VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

At least, tonight Ryoma can sleep early, without doing any bargaining with his thoughts. His body sinks into rest as if it finally remembers how. There are no flashes of canvas now, no nightmare of fists freezing mid-air.

When morning comes, it comes quietly.

Before dawn, he’s already up. Aramaki is surprised to see him tying his shoes by the door, hair still damp from a quick rinse.

“You’re early,” he says.

Ryoma just nods. “Couldn’t stay in bed.”

“Don’t tell me you couldn’t sleep again.”

“Naah… got a lot of sleep.”

They head out together when the city still half-asleep, air cool enough to sting the lungs. The roadwork is steady and familiar.

Ryoma’s stride isn’t perfect, but it’s rhythmic. His breathing settles into something reliable. For the first time since arriving, his body doesn’t feel like it’s arguing with him.

At the gym later that morning, the restraints loosen. There’s still monitoring, but Ryoma is allowed to work.

Footwork drills follow with its full session, mitts come out without restrain. Nakahara moves with him, calling combinations, adjusting angles, testing reactions without pushing tempo too hard.

Dr. Mizuno watches from ringside. Boxing isn’t his field, but he knows the sport well enough. After a few rounds, he nods slightly.

“It’s not bad,” he says. “I’ve seen boxers in far worse than this.”

Sera, standing beside him, doesn’t look impressed. “This is still far from Ryoma’s best form.”

Mizuno glances at him. “Is that so?”

Sera keeps his eyes on the ring. “Yeah. This is him just back to functioning.”

That earns a longer look from the nutritionist, curiosity flickering across his face.

But the next day, Ryoma already moves better. On footwork drills, his feet respond faster with better rhythm. On mitt works, his guard flows instead of setting. The mitts crack sharper and cleaner.

Nakahara doesn’t need to repeat calls as often. Ryoma’s body is beginning to remember how it used to be.

So… this is his true form,” Mizuno says, turning to Sera.

Sera exhales through his nose. “Closer. But still not his best.”

Mizuno hums quietly, filing that away.

***

February 20th…

In the morning, hiroshi stands by the scale as Ryoma steps onto it in nothing but his shorts. His body looks tighter and narrower now. His deltoids still hold shape, but the fullness underneath is gone.

The chest is leaner, ribs faintly visible when he exhales. His waist is well cut, hips stripped down to structure rather than full power. The legs are the most telling, defined, but lighter. The quads don’t sit as heavy on the knee, the calves less packed.

It’s the look of weight cut through burning fat and draining water only, while his muscle volume remains.

“You’ve cut to 62.8 Kg,” Hiroshi reads. “That’s 1.6 Kg over the lightweight limit.”

Ryoma sighs. “What now?”

Hiroshi hesitates. “Let’s see what Dr. Mizuno says later.”

***

At the gym, they bring it up immediately. Dr. Mizuno listens without interruption, and then shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “We shouldn’t take risks.”

Nakahara frowns. “It’s just four hundred grams over the checkpoint.”

“And what if this trend continues?” Mizuno counters calmly. “What if he’s still over on the last day?”

“We still have four days left,” Hiroshi says.

Mizuno taps the clipboard once, thoughtful rather than alarmed. “The ideal scenario is that he only needs to cut one kilogram in the final three days. That gives the body room to adapt.”

He looks at Nakahara directly. “If he carries more into that window, the dehydration stress increases sharply. Cortisol rises. Sleep quality drops again. That’s when we start seeing neurological dulling on fight night.”

Hiroshi shifts. “We could use the sauna. Just once.”

Mizuno turns to him sharply. “Absolutely not.”

The room stills, not in surprise, but confusion. A few of them exchange glances.

They’ve crossed that line before. That winter, when Ryoma failed meeting the target, and they had to send him to sauna. It had worked, and Ryoma met the limit anyway.

“Why not…?” Hiroshi asks.

“Sauna drains more than muscle water,” Mizuno continues. “It pulls fluid from the head as well. That compromises cerebrospinal fluid balance, which directly affects punch resistance toward the head.”

He looks at Ryoma directly. “From now on, focus only on the cut. No technical drills. No footwork. You already have enough.”

Nakahara opens his mouth to argue, but Mizuno continues speaking.

“When I watched his drills yesterday,” he says, “even if it wasn’t at his best, that was still better than most fighters I’ve evaluated. That’s sufficient.”

The decision lands heavy, but clear.

Peak form can wait. But first, Ryoma has to make weight. And he has to do it the safest way possible, without introducing new risks.

From here onward, they stick to Dr. Mizuno’s program to the letter. No shortcuts, no last-minute heroics.

The goal is simple and narrow: cut the remaining 1.6 kilograms across four days through controlled dehydration, without stripping Ryoma’s nervous system bare.

Fluid intake is reduced gradually, sodium tapered with precision, meals smaller but timed, sweat induced only through light work and ambient heat.

Ryoma moves less, rests more. When he trains, it’s just enough to remind the body it still needs to let go.

The process isn’t painless, but steady, miserable in a quiet way.

And by the night before weigh-in, no one says much. The apartment feels hollow, stripped of tension but not comforted by relief yet.

***

February 24th…

The morning of the weigh-in comes early.

Before sunrise, Hiroshi sets up their own scale in the bathroom, the same one they’ve been using since arriving. It’s been checked, rechecked, calibrated against the gym scale.

Ryoma steps on wearing nothing but short pants, mimicking the official weigh-in as closely as possible.

His body looks different now, doesn’t look weak, but spent.

The number blinks, and then steadies: 61.1 kg.

Hiroshi exhales, long and audible. Sera lets his shoulders drop. Nakahara closes his eyes briefly, as if releasing something he’s been holding for days.

“That’s it,” Hiroshi says quietly. “We’re in.”

Ryoma steps off the scale without any reaction. He only nod slowly, as if acknowledging a fact rather than a victory.

They dress quickly and leave the apartment while the city is still waking.

***

The official weigh-in is held at a hotel ballroom near the waterfront, reserved by the OPBF commission. Banners line the stage, sponsors’ logos repeating in neat symmetry. A raised platform sits under bright lights, flanked by digital scales certified and sealed.

Rows of chairs face the stage, already filling with media, officials, photographers. Camera rigs work softly, testing angles. A backdrop stands ready for the face-off later, though for now, it’s just a wall of logos waiting to be occupied.

Ryoma is led backstage, separated from the main floor.

Jade McConnel is already there. The hood stays up, shadowing his eyes, shoulders relaxed but loaded with intent. This is not the man who waved at the airport days ago.

When Ryoma enters, Jade looks up once with a sharp assessing glance. Then his gaze returns to the floor.

An official steps forward. “Ryoma Takeda. Please.”

Ryoma moves to the scale as his team falls silent behind him. Shirt off, shoes off, leaving him only with short pants.

His body looks stripped but intact. Muscle still there, just drawn tight beneath the skin. Shoulders narrower than usual, chest flatter, veins faintly visible along his arms.

He steps onto the scale. And the digital numbers blink.

61.24 kg.

A murmur ripples through the room.

But the display hesitates.

61.23…

Then again.

61.22…

Ryoma stays perfectly still, eyes locked forward, breath shallow.

The number flickers…

61.21 kg.

…and settles there.