VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Weigh-in day, Japan Boxing Commission (JBC) headquarters, Bunkyo, Tokyo.

By rule, fighters must weigh in no more than thirty hours before the opening bell. And for Ryoma, every minute matters.

His team arrives just before noon, hoping to step on the scale quickly and give him the longest window to recover. The sooner it’s done, the sooner he can refill what the weight cut has drained.

Ryoma slumps against the wall, hood pulled low, his face pale and lips cracked. His body looks like it’s hanging from a single thread.

He hasn’t eaten since morning, only a glass of water before leaving home. The hood deepens his shadows, a gloom pressing around him.

“That’s him… Ryoma?”

“He looks half-dead.”

“Prodigy of the decade, huh? Doesn’t look scary today.”

The whispers ripple, passing through the room like static.

They had come expecting to see an intimidating presence, a young monster with the aura of inevitability. Instead, what sits in front of them is a husk, fragile and emptied.

But still, the weigh-in doesn’t begin. Coach Nakahara glances at his watch, his jaw tightening.

“…twelve-oh-seven. They’re late.”

There will be six matches tomorrow, twelve fighters across two weight classes. And almost everyone is here already for weigh-in. The only one missing, strangely enough, is Ryoma’s next opponent, Tatsuki Aramaki.

Hiroshi leans closer to Coach Nakahara, his voice low.

“…kind of convenient, isn’t it? Of all people, he’s the one who’s late.”

Nakahara snorts, “You think they’re stalling the schedule just to wait for him?”

His tone carries doubt, but the edge in it suggests he isn’t entirely dismissing the thought.

***

Almost 12.30 pm now, and they haven’t even begun the weigh-in.

In a country where trains apologize for being sixty seconds late, a weigh-in stalled by half an hour feels less like incompetence and more like theatre.

The room is thick with impatience. And finally, Coach Nakahara snaps at a staffer.

“Thirty minutes past! Why are we still waiting?”

“The supervisor hasn’t arrived yet. And Aramaki…”

“Oh, you can just disqualify him,” Nakahara growls.

The staffers fluster. Their quiet exchange is frantic, heads shaking, shoulders tense. After a moment one returns, bowing quickly, words tumbling out in a rush.

“We… we can’t do that, Nakahara-san. We’re already short on super featherweights. Two fighters had to be advanced without even stepping into the ring.”

“So what?” Hiroshi snaps. “You already pushed two guys through without fighting, why not do the same for us?”

“If we scratch Aramaki too, we won’t have enough matches to fill the card,” the man replies.

“The tickets have been sold,” says another staff. “If the crowd comes and finds Aramaki’s fight missing, there will be chaos. We can’t risk upsetting the fans.”

Murmurs begin to swell. For the weigh-in to be stalled this long is unthinkable.

“This is a disgrace.”

“Doesn’t the JBC care about rules?”

The door finally swings open. Aramaki enters with Masato Kanda behind him, looking smug. And almost too neatly, supervisor Ryoichi Hattori follows, foxlike smile in place.

“Ah, thank you for your patience,” he says with a small bow. “A few last-minute documents, nothing serious.”

The words are smooth enough to smother complaint. The fighters glance at one another but fall quiet.

***

At last, after almost an hour late, the weigh-in begins. Hattori calls the featherweights first, and somehow stretching every syllable, each check dragging twice as long as needed.

Then, when the last fighter steps off, he frowns. “Hmm… this reading looks off. Might be a problem with the scale.”

Groans erupt.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“After all that waiting?”

Hattori ignores them, sending staff to fetch another scale and recall those already weighed in. His foxlike grin never falters as the room sinks into chaos.

At the back, young journalists whisper confusion, no suspicion yet, only bafflement. But Aki watches differently. She’s suspected foul play long before today.

Her gaze lingers on Ryoma, slouched and pale. She knows he isn’t just fighting an opponent in the ring. He’s being drained even before the first bell.

