VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

By late afternoon, Ryoma steps out of the gym with Aramaki. The winter light is thin but steady, the kind that makes the street look quieter than it really is.

For once, there are no journalists waiting outside.

Aramaki walks beside him, hands in his pockets, silent, already rehearsing words he hasn’t spoken yet.

Takeda’s barbershop is warm when they arrive. The bell above the door rings softly, familiar.

“We are back,” Ryoma greets.

Kaori sits near the window with Nanako perched on her lap, the little girl absorbed in a picture book while Fumiko trims an elderly customer’s hair with steady hands.

Aramaki goes to his wife first. “Um… Kaori. I’m heading to Australia,” he says. “Ryoma’s OPBF title fight. I’ll be helping in his corner.”

Kaori’s eyes light up instantly. “Australia?” she repeats, turning toward Ryoma. “An OPBF title? That’s amazing.” She moves to Fumiko’s chair, excitement spilling over as she shares the news.

Fumiko listens, scissors stilling for a moment. She smiles, small and controlled.

“That’s good,” she says, nothing more.

Aramaki clears his throat. “I’ll be gone about twelve days.”

Kaori pouts, playful. “Wow. Leaving me and Nanako behind, huh? Cheeky.” Then she laughs. “But I know. It’s not a vacation.”

“That’s why,” Ryoma says gently, stepping in, “You can come too. Three days. Maybe five. During fight week.”

Aramaki hesitates. “It’s an important fight. A title bout. Normally, family would be there, ringside.”

Kaori gasps softly, already kneeling to Nanako’s level. “Nanako, we might go overseas!”

Fumiko exhales, amused and uneasy at once, scissors still moving. “Vacation?” she says lightly. “Watching someone punch my son hardly sounds like one.”

The old man in the chair chuckles. “Ah, don’t say that. It’s your son’s title fight. A mother’s support is what he needs most.”

Fumiko smiles at the mirror, polite and calm. “Support comes in many forms,” she says.

The room stills. Except the old customer, everyone knows about Fumiko’s condition. But only now does it surface between them.

“You don’t have to watch,” Ryoma says. “Just be there. That’s enough. On fight day, go out with Kaori and Nanako. Beach. Shopping. When was the last time you did that, Mom?”

Fumiko pauses, turns to Ryoma and studies him, long and quiet. Then she nods, smile serene.

Ryoma smiles back, content.

But the peaceful moment doesn’t last as the bell above the shop door rings again.

Ryoma turns first. The man who steps inside doesn’t look like a customer. With no hesitation, no glance at the price list, his eyes already meet Ryoma’s with intent.

“Takeda-kun,” he says quickly, recorder already raised. “Can I have a moment?”

Ryoma exhales softly through his nose.

Before he can answer, movement flickers in the window. Another figure appears to the left of the door, then another to the right.

Across the Y-junction outside, a small food stall shutters early as two more men abandon their skewers and head straight for the barbershop.

“…You guys really don’t give up easily, huh?” Ryoma says lightly.

The first man smiles. “Same goes for you.”

Ryoma nods once, understanding. He steps forward, hand already reaching for the door.

“Alright. Outside,” he says. “Just don’t crowd my mom’s shop.”

They spill onto the roadside in minutes. Recorders click on. Cameras rise.

The quiet winter street stirs, voices overlapping as questions start flying. The road that’s usually calm at this hour turns restless, neighbors peeking out from doorways, shop owners pausing mid-task.

Then a bicycle brakes hard near the curb.

“Hey!” an old voice calls out.

Ryoma turns, surprised. “Ah… Shimizu-san.”

The soba shop owner holds his bike with one foot down, squinting. “I heard you’re fighting the OPBF champion next?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When and where?”

“Next month. Melbourne.”

Shimizu blinks. “…Melbourne? Where the hell is that? New arena in Korakuen or something?”

Laughter breaks out among the journalists.

One of them answers kindly, “Australia. Big city.”

Shimizu stares, slack-jawed for a second. “Overseas, huh…” He scratches his head. “Guess I can’t watch that live.”

