Chapter 994 - 994: What the Vision Grid Left Behind

And somehow, this state of mind takes him back to the night of his first professional debut, not the debut after his regression, but the one from his first life. That disastrous night, when his mind became so crowded with possibilities that he eventually forgot how to fight.

Fortunately, Sera notices the mental burden weighing on him as well. It is difficult not to, when Ryoma suddenly falls silent, stops wrapping the tape around his hand, and simply holds it there as though time itself has suddenly stopped for him.

"Coach," Sera says in a weak voice.

Nakahara, who is busy behind Sera supervising the team as they prepare their equipment, turns over his shoulder.

"What is it?"

Sera simply gestures toward Ryoma.

The moment Nakahara turns around, Ryoma is still sitting motionless on the bench, his hand still holding the tape without making any attempt to continue wrapping it around his hand.

"I know he's been carrying a lot on his mind lately," Sera says. "And until now, we've mostly just criticized him, hoping he'd eventually start acting like himself again. But I really think you need to step in now."

Nakahara nods and walks over to Ryoma, stopping in front of him for a moment so his sudden presence does not startle him. Even so, the moment Ryoma realizes that someone is standing in front of him, he still gives a small involuntary jolt.

Afterward, Ryoma quickly returns to his usual demeanor, continuing to wrap the tape around his hand as though nothing is wrong and his mind has already settled back into its normal rhythm.

Nakahara then lowers himself into a crouch in front of Ryoma, placing one hand gently over Ryoma's hand and giving him a small, reassuring smile.

"I suppose I owe you an apology," Nakahara begins.

Ryoma looks at him with a faintly puzzled expression. "An apology for what?"

"For letting you carry all of this on your own," Nakahara replies.

He lets out a quiet sigh before lowering himself onto the bench beside Ryoma. Leaning slightly forward with both hands resting on his thighs, Nakahara falls silent for a moment as though searching through an old memory, then begins to reminisce.

"When you first took over my role as a coach," he begins, "I'll be honest, I was a little offended. But you proved yourself. You did the job better than I ever could, and before I realized it, I had started letting you handle everything. I let you develop your own strategies, decide your own training. Hell, you even started doing the same thing with the other fighters at Ronin. And you did great so far."

He falls silent for a moment, lowering his head as the memories settle over him. After a while, he turns toward Ryoma with a small, considerate smile.

"It must have been exhausting," he says, "doing everything on your own for this long."

Ryoma stares at him, his expression shifting slightly for a moment before he finally gives a tired smile, as though he no longer has the energy or desire to hide it.

At least now, Ryoma understands that this has never been about ability, talent, or what he is capable of doing. It is about carrying all of this weight for years without ever allowing himself even the smallest opportunity to stop and rest.

Because he trusted so completely in his own abilities, he had pushed both his body and his mind to keep working without pause, constantly chasing an ambition that seemed to have no end.

And today, Ryoma knows he has finally reached his limit. Not the limit of his potential, nor the limit of what he can accomplish, but the limit of how long he can keep working and carrying everything without stopping, without giving his body and mind enough time to recover.

"For once," Nakahara says, gently patting Ryoma on the thigh, "let me carry some of that burden for you. Stop worrying about everything. Stop trying to figure out every damn thing that might happen tomorrow, or even what's going to happen in this fight. Just let it go for a while."

He pauses, watching Ryoma carefully. "Let me decide how you're going to fight. You don't have to solve everything yourself this time. Just listen to me and do what I tell you."

A faint smile appears on his face. "I know I'm not as smart as you are. Hell, nobody on this team is. But you've trusted me this far, haven't you? So just this once, trust me a little more. Can you do that?"

Ryoma nods without the slightest resistance, then turns his attention back to the tape, allowing the familiar ritual of wrapping his hands to become what it was always supposed to be: a simple moment to focus on one thing.

He does not rush through it, but neither does he pause as his thoughts wander somewhere else. His movements remain steady and deliberate, his attention completely absorbed in the task as though he is quietly enjoying the stillness of the moment.

