VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Malik’s sharp roast and unabashed laughter finally break the room. Several journalists burst out laughing, and for a moment, the press conference takes on the loose rowdy energy of a stand-up comedy show. Everyone seems to get the joke except Ryoma and his team.

Nakahara and Hiroshi remain somewhat oblivious to the context. Kurogane and Sera, however, fully catch every bit of Malik’s sarcasm, leaving both visibly uncomfortable and intimidated by the reaction from the journalists.

Hayakawa and the rest of the security team keep their composure, maintaining the same professional silence despite the attention now fixed on them as well.

Even Ryoma realizes how ridiculous his statement must have sounded. If he were not a regressor from the future, burdened by the desire to protect society from what he knows is coming, he would never have said anything so absurd in the first place.

And then there is Aki, Ryoma’s close friend and fellow Japanese, who can no longer sit quietly through the mockery. She finally steps in, offering Ryoma an opening to turn the situation back in his favor.

”Mr. Takeda,” she calls. ”You certainly seem to enjoy making predictions. And somehow, most of them have come true. Jokes aside, could you make a prediction for tomorrow’s fight?”

”Ah, right,” Ryoma says, acting as though he is enjoying the moment despite Malik’s roast. ”You like hearing fighters make predictions, right? Then let me give you another leak from the future. The fight won’t last longer than four rounds.”

”Hah… keep dreaming, kid,” Malik cuts in. ”Whatever makes you happy.”

Ryoma gives a small shrug. ”But I can’t give you the exact timing, minutes or seconds, because I intend to make it end sooner.”

He slowly turns toward Malik, his expression growing colder. ”And I have the ability to rewrite that history.”

Malik bursts out laughing. ”Four rounds? You couldn’t even predict how ridiculous you’d sound five minutes ago, and now you’re predicting the fight?”

He leans toward Ryoma, the laughter still lingering in his voice. ”You’re scared of a bit of London rain, mate, but you’re talking about knocking me out in four rounds? I’ll beat your ass so hard, your mama’s gonna think twice every time she lets you leave the house.”

Ryoma answers immediately, his voice remaining completely level. ”Keep laughing, Malik. Laugh harder. But you can’t hide it from me. You’re acting tough with those half-lidded, tired eyes, speaking so loudly through that nasal voice…”

Malik scoffs. ”What are you on now, brat? You a psychic all of a sudden? Trying to predict my future?”

Ryoma does not break character. ”That red, irritated nose from rubbing it too often, the sniffing, that little twitch in the muscle beside your nostril every time you do it, and that extra weight you’ve lost, … What is this? You had a fever last night? Bad enough to lose more than half a kilogram from all that nonstop pissing and sweating?”

For a moment, Malik is caught completely off guard. The confidence disappears from his face, as though Ryoma has just said something he was never supposed to know.

Even Malik’s team, who have spent the entire exchange pretending not to be involved, instinctively turn their attention toward Ryoma.

And Ryoma immediately points it out. ”Yes. That reaction. That’s the kind of reaction you’d normally show when someone has just seen through all your bluff.”

The atmosphere in the room shifts almost instantly. The journalists who had been laughing along with Malik’s roasting begin to notice the change in his expression, and the sudden attention from his team only makes the moment stranger.

Ryoma pauses, his eyes settle on Malik’s nose, and then he adds, ”Ah, wait... that faint mark across the bridge of your nose. The exact width, the rectangular outline, even that distinctive pattern left behind…”

His gaze sharpens. ”That’s a Breathe Right strip, isn’t it? And it’s still fresh. You just took it off, didn’t you?”

Malik’s hand instinctively twitches toward his nose before he catches himself and lets it fall back to the table.

”Of course you did,” Ryoma continues. ”You didn’t want anyone noticing your condition. Not after all those arrogant comments about London’s terrible weather. You act tough about the weather, but then you catch a cold before weigh-in day. It’s only a cold, but why you hide it if it’s really that trivial?”

A faint smile touches his lips. ”Joke’s on you, Malik.”

Malik appears ready to answer, but nothing comes. For once, there is no quick joke waiting behind his teeth, no clever insult he can throw back at the man sitting across from him.

The humor that had carried him through the entire exchange seems to have deserted him at the exact moment he needs it most, leaving him feeling exposed in front of the cameras.

