VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Inside the dorm, the others are still sitting around the TV, still studying Paulo Ramos’s fights despite Ryoma’s earlier dismissal.

“He said he didn’t need a breakdown,” Sera notes, clicking through footage, “but let’s analyze everything anyway. Just in case he missed something.”

On screen, Ramos unleashes a torrent of straight punches; rapid, mechanical, impossibly consistent.

His arms fire like pistons, each strike snapping out with identical speed, timing, and precision, a rhythm that never seems to waver.

“See this?” Sera says. “He can fire a ridiculous number of punches per second. And he keeps that momentum for over five seconds without faltering.”

Nakahara folds his arms, grim. “And he absorbs shots well… or he smothers them before they land clean. It’s gonna be rough for Ryoma. Really rough.”

“Honestly,” Sera sighs, “I can’t imagine him winning on points. The volume difference alone… impossible. His best bet is a counter knockdown.”

“Even that’s hard,” Nakahara replies. “Look at his posture, always balanced, never overcommitting. Finding a counter window will be hell. To be frank… I still don’t have a real plan.”

A heavy quiet settles in the room, a tight sinking dread that coils in everyone’s chest. The realization hits: even Ryoma might be in over his head.

“But Ryoma said he already has a plan,” Aramaki says, breaking the silence.

Sera gives a small smile. “That guy finds solutions mid-fight all the time. Honestly… I wouldn’t be surprised if he figured something out that we haven’t.”

“Now I really want to hear what he’s thinking,” Aramaki mutters.

Hiroshi blinks, suddenly frowning. “Speaking of that kid… he’s been gone a long time. Way too long just for a bathroom break.”

Everyone exchanges uneasy glances, a silent ripple of confusion passing through the room as they register the same strange, lingering absence.

“I’ve been feeling something off about him lately,” Kenta murmurs. “Someone should check.”

“I’ll go,” Hiroshi says, standing, and heads out.

He checks the public restroom first, but it’s empty. He checks the dorm lobby, and a staff member points toward the woods.

“Going into the woods at this hour…?” Hiroshi frowns sharply. “What is that kid doing?”

As he heads in that direction, he eventually passes the gym, and finds the lights are still on.

That kid… still training at this hour.

But when he pushes the door open, he sees Ryoma in the ring, collapsing. Not stumbling, not kneeling, but falling straight down like he just took a clean punch to the head.

Hiroshi’s breath catches.

“What the… Ryoma?!”

Ryoma collapses onto the canvas, limbs loose, body slack. Hiroshi startles and hurries toward the ring, more confused than alarmed.

What the hell was the kid doing sparring alone?

Practicing knockdowns by himself?

But the moment he reaches him, the confusion curdles. Ryoma isn’t moving. His eyes are shut tight, his brows drawn in a strained, pained expression, a faint groan slipping out before fading into stillness.

“Ryoma? Hey… Ryoma!”

Hiroshi drops to his knees and pats his cheek, firm enough to jolt but not to hurt.

Ryoma keeps breathing, steady but shallow, yet he doesn’t wake, doesn’t stir, not responding at all.

***

Hiroshi starts searching, hands trembling as he checks for injuries. He turns Ryoma’s face gently, scanning for cuts, swelling, anything. But there’s nothing, no bruise, no redness.

He cups the back of Ryoma’s head, searching for a bump or tender spot, but again, no trace of any injuries.

“What the hell…?” he mutters, panic rising in his voice. “How did you fall like that with no injury?”

He fumbles out his phone, hits Nakahara’s number with shaking fingers.

“Coach… Coach, get here. Now. Just… just get here!”

[What happened?]

“I… I can’t explain it! Ryoma… He just collapsed in the ring. Please hurry!”

He ends the call before he realizes he didn’t give a proper explanation.

Then he turns back to Ryoma, lifting his head slightly, checking his breathing, pressing fingers lightly to his temples, then under his shirt, now feeling for bruises or impact points. But there’s still nothing.

“What happened to you, Ryoma…” he whispers. “Please, talk to me.”

