VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

He can’t wait to test it himself in the ring, fighting someone by having the system’s assistance in his skull. Almost like co-op with a hidden corner man.

Across the gym, his gym mates are now slumping against benches, gulping water, chatting in tired voices. The skipping ropes are silent now, gloves half-untied, the air carrying only the slow rasp of breath after a hard day’s drills.

Ryoma finally pushes to his feet, the sudden motion drawing a glance or two. His eyes lock on Ryohei, lounging near the corner with his wraps still hanging loose around his wrists.

“Ryohei,” Ryoma calls, voice steady. “Help me out. I need a spar.”

The room freezes for a beat.

Ryohei jerks upright, eyes wide. “Hah?! Now? After you just puked all over the mat? Are you insane?”

His voice cracks with disbelief, sharp enough to cut through every corner of the gym. Heads swivel, conversations die mid-sentence.

Nakahara turns, drawn instantly by the outburst. “Oi, Kid! Cut it out already! I know you’re desperate to get stronger. But there’s no sense in training if it breaks you. Sit down before you make a fool of yourself.”

Ryoma’s stand rigid, his jaw tight, but the weight of Nakahara’s glare leaves him no ground to push back. Slowly, he exhales and lowers himself to the bench, his hands curling against his knees.

The fighters around him, sensing the day’s end, start peeling away, lifting bags, cracking jokes, drifting toward the locker room in noisy clusters.

Okabe claps Ryohei on the shoulder as they pass. “Man, what’s with your boy? First he pukes like a fountain, then he’s begging you to spar? You sure he’s not possessed?”

Ryohei lets out a baffled laugh. “Don’t ask me. I thought he was gonna drop dead on the mat, and the next second he’s calling me out. Guy’s insane.”

***

One by one, the chatter fades through the doorway until the gym grows quieter, leaving only the old coach, his assistant, and Ryoma seated alone on the bench.

Hiroshi walks past Ryoma, making his way toward Nakahara, who’s already wiping sweat from his brow with a hand towel.

“Wait here, Ryoma. I’ll take you home in a bit.”

Ryoma lifts his eyes just slightly, his Vision Grid sharpening to life again as he observes Hiroshi’s conversation with the old man.

Hiroshi crosses his arms as he comes up to Nakahara, lowering his voice so it won’t carry.

“Coach. That girl. Reika. What did she really want with you?”

Nakahara chuckles, rubbing a towel over his face before answering. “Ah… you caught that, did you? She’s not just some nosy reporter’s friend. She’s the daughter of Logan Rhodes. You know the name?”

Hiroshi’s brows knit. “Logan Rhodes? Never heard of him.”

Nakahara lowers the towel, his smile faint but tinged with excitement. “It’s the guy who runs Nexus Sporting Network. They are big overseas. Broadcasting, marketing, betting. Not promoters, no. But they have connections.”

Ryoma tilts his head slightly, watching. The Vision Grid flickers alive again, lines etching across Nakahara’s lips until the words sharpen clear, his coach’s voice threading into his skull.

>

The phrase jolts Ryoma. He had followed Nakahara’s exchange with Reika earlier, but back then his attention clung to the new features of the system.

Now, with the words echoing in Nakahara’s voice in his head, the meaning lands heavier than he expected.

Hiroshi shifts his weight forward, voice low but firm. “Or they could take Ryoma’s image, sell him to the highest bidder, and leave us with scraps. Companies like that don’t hand out gifts.”

Nakahara smiles thinly, hope still burning in his eyes. “Always the pessimist. Why can’t you see it? This is opportunity. A chance to lift this gym. We only have four fighters, Hiroshi. Four. And it’s already so hard for us to arrange fights for Kenta and the others. Without support, we’ll stay invisible forever.”

Meanwhile, Ryoma still follows their conversation using his Vision Grid.

>

The verdict lands, and Ryoma’s lips twitch faintly as he mutters under his breath, barely audible.

“…Exactly what I’ve been waiting for.”

Since the moment he learned about Reika’s connection to NSN, he’d sensed this door opening. Now the old man has taken the bait too, and Ryoma isn’t going to let that opportunity slip.

Ironic, though, neither of them knows the truth. Logan Rhodes has never even heard Ryoma’s name. All of this is just Reika’s stage, a clever act to anchor herself inside the gym, just to get close to him.

Her act worked. And now the old man, Hiroshi, even Ryoma himself, all of them are already moving in step with the fabricated promise she left behind.

***

Meanwhile, on the road, Reika keeps her hands tight on the wheel as the car rolls toward the nearest train station. You’d think she was some desperate girl, pulling tricks just to get noticed. But no.

In truth, she already has a boyfriend, a Tokyo University student, who is at this very moment blowing up her phone.

“Why don’t you pick up?” Miyuki asks, her voice clipped.

Reika glances at the glowing screen, then ignores it again. Even before this one, the call counter already flashed 12 missed calls since they left Nakahara’s gym.

“Can’t answer while driving, can I?” she says lightly.

Miyuki only casts her a sidelong look, her disapproval tucked neatly behind pursed lips. In her head, the thought sours: if Reika’s really serious about chasing Ryoma, she should just end her relationship with her current boyfriend. But instead, she’s just ghosting the poor guy.

Finally, the car slows as they pull up to the station. Miyuki blinks, surprised. Reika should’ve driven her straight home. But she just eases to a stop at the curb and shifts into park.

Reika digs into her purse, pulls out a few bills, and holds them out.

“Here. For your cooperation.”

Miyuki stares at the money for a moment before taking it reluctantly. Her hand is already on the door handle when Reika leans back, her voice calm but firm.

“Wait for my next call.”

Miyuki squints at her, suspicion clear in her eyes. “You’re still going to do it again?”

Reika tilts her head, smiling as if the question amuses her. “Of course. Why? The money’s not enough?”

Miyuki pouts, lips pressed thin, then finally pushes the door open. “Whatever,” she mutters, almost too low to hear.

She’s halfway out when Reika calls after her.

“Oh… and don’t tell Eiji.”

Miyuki doesn’t answer. She just hurries toward the station steps, her shoulders stiff, her silence louder than any reply.