VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The explosions crack through the yard in uneven bursts, flashes of light snapping against the dark as the string of firecrackers continues to go off without pause.

Douglas and Destin stand a few steps away from it, visibly unsure, the bravado they’ve shown since arriving nowhere to be seen now.

For a moment, they hesitate, glancing at each other as if expecting the other to take the lead. Then, without a word, Douglas steps forward and tries to stomp on the lit section with his shoe.

Pop! BANG! POP! POP!

He jerks his foot back instantly, swearing under his breath as sparks jump outward. Destin circles awkwardly, then tries the same thing from another angle, pressing down harder as if force alone will solve it.

But the firecrackers keep snapping violently beneath their soles, forcing both of them to retreat again, their movements clumsy, reactive, nothing about them resembling control.

From the veranda, Kurogane watches for a brief second, his expression flattening. Then he pulls out his phone, switches on the flashlight, and starts recording.

“So this is your idea of professional security…”

The harsh beam cuts through the dark, illuminating everything; the scattered sparks, the erratic explosions, and most of all, the two men fumbling through it like amateurs.

Kurogane keeps the camera steady, making sure to capture both the disturbance and their complete lack of composure.

Ryoma, meanwhile, doesn’t waste time watching Douglas and Destin struggle. Instead, his eyes shift to the side, landing on a coiled hose near the fence. Without a word, he walks over, grabs it, and twists the valve.

Water bursts out in a steady stream. He steps forward and directs it toward the firecrackers, the spray cutting across the sparks.

One by one, the explosions begin to die down, the sharp cracks turning into weak sputters before fading entirely.

Steam rises faintly from the dampened ground. Silence returns, abrupt and heavy. Ryoma lowers the hose, then glances toward Douglas and Destin, his expression cold.

“You panic over something this small?” he says flatly.

The words land harder than the explosions did. Douglas straightens slightly, his jaw tightening, but no response comes. Destin looks away, suddenly finding the ground more interesting than meeting Ryoma’s gaze.

Ryoma doesn’t press further. He simply turns his attention outward, scanning the surroundings.

But there’s no one. Only a couple from the neighboring villa steps out, both visibly irritated, their sleep clearly broken.

“What the hell are you people doing at this hour?” the man snaps. “Are you out of your minds?”

The woman steps forward slightly, her voice sharper. “Do we need to call the villa owner? Or maybe the police?”

Kurogane moves immediately, stepping toward them with his hands slightly raised. “I’m very sorry,”

he says, his tone controlled but sincere. “That wasn’t us. We’re being disturbed by this as well.”

The couple exchange a glance, confusion flickering across their faces. Then the woman looks back at Kurogane, her irritation still firmly in place.

“First the trucks with those horns,” she mutters, shaking her head. “And now fireworks?”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Ever since you people got here, this place has turned into hell.”

Kurogane blinks, caught off guard, the words hitting in a way he doesn’t quite have an answer for.

The woman doesn’t wait for one. She turns sharply toward her partner.

“I want to leave,” she says. “First thing in the morning.”

The man glances back once, his gaze lingering on Kurogane for a second longer than necessary, before turning and following her inside.

Kurogane exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck before shaking his head as he walks back toward Ryoma.

“What can we say,” he mutters in Japanese, and glances briefly toward the dark road beyond the fence. “They’re not wrong. This is clearly aimed at us. And that makes us the ones bringing trouble into this place.”

Ryoma follows his gaze for a moment, then shifts his attention toward Douglas and Destin. “We should go see Alvarez directly. We can’t keep going like this.”

Kurogane nods, then lifts his phone slightly. “I recorded everything. Including their performance…”

His eyes flick toward the two men, unimpressed. And then turns toward Nakahara and the other who are standing on the veranda.

“There’s no other option. We demand proper facilities from the promoter.”

***

Their schedule shifts again because of those firecrackers. The plan to head to the gym at ten in the morning falls apart before it even begins.

The night’s disturbance leaves its mark, not just in frustration, but in fatigue that refuses to fade. What little rest they manage is scattered, shallow, and not nearly enough.

By the time morning settles in, no one is in condition to train. Instead, the villa falls quiet once more, curtains drawn, bodies giving in to exhaustion as sleep finally takes hold, stretching from morning into the edge of noon.

Late morning, nearing noon, Ryoma and Kurogane are already on their way, riding in a van driven by Dizon as they head to meet Alvarez.

Inside the van, the atmosphere is tense, weighed down by fatigue and the lack of proper rest. Ryoma sits by the window, his head resting back against the seat, eyes half-lidded but not fully closed.

