VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The moment Ryoma steps out onto the aisle leading toward the ring, the quiet concentration of the locker room disappears behind him, replaced by hundreds of voices erupting from both sides of the spectator stands.

Most of them are Umemoto supporters. Their hostility is unmistakable as they lean over the barriers and shout toward him with open contempt.

”YOU FUCKING PERVERT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF OSAKA!”

”YOU DON’T BELONG HERE!”

”GO HOME, YOU FUCKING COWARD!”

The voices come from every direction, accompanied by raised fists, mocking gestures, and faces twisted with anger that matches the aggression in their voices.

Without a single Vision Grid feature providing descriptions or cues, Ryoma’s eyes, ears, and unusually fast brain still capture all of it, registering expressions, movements, voices, and the emotions displayed across hundreds of individual faces.

For several seconds, the sheer amount of information begins to overwhelm him, as his mind instinctively tries to process everything entering his perception at once.

It is almost like stepping into a room where every conversation is happening directly beside his ears, except there are hundreds of them and every face is demanding attention at the same time.

Ryoma pauses and takes a slow breath through his nose, trying to control the amount of information he allows himself to process.

”Calm down, Ryoma…”

”Breath in…”

”Breath out…”

He just tries to ignore and stop overthinking about them, just as he once learned to ignore the countless unnecessary details that Vision Grid constantly placed in front of him.

The crowd remains loud, the insults continue, and the hostile expressions remain visible around him. But Ryoma continues walking slowly while concentrating on the rhythm of his breathing and the steady movement of his feet toward the ring.

”I can do this.”

”Control my mind.”

”Ignore the noise.”

”Focus on why I’m here.”

As he searches for his opponent, his eyes catch a familiar face standing apart from the larger mass of spectators somewhere near the northern side of the arena.

It’s Kenji Matsuda, the leader of the Cruel King Army, separated from the hundreds of other supporters gathered along the aisle, standing with a smaller group.

Ryoma’s eyes settle on Matsuda’s face, and almost immediately, his attention moves toward the man’s mouth as he begins reading the movement of his lips.

There is no Vision Grid feature translating the words for him. And there is no familiar voice appearing inside his head to supply the sound. Yet Ryoma can still understand exactly what Matsuda is saying.

”RYOMA! SHOW THEM WHY THEY CALL YOU THE CRUEL KING!”

Matsuda raises one fist toward him, his voice lost beneath the roar of the surrounding crowd. But the movement of his lips leaves no doubt about the words Ryoma has already reconstructed inside his own mind.

They are not at home tonight, and this is not an event hosted by Ronin, which makes the Cruel King Army is scattered throughout the stands.

Yet Ryoma still recognizes each of them, and he does not ignore them. He reads their facial expressions to capture their emotions. He reads their lips to receive their messages.

”RYOMA! WE ARE HERE!”

”O CRUEL KING! YOUR ARMY MAY BE SCATTERED, BUT WE’RE STILL HERE TO ANSWER YOUR CALL!”

”WE MAY STAND APART, BUT WE STILL STAND AS ONE!”

”RYOMA! SHOW THEM WHY WE FOLLOWED YOU INTO THIS HOSTILE TERRITORY!”

”SHOW THEM, RYOMA! SHOW THEM WHY YOU ARE OUR CRUEL KING!”

By the time Ryoma reaches the bottom of the ring steps, however, the effort of processing their messages begins creating a problem of its own. The rest of the arena rushes back into his awareness, competing for his attention.

Ryoma stops at the foot of the stairs. He steps onto the mat, then rubs the sole of his shoe across its surface. He does it again, and then once more, taking considerably longer than anyone would normally expect from such a simple routine.

The unusual pause does not escape the commentators. They notice something different with Ryoma’s ring walk tonight.

”He’s been standing there for quite a while now.”

”That’s something we’ve almost never seen from Ryoma. Usually, he walks toward the ring with that same expression he’s had throughout his career, almost as if the atmosphere around him simply doesn’t matter.”

”And tonight, the atmosphere certainly feels different.”

”It does. This is Osaka, and a huge portion of the audience here is firmly behind Umemoto. You can hear them. They’ve been shouting at Ryoma since the moment he appeared.”

