VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

There’s a line Ramos grew up hearing from his grandfather, “a relaxed face makes enemies relax too, and a loose smile can hide a sharpened blade.”

He never repeats it to anyone, never turns it into some dramatic mantra, but it settles quietly behind every gesture he makes in public: the easy grin, the light steps, the casual tone that suggests he has never known tension in his life.

Of course, that is only the surface. The real work breathes underneath.

His first night in Japan, he spends it at Tokyo Somei Onsen SAKURA, where steam glides through the open-air bath like a slow tide.

Ramos sinks until the water touches his shoulders, letting the heat untangle the stiffness from the long flight. He exhales, not dramatically, just enough to let his muscles loosen.

“Aah… this place is too good. Give me five minutes and I’ll probably knock out in the water.”

Reyes appears, and sits beside him, stretching his arms along the edge, leaning with eyes half closed.

“Man… I swear this country is trying to make me retire right here.”

Across the pool, Salem sits upright, towel folded neatly over his head, posture so rigid he looks like he’s meditating.

“Coach…” Ramos calls out. “You still alive over there?”

Salem gives him a slow blink. “Barely.”

“Ah, right… why don’t we take a picture,” Ramos hums.

He lifts his phone from a dry towel on the deck, finds the angle where his face isn’t too steamed over, and snaps a photo.

There’s nothing tactical in the caption he writes, just a simple ’First time onsen in Japan.’

By the time he lays the phone back down, Virgil is looking at him from the pool’s edge with the same expression he uses whenever Ramos acts like… well, himself.

“Hey, Paulo… You post something like that, your fans will think you’re on vacation.”

Ramos sighs contentedly without opening his eyes. “Let them dream a little. This is what happens when you hit milestones before you’re twenty-five.”

Virgil sighs, but doesn’t push. The thing is, their visit to this onsen isn’t indulgence. It’s the transition point.

Ramos always resets his body before the real grind starts, and he prefers doing it quietly, without letting people watch for meaning.

For the rest of the night, the team settles into the bath: hot water, drifting steam, the occasional soft grunt from Reyes when he hits a particularly comfortable spot.

***

The next morning, the Champ is already up by 4:35 a.m. He doesn’t even need alarm. Discipline does the work.

“Let’s settle into Japan’s air first, shall we?”

While the city still sleeps, he’s already kicked himself into gear, cutting through the narrow roads behind the inn.

Oto is still dark and silent when he jogs to the local gym hosting him during his stay. He chose this district for one reason: acclamation. He wants the exact same atmosphere for adaptation, the same wind, same humidity, the same morning cold.

The gym itself sits tucked between a shuttered laundromat and an old soba shop, lights off, streets empty. The side door gives under his hand exactly the way the owner promised.

“Morning,” he says, even though he knows no one should be here at this hour.

He starts with conditioning, footwork drills, shadowboxing, small steps, short pivots, nothing fancy. Then rope work, fast and sharp, breath steady in the cold morning.

Makihara, the owner, actually arrives at 6:45. The old man freezes when he sees Ramos already drenched and breathing hard near the ring.

“You warming the place by yourself?” Makihara says in broken English.

“I’m trying to…” Ramos replies.

Makihara just grunts, setting his keys down and flicking on the lights as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

***

By 7:30 a.m, the gym finally opens. The shift in atmosphere is almost comical.

When the local fighters arrive, college kids, semi-pros, and a few older amateurs; they expect to see a tired foreigner drenched in sweat. Instead, they find Ramos stretched diagonally across a bench like he owns it, while One Piece anime plays loudly from his phone.

Ramos laughs so hard at a stupid joke that a few local fighters turn their heads. One of them catches a glimpse of Franky’s over-the-top Suuuuuper!

pose and nearly drops his gloves.

“Wait… Is that Franky?”

“Yeah… Franky.”

“The champion from the Philippines is watching One Piece?”

“I thought the guy was supposed to be all business.”

Ramos hears them talking, doesn’t understand a single syllable, but he throws them a small wave anyway. They immediately bow in such frantic unison they almost crack their skulls together.

