VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Weigh-in Day, JBC Headquarter.

It’s still a few minutes before the weigh-in begins, but everyone is already gathered in the lobby. The atmosphere is suffocating, thick with unspoken conflict.

Ryoma sits quietly on a bench in the corner, his hood pulled low over his head. His weight cut went smoothly, but he still looks drained.

He tilts his head toward Hiroshi, voice barely above a whisper. “How long do we have to wait?”

“Couple minutes,” Hiroshi murmurs back.

Ryoma lets out a faint groan, and sighs. “I’m so damn thirsty.”

Hiroshi chuckles softly. “Endure a little longer. Once you step off that scale, you can drown yourself.”

Across the room sits Junpei Teshima. His build mirrors Ryoma’s, and he’s also had to trim himself down to make the limit. But compared to Ryoma, he still looks steadier, less battered by the cut.

Noguchi, on the other hand, looks fresh, his body full and springy, a predator perfectly at home in this weight. He rolls his neck with easy confidence, every motion loose, unburdened.

Leonardo Serrano is fresh too, though for a different reason. His skin tone, deeper and closer to coffee-dark, makes the pale fluorescence of the lobby lights bounce oddly against his features.

A camera rests in his hand, and he murmurs into it with a half-smile, voice pitched low. “Man, this is crazy. Nobody’s talking. Everyone just… staring. Looks funny, right? Real off.”

It isn’t live, just a recording for later. Even so, the casual rhythm of his words cuts through the silence, almost mocking the tension choking the room.

And among them, like a shadow, is Daigo Kirizume. He lingers at Leonardo’s side, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. His presence poisons the air more than the tension of the fighters.

The silence grows heavy. The commission staff whisper to one another, shuffling paperwork, preparing the scale.

Meanwhile, every other gaze seems to drift, sooner or later, toward Ryoma. To them he looks weakened, vulnerable, a prey ready to punched.

Sato from Tokyo Sports raises an eyebrow, glancing toward the cluster of Super Featherweights. “Strange, isn’t it? Featherweight side looks normal enough, but over there… you can cut the air with a knife.”

Tanaka from Nippon Fight News nods, his tone equally hushed. “It’s that boy, Ryoma. Or rather, it’s who’s standing beside Serrano.”

Their eyes flick briefly toward Kirizume, then away, as if even looking too long might draw unwanted attention.

Sato frowns. “Kirizume shouldn’t even be here. He’s been after that kid since the beginning. Everyone knows it.”

Leonardo Serrano, despite being under Kirizume’s management, the boy is handled by Giichi Shigemori, one of Kirizume’s longtime assistants.

Kirizume himself rarely wastes time on Serrano. His priority is locked on their crown jewel, Renji Kuroiwa, the reigning Lightweight Champion of Japan.

Which is why, his presence today feels all the more unsettling, like a general descending onto a battlefield he normally leaves to his lieutenants.

And Nakahara, remembering how Kirizume once tried to steal Ryoma out from under him, has no respect left to give. Since stepping into the room, he hasn’t spared him a word, not even the courtesy of a greeting.

***

The weigh-in begins at last. Officials step forward with clipboards and stern faces, the digital scale set in place at the center of the room.

Tradition dictates the Featherweights go first. Each fighter strips down, steps onto the scale, and waits as the numbers are read aloud.

But no one is really paying attention. The real weight in the room gathers in the corner where the Super Featherweights wait their turn. That’s where the air feels different.

Once the Featherweights finish, an official clears his throat, raising his voice.

“Junpei Teshima from Shinryu Boxing Circle. Please step forward.”

Junpei strips down, and his frame shows the toll of cutting weight. His arms and chest are lean, maybe too lean, his shoulders sagging as he steps onto the scale.

That’s when Serrano snorts. He lifts his phone, giggling openly, recording with a wide grin. “Yo, look at this guy, skin and bones! Is this the man I’m supposed to fight? No way, man. I’m scared I’ll kill him by accident!”