”There’s a lot of hostility tonight. Perhaps that’s finally starting to get to him?”

”It’s possible. We’ve seen plenty of fighters struggle when they walk into an arena where the entire crowd seems to be against them, but Ryoma has never really shown that kind of reaction before.”

Ryoma remains at the bottom of the ring steps, keeping his eyes closed until Nakahara’s voice catches his attention.

”You good, kid?”

Ryoma finally opens his eyes, and his expression looks more determined now.

”Yeah. I’m fine.”

He gives a small nod before climbing the steps.

Once he gets into the ring, Ryoma’s eyes settle immediately on Umemoto. He can still examine the emotions written across Umemoto’s face, the details of his body compared to the weigh-in, the sheen of sweat on his skin, and the color of his face.

There are no overlay texts providing him with any descriptions or analysis, yet his brain processes every detail on its own.

He can even maintain his focus entirely on Umemoto, to the point that the ring announcer’s introduction seems to disappear completely from his awareness.

A beat later, his attention only shifts slightly when the ring announcer turns toward the red corner to begin introducing him.

”And now, fighting out of the red corner…”

Yet Ryoma turns toward Nakahara, clearly choosing to ignore the ring announcer’s introduction and the attention it brings.

”Coach. The instructions,” he says.

Nakahara blinks. ”Now?”

”Yes. My mind is extremely easy to distract right now. I need your help.”

”Alright. In the first round,” Nakahara begins, ”you usually spend your time studying your opponent. But with Umemoto, I don’t want you absorbing his pressure for three full minutes. His punches are extremely heavy, and even if you block them, the impact will still take a toll.”

Nakahara pauses briefly, watching Ryoma’s expression to make sure he is following every word.

”So I want you to use defensive geometry similar to Cabello’s Cuban style. Keep your footwork as economical as possible, and don’t become too passive while reading and observing him. I want you to stay active offensively, not just to score, but target his eyes and solar plexus. Limit yourself to one straight punch at a time, or two punches at most in a combination.”

Behind him, the referee has already called both fighters toward the center of the ring. When Ryoma turns around, his eyes briefly drift toward the ring announcer as he steps down from the ring.

”Ryoma,” the referee calls again.

Ryoma nods and steps forward, repeating Nakahara’s instructions in his head in simplified words to keep himself focused.

”Cuban defense geometry.”

”Economical.”

”Straight punches only.”

”Eyes and solar plexus.”

”One punch at a time.”

”Never stay in the line.”

Once Ryoma reaches the center, Umemoto steps closer to him, bringing his face with an intimidating expression.

”You better enjoy these last few seconds, Champ. Once that bell rings, I’m going to beat that fucking arrogance out of you.”

But Ryoma remains focused on Nakahara’s instructions, as though he is still an amateur preparing for his professional debut, refusing to think about anything complicated and simply trusting his coach the way a debuting fighter should.

”One punch at a time.”

”Never stay in the line.”

A moment later, the referee finishes his instructions according to protocol.

”Now touch gloves if you will,” he says.

Umemoto raises a glove with a smirk. Ryoma glances at it, but his mind remains fixed on Nakahara’s instructions.

Eventually, he simply walks back, still repeating those simplified words in his head.

”One punch at a time.”

”Never stay in the line.”

Meanwhile, Nakahara watches from the corner with his arms folded across his chest, his expression calm and quietly confident.

His instructions may sound like those given to an amateur, but he trusts Ryoma’s boxing sense enough to know it will handle the rest.

For a fighter struggling to control his mind, simplicity is all Nakahara needs to give him. Once Ryoma focuses on the basics, years of experience will take over without demanding anything more from his mind.

Around the arena, the anticipation rises as both fighters settle into their corners, thousands of spectators waiting for the opening bell.

”Ladies and gentlemen, we are moments away from the biggest fight Japan has seen this year!”

”Two of Japan’s most dominant fighters collide for the WBO Lightweight Championship!”

”This is no ordinary title fight! This is West versus East! Osaka versus Tokyo!”

And the bell for the first round finally rings.

Ding!

”And here we go!”

”Umemoto Kimitada challenges the reigning champion, Ryoma Takeda, for control of Japan’s boxing throne!”