VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

February 14 — 08:40 A.M. (AEST)

Melbourne Airport

Once the cabin doors open, fatigue pours out with the passengers.

Ryoma steps off the plane and immediately feels it; legs heavy, lower back stiff, a dull pressure lingering behind his eyes.

The floor feels unfamiliar, subtly unsteady, like his sense of balance hasn’t quite caught up yet. He adjusts the strap of his bag and keeps moving, expression composed.

Behind him, Kenta lets out a long miserable groan. “My hips are ruined,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders. “I trained for months just to be crippled by a chair.”

Aramaki squints against the terminal lights, rubbing at his neck. “I think my spine shortened,” he says flatly. “Is that permanent?”

Hiroshi doesn’t reply. He’s busy stretching his calves mid-walk, face tight with discomfort. “I swear my circulation stopped somewhere over the ocean.”

Coach Nakahara walks at the front, steady as ever, coat hanging neatly from his shoulders. His posture doesn’t betray him, no stiffness, no fatigue visible. If his knees ache or his head throbs, he keeps it to himself.

Only Sera looks completely unfazed. He glances back at them, lips curling with mild amusement.

“You all look awful,” he teases, chuckles lightly.

“That was nearly eleven hours,” Kenta snaps. “No space. No movement. My joints are screaming.”

Sera chuckles. “That’s nothing. Try Europe sometime.”

Aramaki stops walking. “People do that regularly?”

“If you’re serious about the world stage,” Sera says lightly, turning forward again, “this is part of the job. Long flights, broken sleep, foreign beds, strange food. You don’t get to whine about it.”

Ryoma stays silent, eyes forward, shoulders relaxed. Beside him, Nakahara gives a quiet hum, neither agreeing nor objecting.

Neither of them says the truth; that this was their first time on a plane too. That their stomachs still feel hollow. That their bodies are just as disoriented.

They walk on together, carrying their fatigue into unfamiliar air as Australia has already begun testing them.

***

And that fatigue doesn’t fade once they clear immigration. If anything, it settles deeper.

They gather near the baggage carousel, the low mechanical buzz filling the space as the belt begins to crawl.

Ryoma stands still, hands on his bag straps, eyes following the empty rubber slats as if willing them to move faster. The hours in the air have left his body heavy, joints slow to respond.

Aramaki slumps against a pillar. “So after surviving the flight,” he mutters, “we’re punished by… standing.”

Sera snorts. “Welcome to international travel.”

Kenta watches the belt with narrowed eyes. “If my bag doesn’t come out soon,” he says, voice flat, “I might lie down right here.”

Hiroshi rolls his shoulders, wincing. “This is worse than roadwork,” he says quietly. “At least roadwork ends.”

When the first suitcase finally drops onto the belt with a dull thud, no one reacts. It isn’t theirs. Neither is the next.

Minutes stretch thin beneath the fluorescent lights, bodies stiffening as the wait drags on longer than the flight itself.

By the time the last bag clunks free and Hiroshi wrestles it off the carousel, the fatigue has fully settled in. His eyes drift to Ryoma as they regroup, unease quietly deepening.

“Ryoma,” says says low, keeping his voice casual. “How’s your body?”

Ryoma doesn’t answer right away. He exhales through his nose, gaze fixed ahead, then shrugs.

“Bored,” he says lightly. “Planes aren’t my thing. I just want to get to the hotel already.”

It’s an easy answer, too easy. Hiroshi nods, outwardly accepting it, but his eyes linger a moment longer.

Travel fatigue is deceptive, especially before weight cut. Water retention, stiffness, disrupted sleep. If this lingers, the conditioning plan toward the weigh-in day will need to bend again.

He said ten days to meet weight limit is doable. But now he’s doubting it.

***

They fall back into step with the others, carts rattling softly as they follow the flow toward the arrivals hall.

Ryoma walks at the front, uncomplaining, pace steady. But when he flexes his fingers once, slow and deliberate, Hiroshi catches it and files the motion away.

Just beyond the glass doors, near the edge of the crowd, a tall man stands with an easy unhurried posture. One hand rests in his pocket. The other holds a white banner, clean and professional, printed in bold black letters:

RYOMA TAKEDA – NAKAHARA’S GYM

The man scans faces calmly, practiced eyes lifting when Ryoma looks his way. Their gazes meet, and recognition settles between them.

