VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The days fall into an intense rhythm, and as Shinichi’s title fight draws closer, Ryoma’s focus begins to waver. He claims he has no interest in watching kids fight over candy, yet curiosity lingers; how the bout will end, how much the champion has grown, whether he can truly defend the belt.

Today, though, Ryoma’s schedule runs shorter than usual. It’s a sparring day. After grinding through his morning conditioning, he steps into the ring with Ryohei. Not an ideal partner, but good enough. If Ramos decides to stay light and mobile, to circle and run, this will at least force Ryoma to adjust.

Ryoma steps in, trying to herd Ryohei toward the corner. Ryohei slips along the ropes, light on his feet.

“Don’t chase him,” Nakahara snaps. “Cut the ring.”

Across the ring, Sera’s voice cuts back just as sharp. “Don’t make it easy, Ryohei. Make him work for it.”

Ryoma works from his out-boxer foundation, and yes, he has the pace to hunt Ryohei if he wants. But he doesn’t chase blindly. Instead, he layers in an infighter’s logic, advancing with measured steps, cutting angles, stalking rather than pursuing.

The system feeds him quiet structure; reading Ryohei’s habitual pivots, marking how his guard shifts before he retreats, even predicting his next trajectory from subtle weight transfers as he slides away.

With those cues, Ryoma cuts escape routes a half-beat early, never forcing the trap, simply letting the ring close in until Ryohei runs out of clean options.

Until…

>

“Finish him? Seriously?”

>

As Ryohei’s space shrinks, Ryoma releases pressure in short deliberate bursts. Mid-range punches, compact and selective, enough to force reactions without overcommitting.

Unlike his old self, he is better in holding himself back. Each action is restrained, calculated and purposeful; pressure applied with intent, not impulse.

And the result is obvious.

“Man… you really didn’t give me a single second to breathe, did you?” Ryohei pants.

“Then stop running and fight,” Ryoma replies with a scoff, breath steady.

Ryohei finishes the spar bent at the waist, lungs burning, not from accumulated damage but from mental exhaustion; nine full minutes spent thinking, calculating, searching for space that never quite appeared.

***

As for the suitable sparring partner Nakahara once promised, it never materializes, and Ryoma doesn’t push for it.

Instead, once the session with Ryohei ends, he heads home early and runs another spar against the system’s Phantom Mode, a simulated Ramos waiting for him.

Space isn’t important this time. The intent is clear: to meet Ramos head-on, with the projection programmed to swarm relentlessly, just like the real thing.

“You ready?”

“Bring it on!”

This time, Ryoma shades his Mr. Nice Guy persona. He’s masking his face with the Cruel King’s face, cold and composed, fighting with fighter stance with the rear foot anchored on one spot.

The fake Ramos bobs his head, settling into rhythm without giving up ground. His posture stays upright, muscles loose, almost lazy. A faint twitch rolls through his left shoulder, then he steps in on a tight pivot, center of gravity barely shifting.

In a heartbeat, six compact punches fire like pistons, short snapping shots aimed at different targets within the same narrow space.

Dug. Dug. Dug. BUG! BUG! Dug…

Ryoma reads the pattern, but reading isn’t enough.

He blocks the first three. The next two slip through at sharp angles. By the time he catches the last and readies a counter, the fake Ramos has already slid away.

“What’s wrong?” it taunts, head still bobbing. “Yesterday you didn’t let me touch you like that. Thinking about Shinichi’s fight?”

“I’m not,” Ryoma says flatly.

“Don’t lie. Even if we’re not fully linked right now, I know what’s been on your mind lately.”

“Really?” Ryoma raises an eyebrow and steps in with a few probing flicker jabs.

The fake Ramos brushes them aside with casual parries. Even when Ryoma switches to Sekino’s two-beat flicker, it reads the rhythm cleanly, sliding back just far enough to stay outside the edge of his range.

“We’ve sparred too much,” it says lightly. “You really think the same trick still works on me?”

Ryoma frowns and lowers his gloves. “Hold on. Aren’t you supposed to run only on the Ramos data I pulled from his fights? Since when are you updating yourself with our sparring?”

The fake Ramos blinks once. “Ah. Good point. I shouldn’t be doing that.”

Ryoma squints, unease flickering across his face, suspicion lingering as he studies the system’s response in silence.

The projection shrugs. “Then think of it as a contingency. What if the real Ramos adjusts to your habits by round three? You’d need to adapt too, wouldn’t you?”

Ryoma exhales slowly, then nods. “Yeah… fair enough. Let’s keep going.”

The spar continues, and the tempo climbs until they’re trading in the pocket, punches colliding, gloves snapping back and forth. It isn’t as overwhelming as the first time. Ryoma has grown used to the speed, the way Ramos’s punches arrive in relentless clusters. He can read them now, more or less.

But reading isn’t the same as answering. Inside the swarm, real openings are rare. Every time Ryoma tries to force one, the result is the same: a brief violent exchange, both of them landing before the space collapses again.

Just like yesterday, the spar ends with Ryoma still on his feet. He can’t call it a win, but the progress is there; measured in smaller losses, tighter reactions, and the fact that he’s still standing at all.

His lungs burn, every breath scraping his chest raw, arms trembling under the weight of accumulated strain. Still, his eyes stay sharp, searching for what he missed.

“You did well,” the Fake Ramos says, tone almost approving. “I know you learn fast. At this rate, you might beat me next week.” He tilts his head, grin sharpening. “But don’t misunderstand. I’m not the real one.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He barely seems to hear it. Sweat drips from his chin to the floor as his shoulders rise and fall, exhaustion warring with a stubborn restless focus.

“Again,” he says hoarsely, lifting his gloves despite the tremor in his arms. “One more round.”

“No,” the Fake Ramos replies, shaking his head. “Any more than this and you’ll collapse from mental overload. This isn’t about willpower anymore.”

He pauses, almost amused. “Go watch the champ’s fight. Clear your head.”

Before Ryoma can protest, the projected figure begins to flicker. Light fractures along its outline, pixels scattering like ash.

In seconds, it dissolves completely, leaving only Ryoma’s ragged breathing in the quiet room. Somehow, the silence feels heavier than the blows.

Ryoma clenches his jaw, hating the idea of stopping, hating even more the need to accept defeat.

“Activate Phantom Mode,” he says firmly. “Same parameters. Now.”

A translucent HUD blooms in front of his vision.

***

[PHANTOM MODE: REACTIVATION REQUESTED]

[STATUS: DENIED]

[REASON: NEURAL LOAD EXCEEDS SAFE THRESHOLD]

[WARNING: CONTINUED SIMULATION MAY RESULT IN COGNITIVE OVERSTRAIN]

[COOLDOWN PERIOD REQUIRED]

***

Ryoma grits his teeth, frustration simmering beneath the exhaustion.

He lowers his gloves anyway, but his fists still trembling slightly, not from fatigue alone, but from the fact that he still can’t win.