VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The shockwave spreads before the ink on the press release even dries. By evening, Japan’s boxing community is already in motion; forums erupting, blogs posting breakdowns, pundits cutting into their regular segments just to wedge in a heated five-minute discussion.

Analysts who were supposed to be previewing next week’s lightweight rank bout; Shimamura Suzuki (#7) versus Sugano Junichiro (#4), are suddenly opening their broadcasts with a different headline entirely.

Because nothing about Nakahara’s announcement is small. Two fighters aiming for regional rankings. An OPBF-sanctioned semifinal. And a main event against the reigning Philippine champion, something that, in the local scene, carries the same weight and danger as a title fight itself.

It spreads so fast that by next evening every sports channel has it on loop. One panel show in particular becomes an instant highlight.

The studio is now bursting into laughter, with the ticker below flashing: NAKAHARA’S DOUBLE GAMBLE: GENIUS OR MADNESS?

“Alright, alright… someone explain this to me,” the loudest pundit booms, practically half-standing from his chair. “Kenji Nakahara didn’t just poke the hornet’s nest. He threw the whole damn gym bag at it!”

The calmer analyst beside him sighs, deadpan. “Please sit down. And also, this is a reckless matchmaking strategy. Ramos is the Philippine champion, and Kuroda…”

“Oh come on!” the loud one cuts him off, throwing his hands up. “Kuroda eats welterweights for breakfast. Moriyama better start eating mountains.”

The third pundit can’t stop laughing. “You’re acting like Nakahara’s planning a heist.”

“He is!” the loud one insists. “A full-on heist on the OPBF rankings, while flipping a giant middle finger at the rest of Japanese boxing!”

The deadpan analyst finally cracks a tiny smirk. “Well… if both boys win, it will be grand larceny.”

Even the upcoming national title defense, Shinichi Yanagimoto versus Hisashi Murai next month, once hyped as the clash to close the year, finds itself almost overshadowed, pushed to the margins of public attention.

Commentators don’t admit it outright, but their tone gives it away: Yanagimoto vs Murai is important but predictable. Nakahara’s card, on the other hand? It’s a rupture in the order, a provocation, a dare.

Whatever happens on December seventeenth, Japanese boxing will not look the same afterward.

***

Meanwhile, Ryoma, Kenta, and Aramaki are far from the noise, tucked in the quiet woods of Mt. Takao, where phone signals fade and the only headlines are birdsong and the crunch of gravel under running shoes.

Oblivious to the frenzy their names have stirred, the three step into Mt. Takao Private Athlete Lodge: a compact, weather-worn retreat beside a narrow trail, with a stripped-down gym of iron beams and heavy bags, and a steep hillside that looks less like a road and more like a dare.

Here, surrounded by cold air and unforgiving terrain, the real work begins. Hiroshi leads them up the first brutal incline, the trail twisting between roots, loose stones, and damp moss.

“Watch your footing,” he calls back. “One bad step, and your progress stalls. Two bad steps, and your fight gets canceled. Don’t make me drag you down this mountain.”

Aramaki mutters breathlessly, “No pressure, huh…”

Ryoma, however, moves with a strange ease, not because he’s used to mountain trails, but because of the system quietly working behind his eyes.

His Vision Grid maps the ground in shifting lines and faint glows, every unstable rock flickering with a small red exclamation mark, every slippery patch tinted yellow. Even the slope angles flash in percentages, warning him where a misstep could twist an ankle.

The first day, it was overwhelming. The second day, they are just distracting. But now, on the third morning, after running the same route twice, the mountain feels familiar, almost like his own backyard, each hazard already catalogued in his mind.

He flows between the roots, sidesteps the mud patches, and lets the terrain guide his rhythm more than slow him.

Kenta and Aramaki glance at him between breaths, half impressed, half annoyed.

“Does he even get tired?” Aramaki wheezes.

Ryoma just keeps climbing. The mountain isn’t getting easier. It’s him adapting too quick to the new surroundings. But still, it can’t be compared to roadwork along the Tama River.

