VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma sprawls across the mat, his face pressed flat into the sour puddle. Warm bile clings to his cheek. His face goes pale, his breath rasping, shallow and uneven.

Around him, the gym is frozen in a tense half-circle. No one throws punches now, no one dares hit the bags.

All eyes are locked on him, some wide with fear, others curious, whispering sharp fragments of gossip.

“What’s wrong with him now?” Okabe mutters.

“Who knows…” Ryohei shrugs, but his face clouded with worry.

Then Hiroshi waves a sharp hand at the crowd.

“Back up. Give him air.”

The command slices the murmurs, and the circle hesitates before peeling away a few steps. But still, every gaze lingers.

Hiroshi crouches low, searching Ryoma’s face. Sweat glistens at his temples, bile stains his jaw.

“Damn… this doesn’t look good. We should get him to a hospital.”

His eyes lift, locking on Reika.

“Can we use your car?”

Reika jumps at the order, nodding quickly. “Sure, I’ll get the car ready!”

She spins on her heel, footsteps urgent toward the door. Finally she can do something for Ryoma. Behind her, Miyuki trails after with a startled expression.

But before Reika reaches the exit, a hoarse groan rumbles from the mat.

“Wait…” Ryoma calls, his voice still weak.

His hand scrapes against the floor, pushing against the slick surface. His arm trembles, but he forces himself up, at first to one elbow, and then to his knees. His body sways dangerously.

“I don’t… need it.”

He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing bile further across his cheek.

Hiroshi grips his shoulder hard. “Stop this. You can’t even stand straight. We’ll take you to a hospital.”

Ryoma jerks his head in a sharp shake.

“No. It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

A crooked smirk creeps across his lips, unconvincing, but defiant.

“I… I just pushed myself too far. Training… went overboard. That’s all. Nothing serious.”

The gym hangs in silence again, fighters exchanging uneasy glances.

Ryoma drags in a shaky breath, forcing his eyes open. “Just… give me a second. I only need to rest a little. That’s all.” His gaze lifts, stubborn and half-pleading. “Please, help me get to the wall.”

Hiroshi exhales through his nose, low and annoyed, but he slides an arm under Ryoma’s and pulls, dragging him toward the nearest wall.

“Ridiculous…” Hiroshi mutters. “Calling yourself fine when you can’t even sit without help.”

Ryoma lets his head tip back, eyes shut tight. “I said… I just need a break.”

Hiroshi grabs a towel from the bench, snapping it open with a rough shake. Without asking, he begins fanning Ryoma, slow arcs of air brushing against his damp face. The boy’s breath steadies, little by little, color creeping faintly back into his cheeks.

“It’s okay…” Ryoma murmurs after a long pause. His eyelids flutter open, gaze turning toward Hiroshi. “I’m… feeling better already. Really.”

The circle around them loosens at last, the fighters muttering among themselves.

Kenta lets out a nervous laugh. “Guess he just overdid it.”

His gloves snap back against bags, ropes creak under skipping feet, and the gym’s rhythm slowly returning as Ryohey follows with his speed bag.

Okabe lingers a moment longer, crossing his arms as he eyes the dumbbells abandoned on the mat.

“Hiroshi,” he mutters, voice low. “You shouldn’t push him that hard with squats. Kid’s strong, but he’s still human you know.”

Hiroshi doesn’t answer. His eyes remain on Ryoma, sharp with worry, watching every uneven breath.

“Satoru,” he calls over his shoulder. “Run to the store. Get some electrolytes.”

The youngster nods quickly and bolts out the door.

***

By the time the gym winds down, the air is thick with sweat and resin, bodies slumping against benches. Gloves hang from pegs, water bottles stand drained at fighters’ feet.

After more than an hour of rest, Ryoma still sits on the floor, his back no longer propped against the wall. He leans forward slightly, resting on his knees, one hand gripping a half-empty bottle of electrolytes.

“Daaamn…” he groans. “What was that voice? Don’t tell me the government just hacked my brain.”

The cool liquid steadies the dryness in his throat, though his body still feels heavy, as though stitched with lead.

His gaze drifts sideways. At the far end of the gym, he sees Reika bowing politely at Coach Nakahara. When her head lifts up again, she speaks softly to the old man.

Ryoma can’t hear her words clearly. But again, the Vision Grid flickers, humming faintly back to life, translating her lips movements into clear sentence.

***

“Guess it’s time for me to leave. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

***

Ryoma’s hand tightens around the bottle. His eyes follow her as she slips through the door, the sound of her footsteps fading into the dusk.

But Nakahara lingers, still watching the entrance as though measuring her words. His lips move faintly, murmuring to himself.

The Vision Grid stirs again. Ryoma braces, expecting the sharp distortion to tear through him like before.

But instead, the system tempers itself as if the mechanism had learned from his collapse. The letters appear inside the HUD interface. But now, only a faint whisper follows, quiet this time, almost like a radio turned low.

>

Ryoma blinks, surprised. The system is changing, adjusting to him, the weight of its presence no longer unbearable.

He exhales, tilting his head down, muttering under his breath. “If only… all those fight analyses could just talk like this. Honestly, reading mid-match actually kills my focus.”

To his surprise, the system responds to his concern.

***

[New Adjustment Available]

Speech Assistant Mode can convert combat analysis into direct audio output.

Would you like to activate Speech Assistant Mode?

– Yes / No

***

The prompt hangs there, pulsing faintly, waiting.

Ryoma freezes, but then he smirks faintly. His gaze fixes on the word Yes, and with one deliberate blink, the HUD flares.

***

[Speech Assistant Mode Has Been Activated]

***

The confirmation doesn’t just hang on the display, a voice also hums low inside his skull, clear and startlingly familiar.

>

Ryoma stiffens. It’s still a bit metallic, but it speaks in his own voice, as if his own thoughts had split and one half now speaks back, an echo layered deep in his mind.

For a long second he just stares, startled, then lets out a quiet breath.

“…So it’s like that, huh. Okay… let’s try it.”

His eyes shift toward Nakahara, who still lingers near the door. The old man’s smile is faint, almost wistful, his hand rubbing slowly at his wrist as though caught in thought.

The Vision Grid hums, lines etching across his field of vision.

***

[SCAN: SUBJECT – NAKAHARA]

Micro-expression: prolonged cheek tension + softened brow crease.

Pattern match: Recognition of prestige / lingering admiration.

Conclusion: Flattered by potential sponsorship opportunity.

***

The text sharpens. And then the voice follows, his own voice, calm and measured, narrating the scan results for him.

>

Ryoma exhales slowly, a strange chill threading through him. Hearing it in his own voice feels less like receiving information, and more like a second self speaking aloud from inside.

He lets his gaze linger on Nakahara a moment longer, then drops it, lips curling into the faintest smirk.

The Vision Grid has crossed another line. He can follow conversations from a distance, and now even hear the system’s analysis whispered into his head.

“If this works in a fight,” he grins, “I won’t need to split my focus anymore. No more breaking rhythm to read those descriptions across my vision.”