And somehow, the entire locker room falls silent. Everyone instinctively stops talking and watches him, as though even one unnecessarily loud breath might be enough to break Ryoma's concentration.

***

Once Ryoma finishes wrapping his hands and slips on both gloves, Nakahara is already standing in front of him with the focus mitts ready. He deliberately brings the two mitts together with a sharp clap.

PLAK!!!

Ryoma does not flinch. His attention shifts naturally toward the sound, without the slightest trace of surprise, and he immediately rises from the bench.

"Now let's see how willing you are to follow my lead," Nakahara says. "Step in, and listen to my command. One. Two."

Pak! Pak!

"Three. Two. One."

Pak! Pak! Pak!

"Two. Three. Two. One."

Pak! Pak! Pak! Pak!

Ryoma follows each command without hesitation, his movements becoming increasingly automatic as he lets Nakahara dictate the rhythm.

As the drill continues, Ryoma's mind gradually becomes quieter, while his attention narrows until Nakahara's commands are the only thing that matters. His responses become faster, his rhythm tighter and more precise, with every movement following the instruction almost immediately.

And somehow, without the visual interference of the cues and overlay text normally generated by the Vision Grid, his eyes seem clearer than they have in days. His brain is no longer dividing its attention between processing information, weighing possibilities, and choosing between competing decisions. There is only the command, the movement, and the next command.

And for the first time, Nakahara's mittwork is being genuinely tested. Ryoma leaves almost no opening in his responses, forcing Nakahara to increase the difficulty from one combination to the next.

What begins as a simple sequence gradually becomes more demanding, until Nakahara has to keep inventing increasingly difficult combinations simply to find something capable of slowing Ryoma down.

Finally, the old man reaches his own limit and decides to push Ryoma one step further with one final combination.

"Alright. Last one. Stay with me."

He raises the mitts and immediately starts calling the sequence.

"Step in. One. Two. Three. Slip left. Four. Five. Six. Slip right. Two. Three. Four."

Ryoma steps in behind the opening combination, slips left, fires back with a hook and two uppercuts, before shifting right into another three-punch combination.

Pak! Pak! Pak!

Pak!

Pak! Pak!

Pak! Pak! Pak!

"Roll under. Five. Six. One. Two. Slip left. Three. Four. Five. Step out. Six. Two. Three. Four. Five."

Without breaking, Ryoma rolls underneath the next attack, comes back with two uppercuts and a jab-cross, then slips left again and finishes another short combination before stepping out and immediately re-entering with a longer sequence.

Pak! Pak! Pak! Pak!

Pak! Pak! Pak!

Pak! Pak! Pak! Pak! Pak! Pak!

"Slip right. Six. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six."

When Nakahara attacks once more, Ryoma slips right and explodes into the final string of punches without breaking his rhythm.

Pak! Pak! Pak! Pak! Pak! Pak! Pak!

The moment the final mitt snaps back into position, Nakahara lowers both hands and exhales through his nose, staring at Ryoma for a moment as though he has just finished testing something he was no longer certain was possible.

Then he gives a short laugh. "For a second there, I was honestly worried all this media bullshit had finally made you dull."

He shakes his head, still smiling. "But damn, Ryoma. That was the best performance I've seen from you so far."

Sera and Hiroshi can only stare at him, while Kenta and Aramaki, both fighters themselves, can do little more than dream of possessing even half of Ryoma's natural talent.

Ryoma, meanwhile, stands completely still, staring down at one of his gloves as though he still cannot quite believe he has reached that level of performance without using a single Vision Grid feature.

He cannot deny that the Vision Grid has helped him tremendously throughout his career. But now, it almost feels as though all those years of relying on it had simply been another stage of his training, gradually engraving everything he learned into his muscle memory.

Without any of those features active, his reactions feel faster. His perception seems clearer because his attention is no longer divided between what he sees and the countless calculations the Vision Grid normally performs for him.

For the first time in a long while, Ryoma feels as though he is simply seeing the world as it actually is.