VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma stands frozen, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. The figure in front of him, Paulo Ramos, down to the cut of his trunks and the faint sheen on his skin, remains perfectly solid, perfectly present.

He circles him slowly, eyeing every detail from the shape of his calves to the tension in his shoulders. This isn’t a fuzzy projection. This isn’t some flickering hologram. This thing seems to have real weight, real presence, even looks breathing real life.

“…No way,” Ryoma murmurs, narrowing his eyes.

He lifts a hand, hesitates, and then touches the figure’s forearm. There’s a sensation, warm, firm, undeniably real, shooting up Ryoma’s fingers.

He jerks a little. “How…? How’s this possible? If you’re just a projection, how am I touching you?”

To test it, he places a palm on the figure’s right shoulder and gives a gentle push. The shoulder shifts back naturally, reacting to the pressure. But the figure only smiles, unbothered.

“That sensation exists,” the figure finally explains, voice steady and oddly casual, “because your nerves are being stimulated to mimic the feeling of touch. I’m also simulated to respond to that touch. But it’s all happening inside your mind.”

Ryoma’s caught somewhere between shock and denial, his chest tightening as if refusing to keep up. His lungs stutter, drawing in shallow air that feels too thin for the moment.

It’s as though his body is lagging behind his mind, his thoughts racing to make sense of the impossible while his breath falters, stumbling over the sheer absurdity of what he’s witnessing.

“In this form, we can spar,” the figure continues. “You punch me, I react. I punch you, your brain interprets the impact. You feel pain, but your body takes zero physical damage. No bruises. No cuts. No swelling. No broken bones. The perfect scenario, isn’t it?”

Ryoma stares at him, eyes wide. “No way… This is actually doable, huh? And you can really fight like Paulo Ramos?”

“Only based on the data inside your head,” the figure replies. “I can speak Japanese because you can. I can’t talk like him in Filipino. And my decision-making is limited to the patterns you’ve learned so far. I’m close to him… but not the full real thing.”

“Wait, wait.” Ryoma lifts both hands, trying to piece it together. “So I can feel the impact… even the pain… but I won’t take any physical injury?”

“Exactly,” the figure says. Then he turns toward the direction of the gym and starts walking, calm and confident. “Why don’t we test it out?”

Ryoma stands there, his heart kicking against his ribs. A grin stretches across his face, sharp and hungry, yet anxiety coils beneath it like a shadow.

It’s a mix of dread and excitement, the perfect fuel for a fighter about to step into something unreal.

***

He follows the figure back toward the gym, first hesitant, then with footsteps growing quicker, lighter, as excitement steadily overtakes confusion.

By the time they reach the gear racks, something close to anticipation is already buzzing beneath his skin. He grabs a roll of tape, sits on the bench, and starts wrapping his hands with practiced efficiency.

“I still need to use tapes, right?” he asks.

“Of course,” the figure replies, standing right before him. “And gloves too. You need the real weight if you want a real simulation.”

“Ah… shoes.” Ryoma looks down at his sandals.

“No need to simulate a full title match. Barefoot is fine. You can take those off.”

Ryoma nods, excitement buzzing through his veins as he keeps wrapping the tape around his left knuckle.

The anticipation builds, finally, a chance to test this impossible feature. But then he slows, fingers hovering mid-air, a thought creeping in like a cold draft.

“Hold on.” He looks up sharply, brow tightening. “If you can read my mind, that’s cheating. I can’t fight someone who knows what I’ll do before I move.”

“No worry,” the figure says calmly. “We can shut that off.”

Moment later, a translucent HUD appears before Ryoma’s eyes:

***

[!]

[ Mind-Link Terminated ]

***

The figure smiles. “There. Now I can’t hear a single thought. If you want to talk to me, you’ll have to actually talk. With your mouth.”

Ryoma blinks. “…That’s it?”

“That’s it. Just don’t do it around other people,” the figure adds, tone dry. “Unless you want them wondering why you’re having conversations with an empty corner of the room.”

“Yeah, right,” Ryoma mutters as he starts wrapping his right hand. “They’ve probably noticed something off about me lately. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already whispering that I’ve scrambled my brain after taking too many shots to the head.”

“Or they just see you being lunatic,” the figures scoffs.

Ryoma lets out a short, incredulous laugh, a mix of nerves and rising excitement, and tightens the last loop of tape around his wrist, heart already starting to pound in anticipation.

He slips his hands into the gloves, rotating his wrists, checking the fit, the weight, the stiffness. After taking a slow breath, he rolls his shoulders and begins to shadowbox, light at first, just enough to wake his body.

“You need to warm up too?” he asks, glancing at the figure.

The figure snorts. “I don’t have a real body. What would I warm up?”

“Oh. Right.” Ryoma exhales, feeling a strange mix of comfort and unreality settle over him.

They enter the ring together. As Ryoma steps inside, the figure says, “We’ll have a shared timing interface. When the round starts, you’ll hear the bell.”

“What a convenient feature,” Ryoma mutters, already loosening his arms, bouncing lightly on his toes.

“Ready?” the figure asks.

“Ready.”

“Then let’s start.”

Ding!

The spar opens slow. The figure holds back, clearly allowing Ryoma to adjust.

Ryoma snaps probing jabs, checking distance and rhythm. The figure blocks, slips, accepts touches without resistance.

Dsh, dsh, dsh!

And Ryoma steps out, resetting his stance. “You sure this is how Paulo Ramos fights?”

“We’re just starting,” the figure replies. “Call it the tutorial stage. I’m helping you adapt.”

Then, the figure shifts, subtle but unmistakable. He starts bouncing on rigid toes, tempo tightening, motion sharpening like a pulled wire.

“Okay,” he says, “let me shift up one gear.”

After that one warning, he slides in, no lunge, no telegraph, just a sudden, smooth advance like air collapsing.

Then comes the flurry: sharp, relentless punches with a tight, unbroken rhythm. Not light, not heavy either, but perfect efficiency.

Ryoma blocks, ducks, slips. He reads the punches but his body lags; the rhythm is too dense, too fast.

He fires a right counter, letting a left graze his cheek, but his punch hits nothing. The figure is already out of range, bouncing once more.

“Damn…” Ryoma breathes. “I knew he’d be fast. I didn’t know he’d be this troublesome.”

“The real Paulo Ramos might be even harder to deal with,” the figure says. “Still want to keep this pace?”

“Why not? You’re not going to hurt me.”

The figure grins. “Then brace yourself.”

The spar intensifies, footwork exploding, punches cutting through air like chains, Ryoma forced to respond at full instinct.

Every exchange is a storm, every second a test of timing, rhythm, nerve. And though it’s all simulated, the impact feels real enough that Ryoma’s blood sings with equal dread and exhilaration.