”You can act tough in front of everyone,” Ryoma says, raising a finger and points toward his own eyes. ”But you can’t fool me. Because these eyes see through everything… and they’ve seen your future.”

For the first time, Ryoma openly demonstrates the extraordinary observation behind those unusual eyes in front of the media. The weapon he has kept hidden until now is being deliberately brought into the open, not merely to expose Malik, but to apply psychological pressure to everyone in the room.

For several seconds, the room falls quiet. The journalists try to make sense of what Ryoma has just revealed, watching Malik closely as they weigh each claim against his reactions. As each detail appears to match what they are seeing, another question begins to take shape: how could Ryoma possibly have known all of it?

The jokes about his earlier conspiracy-laden statements suddenly seem far less amusing. What remains is an uncomfortable possibility: What if Ryoma really can see things that no one else can?

The silence finally breaks when Aki clears her throat before turning toward Malik.

”Mr. Adebayo. You’ve suddenly gone very quiet. Don’t you want to respond to Ryoma’s statement?”

Malik brings the microphone closer to his mouth. After a moment of consideration, he shrugs, putting on an air of complete disinterest.

”I’m not going to entertain him. When a lunatic starts rambling and hallucinating, you ignore him. Or better yet, call the hospital and get him into a mental asylum.”

He places the microphone back on the table with deliberate exaggeration, almost like a comedian finishing his final roast with a mic drop. But no one laughs this time.

Aki turns toward Ryoma. ”Any response, Mr. Takeda?”

”I can only pray that Mr. Malik returns in good health,” Ryoma says. ”I hope he can breathe comfortably tomorrow, because he’ll need every breath he can get during those four rounds.”

After Ryoma places his microphone back on the table, the media session finally gives way to the face-off. Both fighters rise from their seats and are directed toward the center of the stage, where they stand facing each other with only a short distance between them.

Ryoma keeps his mask on, revealing almost nothing beyond his eyes. And those eyes remain fixed on Malik with a cold, unblinking attention, quietly studying every detail of his face.

Malik tries to return the stare with the confidence he has carried throughout the session, but the longer Ryoma keeps looking at him without blinking, the harder that confidence becomes to maintain. He holds his ground anyway, refusing to give the cameras anything obvious to capture.

The shutters begin firing almost immediately. Flash after flash fills the room as photographers crowd the front of the stage, while several journalists remain busy scribbling notes or speaking quietly into their recorders, unwilling to let a single detail of the extraordinary press conference slip away.

***

Later, the venue hosts a separate weigh-in for Elliot Graves and Caleb Mercer. The session is expected to draw significant attention, yet the media presence is noticeably thinner by then.

Many journalists have already left, eager to turn the material from Ryoma and Malik’s session into headlines before anyone else does.

Within a few hours, digital articles and breaking-news reports begin spreading across British media. Some focus on tomorrow night’s title fight at the O2 Arena, but far more attention is drawn to Ryoma’s bizarre, bold, and controversial statements.

”…Ryoma Takeda has stunned the boxing world with a series of bizarre claims ahead of tomorrow night’s title fight…”

Meanwhile, back at home, Malik goes through his rehydration routine while watching the coverage unfold on television.

”…The Japanese champion’s comments about influenza, viral evolution, and alleged genetic engineering have already sparked controversy across British media…”

The TV anchor, who had not been present at the weigh-in, delivers the story with the amused tone of someone reporting on an unusually entertaining spectacle.

But Malik cannot bring himself to find it funny. His mind keeps returning to the same question: how could Ryoma have read him so precisely?

Even the thought is enough to dull his appetite. Perhaps there was a leak somewhere in the team, though that explanation never quite settles the unease.

”What’s wrong with this kid…?”

”Don’t tell me he really can see the future.”

A moment later, Malik’s eyes drift toward the memory stick lying beside the flatscreen.

He gets up, picks it up, and plugs it into the television. After navigating through the files, he starts the recording of Ryoma’s fight against Cabello.

The footage plays, and Malik watches without touching his food. The rounds pass until the recording reaches the sixth. And there, slowly, a new fear begins to take shape.

Because the sixth round is the one that has been feeding the theory for months now; the theory that Ryoma might not simply be reading his opponents. He might be reading their minds.