VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma sits on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely interlocked.

The room is quiet, but his thoughts aren’t.

This was his decision.

No one forced him to take Sagawa’s place. When the offer came down, rushed and messy, it was him who forced Nakahara to take it.

Then, before leaving Japan, he made another choice; cutting one kg of weight on his own.

It’s not recklessly, not ignorantly. The method was familiar, controlled, something his body had responded to before.

But now, with Dr. Mizuno’s words echoing in his head, Ryoma understands where he went wrong.

It wasn’t how he cut. It was when he did it.

Going into a long flight already below his usual walking weight sent his body into its natural alarm. Stress layered on stress. Sleep disruption. Dehydration. Caloric deficit. By the time he landed, his system wasn’t cooperating anymore.

From now on, his body will try to defend itself. Clinging to water. Slowing everything down. Resisting the very process he would soon need most. Squeezing liquid to cut his weight will be harder.

This isn’t bad luck. This isn’t circumstance. It’s consequence of bad decision came out of his ignorance.

Now Dr. Mizuno is writing a note for Hiroshi, giving the best diet program for Ryoma’s current condition. His voice is calm, precise, outlining adjustments without judgment.

“For the next four days, priority is stabilization,” Mizuno says. “Simple carbohydrates. Moderate sodium. Fluids carefully measured, not restricted. Appetite may not return immediately but that’s normal.”

Hiroshi nods, jotting everything down, expression tight but focused.

Kagawa stands nearby, hands folded politely. “Aqualis will provide everything required for Takeda-san’s nutrition and recovery,” he adds. “Meals, supplements, hydration support. All covered.”

Nakahara clears his throat. “The host already provided us an allowance for our stay…”

“You may use that for the rest of the team,” Kagawa says smoothly. “As for Ryoma, he’s under our care.”

Then, more firmly, “He is our main ambassador now. His condition reflects directly on Aqualis Labs. It would be unacceptable for him to appear unhealthy.”

Nakahara pauses, then nods. “Understood. Thank you.”

The meeting wraps quickly after that. Kagawa bows, promising to return the next morning. Dr. Mizuno gathers his things, already halfway to the door when Ryoma speaks up.

“Doctor, wait…”

Mizuno turns. “Yes?”

“Can I do roadwork later?” Ryoma asks. “If I feel better by evening.”

The answer comes immediately.

“No.”

There’s no softness in it, but no irritation either.

“Your body is not ready to adapt yet,” Mizuno says. “Rest is your priority. The faster you recover, the sooner everything else becomes possible.”

Ryoma nods, accepting it. This time, he doesn’t argue.

***

They are in another country now. And usually, that would mean something; work trips filled with schedules, or vacations meant to loosen the body and quiet the mind.

But here, neither applies.

Ryoma’s condition has frozen them in place, and the weight of what they came for presses too hard for anyone to pretend this is a holiday.

Sera’s the only one who moves with purpose, running errands, sorting logistics, speaking to locals without friction. Kenta trails him most of the time, more out of obligation than usefulness, carrying bags, nodding when spoken to, killing hours.

The rest wait. They sit in the apartment, scrolling phones, staring at nothing, at the ocean visible through glass but untouchable. There’s no sightseeing, no laughter, just boredom soaked in pressure, the kind that makes time feel thicker instead of slower.

And Ryoma feels it the worst. It’s no longer about jet leg, no. It’s the pressure toward the fight with ruined plan.

Everyone has settled already, but not Ryoma.

He lies down early, forces his eyes shut, and falls into sleep for barely an hour before snapping awake again. And his body actually feels heavier than before, as if rest itself has betrayed him.

He stares at the ceiling, heart oddly alert. He tries to sleep again, but his mind racing.

After a while, he gives up. He steps into the living room, grabs a bottle of Surge Blue from the fridge, and drops into a chair. He drinks without tasting it, shoulders slumped, eyes unfocused.

The system, of course, doesn’t let the silence last.

>

“Ah, shut up already…”

>

>

>

>

Ryoma exhales sharply, jaw tightening.

“Maan… if you can really read my mind, you should know I’ve already thought about that. Or what… should I say it out loud?”

>

>

At last, Ryoma snaps.

“Fuck off!”

