VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, Ryoma stands near the office door on the main gym floor, a quiet emptiness settling in his chest. It is the kind that appears when a familiar routine breaks apart, leaving the body momentarily unsure of what it is supposed to do next.

He has already finished shadowboxing with the resistance body suit earlier, pushed through pallof presses afterward, and yet even that focus was broken by Reika’s sudden presence.

He rubs the back of his neck, staring at the equipment around him as if expecting it to give him direction.

“Ah… right,” he mutters to himself. “I should’ve done light shadowboxing after the resistance work.”

The realization comes late, but it settles him.

Ryoma walks toward the far side of the gym where a full-length mirror stretches across the wall. He positions himself in front of it, squares his shoulders, and begins moving again, this time lighter, cleaner.

His fists cut through the air with basic combinations, jabs flowing into straights, subtle hooks added sparingly. His feet glide in short steps as he shifts angles, pivots, and resets his stance.

There is no power behind it yet, only rhythm, balance, and memory.

Once his breathing evens out, his focus narrows inward.

“System… activate phantom mode. Thanid Koutai.”

The command does not leave his lips. It exists only as intent.

A moment later, a figure materializes before him, projected with unnerving clarity. Thanid Koutai stands there with his familiar posture and mocking calm, his presence sharp enough to feel real despite existing only in Ryoma’s vision.

“Are you serious?” the fake Thanid asks in Japanese. “You want to spar with me here?”

Ryoma exhales through his nose, speaking with restrained voice. “Not sparring. Just help me shadowbox.”

Thanid shrugs, unimpressed, and shifts his stance.

They begin moving together.

To anyone else in the gym, Ryoma is simply shadowboxing, but the way his punches land in space, the way his head slips and his feet react, makes it look disturbingly close to an actual fight.

His movements are not rehearsed patterns anymore; they are responses. He weaves under phantom counters, steps just out of range, fires clean combinations as if something tangible stands in front of him.

Okabe glances toward Ryohei and subtly tilts his head in Ryoma’s direction.

“Look at him,” Okabe says. “He’s starting it again. That weird shadowbox.”

Ryohei watches for a moment, and his grin fading into something closer to respect.

This is not the first time they have seen Ryoma shadowbox like this, but the intensity never stops being unsettling.

***

After several sharp exchanges, Ryoma halts. His eyes drift toward the heavy bag nearby.

He wonders what it will feel like to hit Thanid Koutai for real. How much punishment that body can take. How effective his own punches truly are now.

It has been more than two months since he last trusted his knuckles. His hands have healed, but hesitation still rises first, cutting him off before his fists ever follow through.

He knows he cannot live inside that restraint forever. Sooner or later, he will have to throw real punches again. And so, after a long steady breath, he reaches for the tape.

Hiroshi notices immediately and walks over. “So… you want to try using your hands again?”

“Yeah,” Ryoma replies honestly. “I haven’t been sleeping well thinking about it.”

“Start light,” Hiroshi says, already pulling out his stopwatch.

He waits until Ryoma finishes wrapping his hands and slides on his gloves. Then he gestures toward the bag.

“Burn-out set first,” Hiroshi says. “Light punches, nonstop, fast and compact. Thirty seconds. Then thirty seconds active recovery. No stopping. Three minutes total. Ready?”

Ryoma nods and steps forward.

Hiroshi hits the button. “Go!”

Ryoma’s fists snap into motion, straight punches firing in relentless rhythm.

“Not too hard,” Hiroshi calls. “Speed and repetition. Dial the power down.”

Ryoma adjusts, keeping the pace brutal but the force controlled, until the signal comes.

“That’s it,” Hiroshi says. “Now slow down. Regulate your breathing.”

Ryoma shifts into light jabs, footwork never stopping, circling, pivoting, changing angles while forcing his breath into order.

After 30 seconds pass…

“Second round. Go!”

The cycle repeats as Ryoma snaps his fist into motion again, the same nonstop, repetitive compact punches. His lungs are burning but his output never dropping.

After the three minutes end, Hiroshi gives him a full minute to rest. He watches closely as Ryoma’s breathing steadies far quicker than expected.

“How does it feel?” Hiroshi asks.

“Tiring,” Ryoma answers.

“I meant your fists. Any pain?”

