a faint delay compared to his usual rhythm.

Yet the drill continues, because that is the point. It is no longer about speed alone. It is about whether the structure of the movement can survive fatigue.

And whether the fighter can remain disciplined enough to keep it intact when the body starts to fail.