VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

After watching the road a while longer, the truck doesn’t return. Ryoma exhales under his breath, the irritation still there, mixed with fatigue.

He steps away from the window and returns to the bed, lying down with a slow, controlled motion, forcing himself to ignore the unease lingering at the back of his mind. Whatever it was, coincidence or not, he sets it aside.

But sleep doesn’t come easily. It takes time before his body finally gives in, before the tension loosens enough for him to drift into something deeper.

And just before midnight, it comes again.

Hooonk! Hooooonk!!!

Ryoma jolts awake, his breath catching as his heart slams hard against his chest.

For a moment, he just sits there in the dark, listening. The sound is already gone, leaving behind a silence that feels heavier than before, pressing in from all sides.

“…What was that?”

He isn’t sure if it was a dream, or just his mind playing tricks on him.

He exhales, slower this time, and lowers himself back onto the bed. His eyes remain open, staring into the dark. Before he gets the chance to settle…

Hooonk! Hooooonk!!!

The sound tears through the silence again.

Ryoma pushes himself up immediately, any trace of drowsiness gone. The irritation from earlier sharpens into something far more defined, his expression tightening as anger begins to surface.

“Damn it…”

This time, he doesn’t stay. He steps out of the room and pulls the door open, only to find Hiroshi already standing in the hallway, looking just as disturbed, his hair disheveled, eyes still heavy with interrupted sleep.

“That’s the fifth time,” Hiroshi mutters, voice low but tense. “Too frequent. And I don’t think that’s just some truck passing by. This is too deliberate to be coincidence.”

“Yeah,” Ryoma replies, already moving toward the stairs. “Someone’s doing this on purpose.”

They head down to the first floor, and by the time they reach it, the others are already there. Doors have opened across the villa, and the entire group has been dragged out of rest. Their faces look terribly tired, irritation barely contained.

Meanwhile, Kenta stands closest to the front door, already at his limit. Without saying anything, he pushes the door open and steps outside, the cool night air meeting him as he walks straight toward the edge of the road.

There’s no hesitation in his movement now, only a thin line of restraint holding him back. He bends slightly, picking up a stone from the roadside and gripping it tightly in his hand, his gaze fixed down the stretch of road where the truck had passed.

Nakahara follows him out, watching him carefully.

“What are you planning to do with that?” he asks.

Kenta doesn’t answer. He just stands there, silent, shoulders tense, eyes locked forward, waiting.

Minutes pass, and the road remains empty; no headlights, no engine, no sound. The silence stretches longer than expected.

Ten minutes, then twenty, until even the tension begins to feel misplaced.

After nearly half an hour, the truck still doesn’t return. Nakahara exhales, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Forget it. Go back inside and get some rest.”

Kenta still doesn’t respond. For a while longer, he stays where he is, the stone still clenched in his hand as if expecting the sound to come back at any moment.

But the truck never appears. Eventually, Kenta lets his arm drop, the tension easing just enough for the stone to slip off his hand, enough for fatigue to take over again.

Without another word, he turns and heads back inside, returning to his room and forcing himself to lie down.

This time, sleep comes faster. But around two in the morning…

Hooonk! Hooooonk!!!

Kenta’s eyes snap open.

His breath comes fast, uneven, his hand pressing against his chest as his heart races violently from the shock.

For a second, he just sits there, trying to steady himself. And then the sound comes again, the truck passes, along with the horn dragging out longer this time, cutting through the night like a deliberate intrusion.

Kenta’s restraint finally breaks. He shouts aloud, his voice colliding with the echo of the horn as it fades into the distance.

“Damn it… damn it all!!!”

And like that, the night continues, with the truck keeps coming back until dawn threatens the horizon.

On their first night in Manila, when rest should have come easily after the long journey, their sleep is broken again and again.

The same truck, the same road, the same horn. Over and over, as if making sure none of them would find peace here.

***

Around seven in the morning, Dizon arrives at the villa and presses the doorbell.

It doesn’t take long before the door opens, revealing Ryoma standing there with a posture that remains upright but weighed down by fatigue. His hair is slightly disordered and his expression carrying the kind of irritation that comes from a night repeatedly broken apart.

“Morning,” Dizon greets, as if the day is beginning normally. “How’s your first day in Manila? Got enough sleep?”

Ryoma doesn’t answer, and for a moment he simply looks at him. The silence stretches just long enough for the question to feel misplaced. But the look in his eyes is already enough; flat, unwelcoming, and clearly dissatisfied.

Dizon’s expression shifts as he registers it. “What’s wrong? You look…”

“Tired,” Ryoma cuts in, his voice even but edged. “Fatigued. Exhausted. And my head’s been ringing all night because of that damn truck.”

Dizon blinks, caught off guard. “A truck? Did something happen?”

Instead of answering directly, Ryoma steps back and pulls the door open wider, gesturing him in without any warmth.

“Why don’t you come inside, and explain it to all of us.”

Dizon hesitates for only a brief moment before stepping in, but the moment he reaches the living room, he slows.

The entire team is already there, gathered without coordination yet somehow unified in the same condition. Their faces are drawn with exhaustion, irritation sitting just beneath the surface.

Some are seated, others standing or leaning, but none of them look like they got proper rest. And all of them turn their attention toward him in a way that immediately makes the atmosphere feel heavier.

“We asked for a place away from noise,” Ryoma says, his tone controlled but carrying a sharp edge. “Somewhere we could actually recover, back to train, and prepare for the fight without disturbance.”

He stops a few steps into the room, his gaze fixed on Dizon.

“Instead, you gave us hell.”

The words land without being raised, but the weight behind them fills the space all the same. No one interrupts, no one steps in to soften it, and the silence that follows only makes it clearer that this isn’t just his complaint alone.

“What is this supposed to be?” Ryoma continues, his voice still level. “If you’re that afraid your champion might lose, you shouldn’t have made the challenge in the first place.”

Dizon blinks again, slower this time, his eyes moving from one face to another as if searching for context that isn’t being offered.

No one explains, no one adds anything to bridge the gap. They just look at him, all carrying the same exhaustion and the same underlying suspicion, and it doesn’t take much for the implication to settle in.

Because at this point, the conclusion has already formed in their minds. That truck wasn’t random. And whoever sent it knew exactly what they were doing.

As Dizon tries to process Ryoma’s words, Kurogane rises, and without hesitation, he speaks with a cold and commanding voice.

“We want out of this cursed place. The rent is already paid to the villa owner for the next five weeks, but I don’t care. Call Alvarez. Tell him we need extra funds to find another place… somewhere that won’t disturb our sleep in the middle of the night.”

Dizon blinks, caught off guard. His brow furrows, suspicion creeping in. He hasn’t fully grasped the situation yet, and part of him wonders if this is just Nakahara’s side trying to squeeze extra money for accommodation.

“Sorry, but…” he begins, hesitating before continuing. “You can’t just… Mr. Kurogane, asking for additional funds for lodging for multiple weeks isn’t a trivial matter. And what exactly is wrong with this place? Everything meets your requirements. Away from the city, away from crowds, good facilities, a decent view, air cool enough for proper recovery. And…”

“And a truck that keeps showing up every few hours,” Ryoma cuts in, his tone flat but sharp enough to stop Dizon mid-sentence. “Not just passing by. Making noise with a long, deliberate horn, right in front of the villa. And from what I can see, that road in front isn’t one a truck this size should be using repeatedly.”

The room falls silent, heavy with unspoken tension. Ryoma’s eyes harden as he accuses the promoter deliberately sent that truck to sabotage their preparation before the fight.