Ryoma shakes his head. “This is too light to tell.”

Hiroshi nods once. “Then body blows. Hooks. Don’t go too hard yet. Forty to fifty percent.”

Ryoma braces as Hiroshi hits the timer.

“Go!”

Ryoma begins with body blows, hooks delivered from both sides, each punch carrying more weight than before but still held in check, controlled at roughly half of what he knows he can produce.

Even so, the sound changes immediately. The bag no longer absorbs the impact with a dull compliance. It answers with a deeper, heavier thud that rolls across the gym floor and refuses to be ignored.

***

Inside the office, the conversation cuts off mid-sentence. Sera’s brows draw together as he tilts his head slightly, recognizing the rhythm before he consciously processes it.

“That can’t be Ryohei,” he says.

Nakahara listens for another beat, and then shakes his head slowly. “Not Kenta either.”

A faint chuckle escapes Sera as understanding settles in. “Yeah… that’s Ryoma. So he finally found the nerve to use his knuckles.”

Nakahara exhales and leans back into his chair. “The doctor cleared him days ago,” he says. “The kid’s just been afraid of hurting his hands again. Guess he’s easing himself back into bagwork.”

They fall silent after that, the argument they were having moments ago slipping from memory. Both men are now focus on the steady resonant impacts echoing through the walls.

The sound becomes a point of attention. But not long, it gradually becomes a point of concern.

Because it grows louder.

Boom!

Boom! Boom!!

Boom!

Boom! Boom!!

The rhythm tightens, the thuds deepening into something heavier, more destructive, until Nakahara’s expression stiffens.

He pushes himself up from his chair with sudden urgency. “What the hell is this kid doing,” he mutters as he strides for the door. “Does he want to break his knuckles again?”

He throws the door open just in time to see the heavy bag swinging wide from Ryoma’s last punch. Nakahara has supervised Ryoma’s bagwork countless times. But he has never seen the bag move like this, not with that kind of sound trailing behind it.

“Hey, hey… Stop!” he shouts as he closes the distance. “Don’t overdo it.”

Ryoma halts mid-motion and turns, breath steady but alert.

Hiroshi stiffens beside him, guilt flickering across his face as he realizes how far he let the session escalate.

Around them, the gym has gone quiet. Conversations die off, weights stop moving, and every set of eyes fixes on the scene, awe bleeding into unease.

“You just healed,” Nakahara says sharply. “What are you trying to do, break your knuckles again? Hitting the bag hard is one thing, but why are you pushing it this far?”

Ryoma lets out a short awkward laugh. “What? I wasn’t even at full strength.”

Nakahara’s brow furrows. “What did you say?”

“We started at fifty percent,” Hiroshi says quickly. “Then we gradually increased it, just to see if Ryoma would feel any pain.”

Nakahara stares at him for a moment, then turns back to Ryoma and grips his glove firmly.

“So?” he asks.

Ryoma meets his gaze. “It felt great,” he says honestly. “I think I can go harder.”

Silence settles between them. Nakahara studies him, the memory of Jade McConnell flashing unbidden through his mind; ribs shattered, nose broken, jaw crushed.

That kind of damage had never been an accident. Ryoma had always possessed that potential, and after months devoted to strength and conditioning, that power has only sharpened.

But power has limits, and bones do not forgive recklessness.

Nakahara steps closer, eyes locking onto Ryoma’s.

“Never use full power,” he says quietly. “You hear me?”

Ryoma doesn’t respond right away. Understanding sinks in, heavy and unavoidable, before he finally nods.

“Muscle against muscle is one thing,” Nakahara continues. “Bone against bone is another. You might break your opponent. But you’ll break your hand again, just like you did with Jade McConnell.”

Meanwhile, the projected figure of Thanid Kouthai still stands there, a presence only Ryoma can see. It exhales loudly, rolling its shoulders as if genuinely disappointed, its voice dripping with annoyance as it speaks in Japanese.

“Man… just when it was getting interesting, this old guy has to ruin the mood.”

Ryoma stares at the figure with a flat unreadable expression, offering no response, not even a flicker of reaction.

A second later, the projection destabilizes. Cracks of blue light ripple across its outline.

Then the figure shatters silently, dissolving into simmering particles before vanishing completely, leaving Ryoma alone with the weight of reality again.