***

It isn’t until well past one-thirty that the super featherweights are finally called. But even then, Ryoma’s name isn’t the first.

One by one, the others are cleared, while Ryoma sits motionless, the minutes dragging like chains around his shoulders.

At last, after finishing with four fighters, Hattori clears his throat, voice carrying a faint hum, as if this were perfectly natural.

“Tatsuki Aramaki, Kirizume Boxing Gym.”

Aramaki steps forward without a word, strips down to his underpants, his body lean but solid, conditioned for the stage.

For the first time, Ryoma lifts his eyes, his hood shadow no longer enough to keep them closed.

He studies Aramaki’s frame in silence. And soon, his Vision Grid flickers to life:

***

[SCAN: OPPONENT STATUS – TATSUKI ARAMAKI]

Age: 20

Height: 169 cm

Muscle Density: 89% optimal

Fatigue Residue: Minimal

Observed Musculature:

Neck: Thick, reinforced; capable of withstanding repeated head shots.

Chest: Compact, solid mass; built to absorb impact without recoil.

Arms

: Shorter reach, but heavily developed; optimized for explosive hooks and close-range strikes.

Thighs: Dense musculature, strong drive; foundation for forward pressure and body-shot torque.

Back: Broad, powerful rotation lines across latissimus and trapezius; conditioning specialized for generating punishing body blows.

Combat Profile:

“Aggressive in-fighter frame. Compact, durable, and power-oriented. Conditioning specialized for breaking down opponents at close range through relentless body attack.”

***

Unlike Ryoma, Aramaki hasn’t been hollowed out by any strict diet, no need for cutting weight. His physique isn’t starved, but sharpened.

“They’ve built him for one thing,” Nakahara mutters, his lip curling. “To tear Ryoma apart.”

Ryoma gives no reply. Even before his name is called, he begins stripping off his hoodie and shirt. The motions are sluggish, with the weight of fatigue dragging on every joint.

Murmurs ripple instantly. The hushed comments that filled the room before turn sharper and heavier.

One man cut himself down to make weight, while the other built himself up to break him. That’s the real tale of this weigh-in.

Even Aki, who has often thought herself familiar with Ryoma’s discipline, can’t stop her hand from covering her mouth. Shock and sympathy blend in her eyes.

Ryoma still has muscles, yes. But it’s shrunken, leaving a body that looks carved down to its bones, closer to a corpse than a contender.

“Ryoma Takeda! Please step in,” Hattori finally calls.

Ryoma walks, each step toward the scale a struggle, his gait drained of vigor. Watching him walk, one can’t help but wonder: how can a body like this possibly recover before the first bell?

Ryoma steps onto the scale. Hattori leans in, eyes narrowed. There’s a pause, and then his voice cracks the room.

“Seven hundred grams above the limit.”

Gasps ripple, disbelief cutting through the air.

Even Ryoma’s eyes widen. He had checked himself at the gym. Since then, he hasn’t touched food or water. It’s impossible he is above limit now.

Yet the needle sits there, pointing almost a kilo too high. Jaw tight, Ryoma steps down, hand moves to his waistband, readying himself to strip even his last dignity.

Aki flinches, covering her face. But Hiroshi lunges forward, preventing Ryoma from humiliating himself even further.

“No. This can’t be right.” His voice shakes with anger. “We checked right before we left. There’s no way you are over the limit.”

He crouches to eye-level with the scale, and freezes. The needle already sits above the zero mark, even with no one standing on it.

“The hell…!” Hiroshi explodes. “You’re kidding me, right? It hasn’t even been calibrated!”

The room erupts, voices rise, outrage pouring out. But Hattori only squints, tilting his head like an actor on cue.

“Hmm… how strange.” He bends closer, lips pursed in mock puzzlement. “Who in the world tampered with this before?”

He still keeps the act. But Ryoma’s Vision Grid has been tracing every flicker in Hattori’s expression. And the mask can’t fool him.