Reyes shuffles in next, rubbing the sleep out of one eye. “Kid… you’re already on anime? What is it this time, One Piece again? Just don’t start marathoning that show all the way to fight day. I’m begging you.”

Salem passes behind him, glancing at the screen with a kind of resigned disbelief. “How are you awake at this hour?”

“Good episode,” Ramos answers simply.

Virgil arrives last, clipboard tucked under one arm, scanning the gym like he’s bracing for some new chaos. His eyes land on Ramos lounging on the bench like he’s killing time between beach volleyball rounds.

There’s a sigh, long and patient. “If the owners walk in right now, they’re going to think you broke in just to watch cartoons.”

Ramos just nods. “They saw already.”

He doesn’t explain. He just lowers the volume on his phone, shifts so his head is more comfortable on the folded hoodie, and returns to his episode with the sort of ease that makes everyone else wonder if he even knows what pressure is.

Around him, the gym fills with the soft clatter of equipment, snippets of conversation, the sharp thump of early-morning drills, normal sounds that fold easily around the champion who looks like he’s barely even started his day.

The first day at the gym, everyone assumes he’s just a lazy national champion. They have no idea he already finished the real work while the city was still asleep.

***

The routine repeats itself for the next three days.

Every morning, without exception, the local fighters find him in the exact same spot, the wooden bench near the corner fan, slouched comfortably, laughing at the same kind of dumb jokes from the show.

Luffy and Usopp screaming their lungs out at Angle Beach in Skypiea becomes background noise to the gym itself.

By the fourth day, people start whispering. By the fifth, they’re convinced:

The Philippine champion doesn’t like training.

He’s just here for vacation.

He’s too relaxed.

It doesn’t matter that he arrives much earlier before everyone else. What everyone sees is the version of him he chooses to show: the tourist-champion who lounges and laughs like he’s killing time, not preparing for a fight.

Even when a couple of journalists stop by the gym, they find him exactly like that; legs stretched out, eyes glued to his phone screen.

“Good day, Ramos-san!” One of them greets politely. “May we have a moment for a light interview?”

Ramos lifts a hand without looking away, grinning at the screen. “Wait. Wait. This part is good. Luffy’s fighting a Shandia warrior right now. Very important. Five minutes.”

The journalists trade looks, part baffled, part amused. At the very least, they’ve learned something unexpected: the Philippine champion is a genuine lover of Japanese anime, a detail that oddly fills them with a small harmless sense of national pride.

Finally, Ramos lowers his phone and stretches his arms overhead, a long lazy motion that earns a faint crack from his shoulders.

“So…” one of the journalists begins, “we heard you’re scheduled for a spar today?”

“Yeah,” Ramos says around a yawn. “But they’re damn late. I hope they’re not canceling out of fear. I’m actually a peace-loving guy, you know?”

They laugh politely, exchanging amused looks.

“Um…” Another leans forward. “You mentioned inviting some of Ryoma Takeda’s previous opponents. Which of them are you scheduled to spar with today?”

“I can’t remember their names,” Ramos replies, tapping his temple. “No offense, just language barrier. It’s not easy when the names themselves are so foreign to you.”

As if summoned by that excuse, the gym door opens. A group steps inside, greeting the room with quiet bows.

The journalists immediately recognize them; Shunpei Noguchi, Sekino Yashinobu… and Mita Shiki, the former Japan Featherweight Champion.

Ramos bolts upright. “No way. That’s Mita Shiki.” He pats the journalists on the shoulders as he passes. “Excuse me… need to greet the champion. He’s my idol.”

The reporters watch him go, blinking at the sudden shift. They came expecting arrogance from the young champion. Instead, they see someone warm, respectful, even cheerful as he bows to the veterans.

One journalist murmurs, “So he’s sparring with Noguchi and Sekino…”

“Why pick both? They’ve got completely different styles.”

“Maybe he’s making a point.”

“A point?”

“A statement to Ryoma… that he can handle the same men just as easily. After all, he said before that Ryoma’s undefeated record only comes from fighting weaker opponents.”