VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma steadies his breathing, still trying to make sense of what just happened. He always thought he knew a lot about boxing.

But this? The timing of an opponent’s breath?

It makes him feel almost embarrassingly small, as if he’d overlooked a door that had always been there.

Nakahara speaks again, calm but pointed. “Everyone praises body shots, but the diaphragm is the real weak point. And an infighter has the advantage… you’re close enough to hear their breath, see their chest rise. You can follow their breathing rhythm. Read it, and time it.”

Ryoma’s brows lift. Instantly he imagines using his Vision Grid to track that movement, to read the inhalation window down to a fraction of a second.

“Hit them when they’re inhaling,” Nakahara says. “Right in that moment, and you don’t just hurt them. You take their air. You break their rhythm. Control their breathing…” His finger taps the center of his own chest. “…and you control the fight.”

Ryoma absorbs every word, gears turning behind his eyes. Even the system quietly finishes compiling details of the technique, confirming everything Nakahara just taught him.

Then the old man steps back.

“Alright,” he says. “Continue the drill.”

Ryoma steps back into position without hesitation. He grips the handle, sets his stance, and resumes the Pallof press variations.

Each rep is sharper than before, torso steady, breath disciplined, diaphragm controlled. The cable shrieks with tension as he moves through the rotations, high-to-low angles, and anti-rotation holds, his core working exactly the way Nakahara intends.

But this drill is only the foundation.

In the days that follow, Ryoma grinds through every form of close-range conditioning Nakahara designed for him:

Tight hip-torque reps on the resistance bands, short-range power pulses against the wall bag, rotational bursts to strengthen the obliques, and controlled body-weight drives to mimic punching in cramped space.

He practices compressed hooks, shovel shots, and piston-style body blows; each powered by the same engine: a core that doesn’t give an inch under pressure.

Every session shapes him further into what he needs to become; a fighter who can generate knockout force from inches, a fighter who can smother an opponent’s breathing rhythm, a fighter ready to fight Ramos at point-blank range, and win there.

***

November 12th – Tokyo International Airport, Haneda

The sliding doors hiss open, and Paulo Ramos steps into the arrival lobby with his management team trailing behind him—Virgil, Reyes, Salem, and the others—all dressed more like tourists than a world-class fight camp.

Light jackets, comfortable sneakers, matching travel bags. To anyone watching, they look less like a team here for a high-stakes OPBF-ranked bout and more like a group on a relaxed overseas trip.

But the moment they enter the lobby, a wave of reporters surges toward them. Camera lights snap on, lenses rising, microphones thrust forward. A dozen voices erupt at once.

Reyes stops mid-stride, blinking. “What the…? How did they even know our flight?” he mutters.

Virgil exhales long and slow, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Probably when you asked for sparring partners from the hosting committee. Somebody talked. Somebody always talks.”

The team collectively deflates, shoulders sagging with travel fatigue. Except Paulo.

The young champion brightens immediately, stepping forward with a grin as if he’s been waiting for this. The moment he moves, the reporters swarm him, encircling him like a living wall.

“Ramos! Ramos! Your arrival is more than a month before the fight… why come so early?”

“Is the training camp going to be especially intense?”

“Does this mean you consider Ryoma a serious threat?”

Paulo lifts a hand, laughing. “Calm, calm… one by one.”

A reporter from NHK leans in. “Why arrive so soon? Most fighters come two weeks before fight night. You’re here already, but the match is December twentieth.”

Ramos shrugs casually, replying with blunt, broken English “Because I want to have fun. Visit places. Eat food. You know… tourist things.” He flashes a big grin. “About training? Relax. I can do that anywhere.”

Some reporters laugh, charmed by his openness.

“Is this your first time in Japan?”

“What do you want to see while you’re here?”

“Are you planning to visit Kyoto? Osaka? Hokkaido?”

The tone shifts instantly. This is no longer a pre-fight interview. It has become a celebrity welcome segment. And Ramos plays along easily, answering with boyish enthusiasm.

“First time, yes. I want to see Shibuya, maybe Kyoto temples… and sushi. Real sushi.”

He laughs again. “Also anime shops. Why not?”

The lobby warms with laughter and cheerful chatter. Until Sato from Tokyo Sports cuts through the noise like a blade.

His voice is sharp, too loud, killing the mood. “So, Champ… are you saying you don’t care much about the fight?”

The air freezes. A faint ripple passes through the crowd. The reporters suddenly more alert, as though the real interview has finally begun.

Sato continues, unbothered. “Ryoma Takeda has arranged a special training camp for the first time in his career. Extra preparation. But you don’t seem to take the fight seriously. Do you not see him as a threat due to his age and inexperience?”

Paulo’s smile doesn’t fade, but hardens. He lifts his chin slightly before giving his response. “Inexperience?” Yes. Threat? No.”

The reporters murmur.

Then Ramos adds, “Why would I be afraid of him? Tell me.”

Sato doesn’t blink. “Because he’s never lost.”

Ramos scoffs, not cruelly, just dismissive. “He never lost because he fought weak fighters.”

A ripple runs through the crowd. Some journalists inhale sharply, sensing the story blooming like blood in the water.

One raises a hand. “Aren’t you worried that might offend the fighters he’s beaten so far?”

Reyes lunges in. “Actually, several of those fighters accepted our request to be sparring partners during our stay in Tokyo. If Ramos is wrong, they’ll prove it in the ring.”

More murmurs erupt, this time louder. Tension crackles in the air, excitement mixing with the smell of controversy. The journalists lean forward, sensing a headline, a rivalry, a spark to ignite the fight community.

But Virgil sees it too, just differently. He sees the danger. So he steps between Ramos and the mics with a courteous smile, palms raised.

“Alright, that’s enough for today. Gentlemen, ladies…. thank you. It was a long flight. We’re tired, and we need to check in and rest.”

“But sir… please, just one more question!” a reporter calls out, jogging alongside them.

Virgil gives a small, courteous bow. “We appreciate the warm welcome. Further questions will be answered at the press conference.”

He pivots smoothly, guiding the team toward the exit. Reyes places a firm hand on Ramos’s shoulder, pulling him back into formation as security steps in, creating a narrow path through the crowd.

But the reporters don’t back off. They pour forward in a loose tide, microphones and recorders jutting out like reaching hands.

“Mr. Santos, who are the fighters you invited for sparring?”

“Sir! One question… just one, please!”

The cameras keep firing, shutters clicking in frantic bursts. The airport fills with overlapping voices, rising like a swarm.

No matter how steadily Virgil Santos moves, no matter how many questions he ignores, the tone has already changed.

A story has been born, and it’s following them straight out the door.