The man smiles, raises the banner slightly, not waving it around, just enough to confirm.

“That’s for us,” Sera says, already sounding relieved.

They push through the doors together. And the man moves forward, tired and detached, like this is just another arrival at the end of a long day.

“Takeda-san?” the man asks in a friendly Australian accent, switching smoothly when Ryoma nods. “Welcome to Melbourne. I’m Patrick Wilson. I’ll be your liaison while you’re here.

“

Ryoma bows instinctively before catching himself, straightening. “Thank you for having us.”

Patrick laughs lightly, unfazed. “Hotel’s ready. Gym access is arranged. You’ll have a private training slot, recovery facilities, transport… everything you need until fight week.”

As they follow him toward the exit, Hiroshi glances around, brow furrowing. There are no cameras, no reporters, no curious stares.

“…It’s quiet,” he mutters in Japanese.

Patrick looks back, puzzled. “Something wrong?”

Sera answers for him in English. “In Japan, there would be media waiting. Even for arrivals. They didn’t even let us depart at peace at Narita.”

Patrick lets out a short laugh, more amused than dismissive. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

He shrugs lightly. “Here, boxing doesn’t work that way. No one waits at the airport. Media comes when it’s scheduled. Press day, open workout, weigh-in. Outside of that?” He spreads his hands. “You’re just another traveler.”

Hiroshi glances around the quiet lobby again, the absence finally sinking in.

Patrick smiles. “Enjoy it while you can.”

***

They reach the hotel lobby still half-dazed from the flight. The space is wide and quiet, polished stone floors reflecting warm light. Patrick Wilson finishes speaking with the front desk and gestures for them to wait.

That’s when a man steps toward the group, Japanese in his mid-thirties, neat haircut, dark suit that fits just a little too well for someone who’s been standing around waiting.

He stops directly in front of Ryoma, posture straight, hands neatly aligned at his sides.

“Takeda-san,” he says in Japanese.

Ryoma blinks, caught off guard. “Yes?”

The man bows, deep and formal, the kind that doesn’t belong to hotels or airports.

“My name is Jun Kagawa,” he says, straightening. “I’m with Aqualis Labs Australia. I handle athlete liaison and conditioning partnerships.”

Before anyone else can react, he bows again and offers a business card with both hands. The motion is automatic and familiar, Japanese, respectful.

Ryoma takes it on reflex, glancing down.

***

Aqualis Labs – Sports Partnerships Division

Asia Pacific Region

Jun Kagawa

***

For a second, the lobby seems to go quiet around them.

Nakahara turns slowly. Sera raises a brow. Hiroshi stiffens, instantly alert now.

“I apologize for not informing you earlier,” Kagawa continues, voice calm and practiced. “We wanted to confirm your arrival time before approaching. Everything is prepared.”

“Prepared…?” Ryoma echoes.

Kagawa nods once. “Training access, recovery facilities, and nutritional support. You’ll be briefed tomorrow, after you’ve rested. For tonight, nothing is scheduled.”

He bows again, smaller this time, considerate. “You’ve had a long flight. Please focus on recovery.”

Ryoma looks down at the card again, then up at the man. For a moment, he looks genuinely unsure what to say.

“Oh,” he finally replies. “I… thank you.”

It’s simple, honest, and slightly awkward.

From the side, Nakahara exhales through his nose, something between relief and disbelief. Meanwhile, Hiroshi’s mind is already racing, recalculating schedules.

Sera watches Ryoma instead, noting the way his shoulders tense, not from fatigue this time, but from weight being a brand ambassador.

Aqualis Labs’ support is already present. And with it comes expectation.

Kagawa steps back, giving them space. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Takeda-san.”

As he walks away, Ryoma remains where he is, card still in hand, staring after him.

The world, it seems, has followed him all the way here, quietly, efficiently, and without asking. And that, somehow, feels heavier than applause.

Moments later, they finally step out into the warm Australian air, the doors sliding shut behind them. For the first time since landing, the silence feels real, and it presses down on Ryoma’s shoulders.

But then, again, another present catches his attention.

Across the open space, half-lost among passing bodies, Jade McConnel stands still, waiting, watching, eyes already locked onto him.

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Ryoma’s jaw tightens. His body reacts before thought, posture subtly adjusting, awareness sharpening.

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