Ryoma stirs suddenly, a soft groan slipping out. His right hand twitches, then lifts shakily to his head, fingers gripping his hair as his eyes remain tightly shut.

Hiroshi’s breath hitches, his hands trembling as he lifts Ryoma’s head.

“Ryoma? Hey, hey… Ryoma, talk to me.”

Ryoma’s brows knit, his breath shallow. And finally, he manages to force out a whisper, weak but audible.

“My… head…”

A chill crawls up Hiroshi’s spine. Panic tightens his chest as a terrible possibility forms.

“What’s going on with your head?” Hiroshi urges, tapping Ryoma’s cheek to keep him conscious. “Talk to me… what are you feeling? Did you hit something? Did you knock your head anywhere?”

The doors burst open. Nakahara, Sera, everyone, all rush toward the ring, climbing in without hesitation.

“Hiroshi! What happened?!” Nakahara demands.

“I don’t know!” Hiroshi snaps, voice cracking. “He just dropped… like he got hit by something!”

Ryoma groans again, tighter this time, voice scraping out, “My head… hurts…” but still refuses to open his eyes.

“Ryoma, can you hear me?” Hiroshi leans close, trying to anchor him. “Tell me what you feel. Are you dizzy? Nauseous? What is it?”

But there’s still no clear response, only another pained noise comes out.

“We need to call an ambulance,” Sera says, already reaching for her phone.

“No…” Ryoma forces out, breath shuddering. “No ambulance… I’m fine… just dizzy…” He finally opens his eyes, squinting at the lights, still clutching his head. “Just… tired. I overdid it.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Hiroshi snaps. “We’re taking you to a doctor.”

“It’s not up for debate,” Nakahara adds, stern and worried.

But Ryoma shakes his head, trying to sit up. “Just help me back to the dorm… I just need… rest. Please.”

Nakahara hesitates, jaw tight. After a moment, he gives a stiff nod.

“Fine. But if you get worse, we’re calling emergency. Understood?”

Ryoma gives a faint, shaky nod, clearly trying to downplay his condition, but he can’t suppress the low strained groans slipping out between his breaths.

They support him carefully, one of Ryoma’s arms over Hiroshi’s shoulder, the other over Nakahara’s, guiding him step by slow step back toward the dormitory.

By the time they reach the dorm room, sweat already beads along his temple. They ease him down onto the futon, lowering him gently. Ryoma exhales, relief and dizziness mixing in his chest as he sinks into the bedding.

He forces his eyes to stay open, but the ceiling bends and tilts above him, as though the world is slightly delayed in catching up to him.

Then, standing beside the futon, unseen by anyone else, is the simulated Paulo Ramos, arms crossed, wearing an expression somewhere between smug and disappointed.

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “No physical injury, sure. But the punches still scramble your brain mentally.

Ryoma winces, muttering under his breath, “Damn it… you could’ve told me sooner…”

Hiroshi freezes, eyes snapping toward him. “What are you talking about? I’ve always warned you not to push yourself this hard.”

Ryoma huffs a tired laugh. “Yeah, yeah… my bad. Now shut up for a bit so I can actually fall asleep.”

The room falls silent, though the tension never lifts. Kenta glances at Nakahara, then at Sera, just a small shift of his eyes, but enough.

They understand. And quietly, the three step out, leaving Ryoma with Hiroshi and the others.

***

Outside, the hallway feels colder, the quiet settling differently, as if the walls themselves sense something is wrong.

“Alright,” Nakahara exhales. “You wanted to talk about something?”

Kenta hesitates, and then nods. “I’m… worried. Maybe something happened to his head after our last spar. I believe he was out cold back then, and his body moved purely by instinct.”

He swallows hard. “I’ve tried to dismiss it. But this… this isn’t normal.”

Sera rubs the bridge of his nose. “We can’t ignore this. We need to get his head checked. A hospital, maybe a CT scan or something… just to make sure there’s no brain injury.”

Nakahara’s jaw tightens, the lines on his face deepening. “Yeah… we might not have a choice.”