The air isn’t thin, because Mt. Takao isn’t nearly high enough for that. But the constant incline burn the lungs anyway, every step forcing harder, deeper breaths as the trail climbed beneath their feet.

Eventually, even Ryoma is forced to slow down, legs burning as the trail steepens. He steps aside for a moment, breathing hard.

Kenta moves past him, climbing with steady, measured steps.

And Ryoma huffs. “Damn… you’re like a mountain goat.”

Kenta doesn’t even look back. “Goats slip and die, idiot. I’m being careful.”

Ryoma snorts, pushing off the trunk beside him. “Yeah? Well slow down. You’re making me look bad.”

“Not my fault,” Kenta mutters, still climbing. “I told you to pace yourself.”

By the time they reach the small clearing that marks the turning point, Hiroshi checks his stopwatch once, then jabs a thumb toward the opposite trail, the route back down.

“Alright. Downhill. Different path. Don’t get cocky. This is where idiots break their ankles.”

The trail slopes sharply, narrow and uneven, roots exposed like traps waiting for a wrong step. The morning dew hasn’t burned off yet, leaving the stones slick and the dirt soft underfoot.

The moment they start descending, the difficulty shifts. Uphill burns the lungs, but downhill punishes everything else. Momentum pulls at their knees, every landing demands control, and one misstep could send them tumbling into the undergrowth.

Ryoma feels the drop first, a sharp force driving through his shins each time his foot hits the ground. Kenta leans back slightly, slow and careful, every step measured.

“Damn… going up was easier than this.”

Hiroshi’s voice echoes from the rear, steady but stern. “Keep your center low! Control your descent! You get injured here, your camp’s over!”

A few loose rocks skitter beneath their feet, but they catch themselves. The mountain doesn’t let up, the incline twists, dips, and tilts, demanding balance, discipline, and gritted teeth.

Step by step, the three fighters work their way down, lungs burning, legs trembling, the cold air scraping their throats.

It’s different than the climb, harder in its own way, but necessary. And none of them complain.

***

They finally spill out of the rough descent onto a wider dirt road, a path the locals often use. Compared to the steep root-snared trail above, this stretch feels almost merciful.

Aramaki immediately takes the lead, gravity doing half the work for him now.

“Ahhh, this is more like it!” he laughs, letting his shorter legs carry him downhill with ease.

But his confidence evaporates the moment he spots a familiar shape trotting out from between two abandoned houses at the bend.

“…Ah, crap.”

It’s that dog, thin and scruffy, easily agitated, the one the lodge owner explicitly warned them about.

Aramaki slows to a cautious walk, muttering under his breath, “Just act like it’s not there… you don’t exist, I don’t exist, we’re both illusions…”

However, Ryoma keeps the pace and overtakes him.

Aramaki shoots an arm out to stop him. “Oi, careful. Don’t run. Don’t stare. Just walk past it. Carefully!”

But Ryoma being Ryoma, not letting a skinny dog ruins his roadwork. He brushes the hand off and keeps moving.

“How are you a boxer if you’re scared of a skinny dog?”

“Oi, stupid!” Kenta calls out. “What if it has rabies?!”

But it’s already too late.

The dog’s ears snap back, its hackles rise. A sharp, guttural growl rips out of its throat.

And then it lunges.

“Ryoma! Behind you!” Aramaki shouts.

The bark explodes through the trees, raw and furious. Gravel scatters as the dog launches itself upward, teeth bared, saliva flying in a white arc.

Ryoma spins halfway, eyes widening, not in fear but in the cold realization of how little strength he has left.

“Ah, shiiit…!!!”

Kenta freezes. Aramaki’s breath catches.

But the worst reaction comes from Hiroshi.

“Oh no… No, no, no…” he mutters, helplessly watching the split-second collision about to happen.

He goes pale, both hands flying to his head as the reality slams into him: If Ryoma gets bitten, if he twists an ankle, tears a muscle, if anything happens…

The camp could be over. The fights could be gone.

Everything Nakahara built on blood and pride might collapse right here at his feet.