VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma glances back at the exact moment the dog launches at him, jaws wide, saliva trailing behind like a pale thread.

Aramaki shouts for him to stay still, to calm down, but the warning barely reaches Ryoma; the world has already narrowed into something colder and strangely quiet.

It’s either flight or fight now. And the system slips across his vision like a thin layer of frost.

***

[TARGET AGITATED]

[ATTACK IMMINENT]

Options: Run (Low success) | Counter (High success)

***

As the warning texts flash across his vision, another presence slips in beneath it, not visual, not displayed, but breathed directly into his thoughts with an unsettling clarity.

>

It isn’t loud or forceful; it carries itself like a suggestion delivered by someone standing just behind his shoulder.

Ryoma feels no fear, no burst of panic, only evaluation. His legs are drained from the climb; escape is unrealistic. So he simply plants his feet and accepts the choice laid before him.

As the dog lunges, the system breaks its movement into clean precise lines; the rhythm of its pads hitting the dirt, the arc of its leap, the angle of its bite.

Time doesn’t slow, but his perception simply sharpens, gathering everything into a single coherent path forward.

He pivots lightly on his back foot, offering his left hand as bait like a probing jab, the kind of lure no animal instinct can refuse.

Predictably, the dog commits to the target.

Ryoma retracts his hand in time, and drives a tight right uppercut into the rising point beneath its jaw…

Dhuack!!!

…perfectly timed, guided by both experience and the system’s stark efficiency.

Before the impact finishes traveling through the dog, he adds a left hook across the dog’s shoulder and neck, redirecting its momentum and sending its body crashing into the ground.

KAIN!!!

The dog twists mid-air and thuds sideways on the ground, and knocked into a roadside tree.

When real time folds back around him, Ryoma stands upright and breathing steadily, without triumph or relief, as if he had simply dealt with an inconvenience along the path.

Aramaki and Kenta stare at him, faces suspended somewhere between disbelief and horror.

“Did… he really just counterpunch a dog?” Aramaki murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

“That poor thing,” Kenta mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “He didn’t even hesitate one bit.”

Ryoma says nothing, not because he’s trying to look intimidating, but because the system is still active, its logic lingering around him like an echo that hasn’t decided whether to fade.

>

His eyes stay fixed on the dog as it scrambles back to its feet, wobbling and thoroughly shaken. There is no anger in him, no sympathy either, only a cold instinctive awareness that the threat hasn’t fully withdrawn.

He takes a single step toward it, subtle but unmistakably decisive. That alone breaks the creature’s nerve.

The dog yelps, spins, and bolts into the woods with desperate speed. Only then does the system’s residual whisper dissolve.

Ryoma exhales once through his nose, a simple acknowledgment that the obstacle is gone.

“Tch. Roadblock cleared.”

And he starts running again, like he hasn’t done anything serious.

Hiroshi finally lets out the breath he’s been holding, shoulders sagging with relief. Kenta, meanwhile, is still rooted to the spot, staring at Ryoma like he’s seeing him for the first time.

Aramaki drags both hands down his face with a long, despairing groan. “Unbelievable. We’re seriously getting banned from the entire mountain…”

Kenta’s expression tightens as he watches Ryoma walk ahead. “That kid… Hey, Aramaki, if you were in his shoes, what would you have done?”

“Me?” Aramaki taps a thumb to his own chest. “I’d run. And if I couldn’t run because my legs were dead, I’d still try. Worst case, I’d freeze, scream, maybe pray. But using my fists to fight the dog? No way. You saw how skinny it was.”

“That’s the problem,” Kenta murmurs. “Just one moment of hesitation, and you’re the one getting bitten. But he didn’t hesitate. Not even a little.”

He exhales sharply and starts jogging again, though his eyes stay on Ryoma’s back, the worry lingering like a shadow.

He’s notices it lately; Ryoma’s been changing, a little every week, more every day. And he can’t help wondering, uneasily, what kind of man he’s becoming.

Aramaki and Hiroshi stand in silence for a moment, absorbing his words. Eventually, they exchange a look, shrug, and hurry to catch up.

***

The seventh day at the lodge arrives with the same dull ache in their legs and the same cold mountain wind crawling through the cracks of the old gym.

A week of pure conditioning has stripped everything down to fatigue and instinct. Hiroshi’s program hasn’t allowed room for polish, only endurance, lungs, and grit.

Even sparring isn’t meant to sharpen anything, only to keep their bodies from forgetting what it feels like to face a living opponent.

Inside the ring, Ryoma and Aramaki touch gloves under the dim lights. Hiroshi stands close by, ready to intervene at the slightest wrong shift in momentum.

“Keep it clean!” he calls out. “Keep your breathing steady. Don’t burn yourself in the first exchange!”

Outside the ropes, Kenta watches with an unease that has been building day by day, growing quietly alongside Ryoma’s changes.

The training has hammered all of them, but Ryoma has responded differently. He speaks less, reacting faster, and when exhaustion drags him to the edge, something colder seems to surface behind his eyes, something that doesn’t belong to a normal tired boxer.

Now Aramaki’s working behind light jabs, careful not to overstep, while Ryoma weaves and parries with a minimal precision that feels almost detached.

There’s no spark, no frustration so far, no humor either. There are only clean and quiet reactions. Every movement is measured down to the last fraction.

And there it is again, the same spearing jab to Ryoma’s solar plexus.

Thud!

It lands clean, the sixth time this round, and Kenta catches that flicker in Ryoma’s eyes. It’s not pain, not surprise either. It’s something tighter, sharper, an irritation that borders on something dangerous.

Aramaki circles and throws a probing combination. Ryoma slips the first shot and answers with a counter that halts a breath from Aramaki’s cheek. Close enough that Aramaki stiffens, close enough that it stops being a “light” session.

Hiroshi notices. His brow knots, one foot already shifting forward as if ready to break it up, but he waits.

Aramaki, thinking he’s found something that works, goes back to the same idea. Another hard step in, another spearing jab.

Kenta feels his throat tighten. “Oh no…”

The jab lands square on Ryoma’s core.

Thud!

Ryoma’s breath hitches for barely a moment, but he had already braced for it, and something about the repetition finally snaps his restraint. Both his hands rise with purpose, not just to block, but to answer.

He fires a chopping left, all timing and spite.

“Shiiit!” Kenta is already on the apron, ready to dive in.

The chopping left lands…

Dsh!

…but Ryoma pulls the force, turning what could have been a punishing blow into a controlled warning.

He steps back immediately, chest rising with controlled breaths, glaring at Aramaki.

“That won’t work, Aramaki!”

His voice is sharp, almost feral with irritation, but Kenta feels relief wash through him, relieved that Ryoma stopped himself.

And this time, the system doesn’t like his response at all.

>

Ryoma hears it, loud and clear.

>

But he ignores it, and scolds Aramaki again.

“You’ve done that same thing six times already,” Ryoma snaps. “You’re practically begging your opponent to kill you.”

Aramaki straightens, sweat dripping from his chin. The spar pauses on its own.

“Sorry! I thought it’d stop your movement for a beat so I could step in.”

Ryoma exhales, shoulders loosening slightly. “It is an effective approach. I told you to use it. Just don’t be predictable. If I can read it, I can brace and kill your follow-up before it even starts.”

“So, any suggestion?” Aramaki asks naively.

Ryoma exhales. “Fine. Let’s add a bit of variety in your punches.”

And just like that, the two fall back into their usual rhythm, breaking down tactics in the middle of a spar like it’s a study session.

Kenta shoots a flat look toward Hiroshi. And Hiroshi meets it with an oblivious looks.

“What?”

“Nothing.”