“You can still watch it on TV,” Ryoma says.

“Yeah, yeah! My support’s still there,” Shimizu says, already pedaling off. “Flying overseas just to watch boxing’s too much!”

Inside the shop, Fumiko pauses with her scissors mid-air.

She watches her son through the glass; calm, answering steadily, surrounded by people who suddenly want a piece of him.

He hasn’t won a belt yet. But pride settles quietly in her chest anyway.

***

By the time the old customer stands and thanks her, the street outside has thinned. Ryoma peeks his head back inside.

“I’m heading home,” he says. “Need to study my opponent. Might as well prepare dinner too. And Kaori,” he adds quickly, already backing away. “You’re coming.”

“Ah, wait…” Kaori starts.

It’s too late. He’s gone already.

Aramaki hurries outside. “Ryoma! Want company?”

Ryoma waves without turning. “Sorry. Need to be alone for this one.”

Aramaki doesn’t press him. He just smiles, faint and natural, already knowing Ryoma will need to concentrate harder than usual in watching McConnel’s videos.

The thing is, that’s not really the case. He can’t take Aramaki along this time for another reason.

When he enters his apartment, the bag hits the floor. Gloves come out.

“Vision Grid System,” he says quietly. “Activate Phantom Mode. Jade McConnel.”

A soft chime answers.

***

[PHANTOM MODE ACTIVATED]

DATABASE: JADE MCCONNEL (OPBF LIGHTWEIGHT CHAMPION).

***

The air in front of him ripples, bending like heat over asphalt. Light gathers, layers stacking until a shape forms.

Jade McConnel resolves into focus, golden hair cropped short, shoulders broad, frame balanced and fight-ready. Not exaggerated, not stylized, real enough to feel intrusive in the small room.

He rolls his shoulders once and smiles. “Now that you’ve picked up some new advice from old man Nakahara,” the hologram says in fluent English, voice unmistakably McConnel’s, “this should be more interesting than last time. Want to raise the difficulty?”

Ryoma pulls on his gloves, flexing his fingers as he walks into the living room.

“No,” he says. “Light sparring. I don’t have time to get hurt this time.”

He hooks a chair with his ankle and slides it aside, grips the edge of the coffee table and scrapes it toward the wall, shoulders the sofa back an inch at a time.

“Got it,” the phantom replies. “Rehearsal mode it is.”

They square up. Then a virtual bell rings inside Ryoma’s head.

Ding!

The fake Jade opens with textbook movements; measured right jabs from the southpaw stance, nothing sharp, nothing committed.

Ryoma circles immediately to his left, keeping his lead foot outside Jade’s, just as Nakahara drilled.

He doesn’t counter, not yet. This isn’t about scoring. It’s about positioning.

Jade steps in, probing. Ryoma steps out, refusing the center, refusing to settle where a switch-hitter could drag him into chaos.

Every adjustment is small, efficient, and intentional. Ryoma keeps it away from habit, making sure each movement is conscious, executed with full awareness

A one-two comes. Ryoma slips outside, lets the second punch fall short, answers with nothing.

Jade shifts, trying to angle him back toward the middle. Ryoma drifts away, shoulders relaxed, eyes tracking the lead hand, body learning the southpaw rhythm without fighting it.

This is what he needs, not to beat this phantom yet, only to get familiarity.

The phantom throws a short combination, still restrained. Ryoma slides past it, chest never squared, always exiting on the safe side.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t chase. He adapts.

Round after round passes like this, almost quiet, almost boring, but exactly as planned.

By the time Ryoma lowers his hands, sweat has formed, but his breathing is steady.

“Session complete?” the hologram asks.

“For today,” Ryoma says.

The figure dissolves, light folding back into nothing. Ryoma stands alone in his living room, stance resetting on its own.

For most fighters, the first struggle against a southpaw and switch hitter is scarcity; conditioning without the right angles, preparation without the right bodies.

Finding a proper sparring partner is often harder than the fight itself. But for Ryoma, now that he has the phantom mode assistance, that limitation no longer applies.