The room stiffens. Some fighters glance sharply at him. Junpei’s team frowns in disgust.

But Serrano doesn’t care, too amused with himself. His laughter bubbles over, echoing against the lobby walls, too loud in the silence.

Junpei’s jaw tightens as he steps down, dressing without a word, but the insult hangs heavy in the air.

“Easy,” Coach Junji murmurs at his side, low and firm. “Not here. You’ll have all the chance to shut the gaijin’s mouth tomorrow.”

The word, that ’gaijin’ label, cuts through the room like a flicked blade. Serrano’s grin falters, his laughter choked off in an instant. He lowers the phone, his eyes narrowing, jaw flexing hard.

For a second he looks ready to bark back, but instead he swallows it, lips pressed tight. The swagger drains, leaving only a sour expression twisting his face.

Then an official calls. “Next, Leonardo Serrano from Kirizume Boxing Gym.”

Serrano bounds forward like a showman, stripping off his shirt with exaggerated flair, but his eyes still locked on Junpei with contempt.

His muscles are full, chest broad, his body practically glowing under the lights. He roars, flexes, beats his chest as if the weigh-in were his own personal stage.

“Yeah! Let’s go!” he shouts, handing his phone to Shigemori. “Get this, coach! Film it! Let the word see it.”

Shigemori takes the phone with a weary sigh, angling it toward him. Serrano explodes into poses, flexing and growling, veins swelling across his arms and chest while the official waves impatiently for him to get on the scale.

“Get this!” Serrano shouts into the lens. “They call me gaijin, they stare at this skin, this body. What is it? Hate? Or just jealousy? Well, can’t help it. I’m built different!”

Finally Serrano steps up, still grinning, and makes weight with ease.

“Weight confirmed,” the official announces. “Leonardo Serrano, cleared!”

Serrano leaps down, snatches back the phone, and winks into the lens.

“Too easy. Tomorrow’s highlight. And I’ll make it live!”

Then the official calls out. “Next, Ryoma Takeda from Nakahara Boxing Gym.”

Ryoma rises, pulls down his hood, and strips in silence until he’s down to nothing but his underpants. His frame is wiry, skin tight over bone, his face pale, lips cracked.

Just as he steps forward, Serrano walks past, then halts, his grin slipping into a slack-jawed stare. His eyes are widening at the stark contrast.

“Ubh… Bwahahaaa!!!”

The silence cracks with a sudden bark of laughter. Serrano lifts his phone high again, waving it toward Shigemori.

“Coach, come get this! Right now! Me and him, side by side!”

He plants himself right next to Ryoma, still flexing, still grinning.

“Look at this, people! They say this guy’s a prodigy? This?!”

He jabs a thumb at Ryoma’s gaunt frame, chuckling into the lens.

“Man looks like he’s starving. Somebody get him a sandwich before he dies!”

The lobby murmurs, some shifting uncomfortably, others scowling.

Hiroshi steps forward. “Cut it out,” his jaw tight, hand snapping up toward Serrano’s phone.

Serrano jerks the phone back, sneering. “Relax, man.”

“You don’t just film someone like that without asking.”

“Come on! I’m just having fun. Don’t take it so serious.”

“It’s damn serious,” Hiroshi shoots back, his voice low but edged. “You’re mocking my fighter when he hasn’t even stepped on the scale yet.”

He lunges forward, reaching again for the phone. But Serrano jerks his arm back hard, the swing catching Hiroshi across the temple with the back of his hand.

Plak!

The crack of impact echoes.

Ryoma’s head snaps up. “You motherf…!!!”

His eyes blaze as he closes the gap in an instant, fist cutting through the air.

The punch slams forward…

Pats!

…only for Serrano’s hand to catch it clean, palm wrapping tight around Ryoma’s knuckle.

Serrano grins, lips curling slow and cruel.

“That’s it? That’s your punch? Light as a feather, prodigy boy.”