He throws the bottle toward the bin, and misses. The plastic cracks against the counter, liquid sloshing out, the sound sharp enough to cut through the apartment.

Nakahara hears it, not just the plastic, but also the curse.

The old man steps out of his room, pauses at the doorway. Ryoma glances at him briefly, then looks away, eyes settling on the bottle lying half-full on the floor.

Nakahara doesn’t need to ask. He knows that look; self-blame, the kind that digs in and refuses to move.

He walks over and sits across from Ryoma, slowly. But before he can say anything to comfort him, Ryoma speaks first.

“I shouldn’t have forced you to take this fight,” Ryoma says quietly.

Nakahara listens without interrupting.

“We should’ve let them cancel it,” Ryoma continues. “Waited for our own chance. Proper timing. Better preparation.”

Nakahara shakes his head once. “I understand your reasoning,” he says. “But this isn’t just on you.”

He sighs, eyes lowering. “You suggested leaving earlier. I chose not to. I followed Sagawa’s setup because it cost us nothing. Call it greed if you want. I won’t deny it.”

He pauses, then adds more softly, “But the real reason… was Oyama. He was the only southpaw I could give you,” Nakahara admits. “I wanted more sparring. More preparation. I thought I could make it work.” He exhales. “That, too, was my shortcoming.”

The room settles again, heavy but quieter.

Ryoma doesn’t answer. Not because he agrees. Not because he thinks Nakahara is right. He stays quiet because he knows how this goes.

If he insists it’s his fault, Nakahara will insist it’s his. Back and forth, both of them trying to shoulder the weight alone, neither willing to let the other carry it.

It’s an argument that doesn’t fix anything. So Ryoma lets it sit. Whatever the blame is, wherever it belongs, it’s already done.

The silence stretches. And Nakahara mistakes it for acceptance.

“Don’t overthink it,” the old man finally says, voice calmer now. “Focus on recovery. Eat. Sleep. Let your body catch up. Nothing gets better if you keep grinding your head like this.”

Ryoma gives a small nod. Nakahara pushes himself up from the chair with a low grunt, stretching his back. He turns toward his room, then pauses, as if something tugs at him from behind.

“…About your mom,” he says. “I know you want her here. It’s an important point in your career.”

Ryoma’s shoulders stiffen.

“But I suggest you don’t bring her,” Nakahara continues. “Let her stay at peace. And let yourself focus on conditioning. You don’t need extra worries right now.”

He exhales, already walking away. “Just a suggestion. The choice is yours.”

Ryoma watches his back disappear down the hallway. The way Nakahara says it; careful, restrained, trusting him with the decision, only adds weight.

The kind that tells him he cannot afford to fail again. Not after being given this much consideration.

***

Back in his room, Ryoma lies down and closes his eyes. Sleep comes easier this time. Not gentle, but possible.

He slips under.

But an hour later, his body betrays him.

His breathing turns uneven. His brow tightens. A low sound escapes his throat as his face twitches, caught in something he can’t wake from.

Now he’s in the ring. Jade McConnel stands across from him, switching stance, southpaw to orthodox and back again, like it costs him nothing.

Everything moves in slow motion. Ryoma sees the punch coming; clear, obvious, plenty of time. But his body won’t move.

His legs feel sunk into the canvas. His lungs won’t draw air. Every muscle refuses him, heavy and unresponsive, like he’s drowning on dry land.

The punch crashes into his face.

Blugh!

Another.

Dsh!

And another.

BAM!

His mind screams to fight back. His ego refuses to accept this helplessness. But his body won’t answer.

It just absorbs. Endures.

Then the floor rushes up. He drops face-first to the canvas, the texture of it impossibly clear, filling his vision as if the world is zooming in and never stopping.

And then…

“Aaarrgh!”

Ryoma jolts awake.

He’s on his bed. Face down. Exactly the same.

He gasps, sucking in air like it’s the first breath he’s taken in minutes, chest heaving. His heart slams hard against his ribs, sweat clinging to his back and neck.

Slowly, he pushes himself up and sits. The room is dark, quiet, and safe. But his hands are shaking.

His jaw aches as if he’d really been hit. His breathing takes time to steady, each inhale dragging against lingering panic.

He’d survived worse nightmares than this. But this one clung to him, heavy and unshakable, leaving behind a dull fear he doesn’t want to name.