Across from him, Kurogane leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed ahead.

“I’m telling you,”

Dizon says, glancing briefly through the rearview mirror. “This isn’t coming from our side.”

“I don’t care,” Kurogane replies flatly, not even looking at him. “We’re done staying there.”

Dizon’s grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel. “Told you… Moving won’t change anything. This is coordinated. If someone is targeting you, they’ll just follow.”

“Enough,” Ryoma cuts in, his voice low, edged with irritation. He doesn’t open his eyes. “I haven’t had enough sleep for this. Just take me to your boss.”

***

They arrange to meet at a quiet café, deliberately chosen to stay out of the media’s reach.

By the time they arrive, Alvarez and Rafa are already there, seated at a table near the back, away from the windows. Both of them look up as Ryoma and Kurogane approach.

Ryoma’s face looks paler than usual, his expression dulled by exhaustion, his eyes lacking their usual sharpness. Kurogane doesn’t look much better, the strain showing in the tightness of his jaw and the heaviness in his gaze.

Alvarez and Rafa exchange a brief glance. But Ryoma simply pulls out a chair and sits down without invitation, his movements direct, stripped of any unnecessary formality.

“Let’s make this quick,” he says. “Kurogane. Show them the evidence.”

Kurogane places a folder on the table before taking the seat beside him, his movements controlled but firm. “I’ve prepared a full report. There are photos inside, and the videos are on my phone.”

Alvarez sits back down, Rafa following immediately as he reaches for the documents. His eyes move quickly across the pages, scanning through not just the evidence of the disturbances, but also the formal structure of the complaint itself. The demands are already laid out, prepared and measured.

“First it was truck horns,” Kurogane continues. “Then firecrackers. I don’t want to wait until this escalates to something worse…”

His gaze hardens slightly. “Like guns.”

Alvarez’s expression tightens, while Rafa’s brows knit together, the weight of that possibility settling in.

“We still want to maintain a good relationship with you,” Ryoma continues, his tone calm but firm. “That’s why we’re handling this directly, between us.”

He leans back slightly, though the fatigue is still evident in his posture. “So it would be better if you meet our demands.”

Kurogane folds his arms lightly. “We’ve already paid for five weeks at that villa. But we’re moving out. And we need you to provide a new place. Hotel with proper security, a more isolated location, or even a private gym with a dormitory. We don’t care which. But it has to be secure.”

Rafa studies the document a little longer, his expression tightening with each page. When he’s done, he exhales through his nose and hands the folder over to Alvarez.

“We can’t afford to spend more on this,” he says, his tone firm. “You already know our financial situation. You even helped cover part of the fighters’ purse to bring Dela Cruz in.”

Kurogane doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, we invested that much. Which is exactly why you should provide us with adequate facilities. Not just for comfort. For safety.”

Rafa clicks his tongue softly, but doesn’t respond immediately. Alvarez, meanwhile, takes the document, glances through a few sections, then closes it and places it back on the table.

He leans back slightly, his gaze shifting first to Kurogane, then to Ryoma.

“I’m telling you,” Alvarez says, his tone measured. “This has nothing to do with me. As a promoter, I’m trying to create fair conditions for both sides. What’s happening here… this is interference. From someone else. And we both understand the situation. This is your problem with them.”

Kurogane’s eyes narrow slightly. “Who exactly are you referring to?”

Alvarez exhales once. “I understood it from the beginning, your presence disrupts the structure that the major promoters have built in global boxing.”

His tone remains calm, but there’s weight behind it. “And that has nothing to do with me.”

Ryoma finally lifts his gaze fully, meeting Alvarez’s eyes. “To be honest, I intended to build my own environment step by step. Starting in Japan, then expanding into the Asia-Pacific with you involved. Because I believed you were people I could trust.”

He leans back slightly, though the fatigue still lingers in his posture. “If you were concerned about the risks, I wouldn’t have forced you to be part of it. But you insisted on hosting this, even knowing my situation.”

His voice stays level, but the edge is unmistakable. “And as the promoter, you’re responsible for my safety. You’re responsible for keeping this fair until fight night.”

Kurogane leans forward slightly, reinforcing the point. “If you can’t provide that, then we’ll have to withdraw. We’re not going to risk our lives here.”

His gaze sharpens. “And understand this… If we return to Japan, it won’t end there. We’ll file a formal complaint to the OPBF and the WBO Asia Pacific. And we’ll pursue compensation for every loss we’ve taken.”