VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Since the villa owner parked his car at the roadside, no trucks have passed through the neighborhood. The long, blaring horn that had kept Ryoma and the others awake the first night is finally gone.

Douglas and Destin, Alvarez’s makeshift night guards, take their posts on the veranda, keeping watch silently, alert for any other disturbance that might arise. And yet, tonight is no easier.

The problem has shifted. It’s no longer the sounds of traffic or the imagined clatter of trucks. It’s the body itself, its rhythm disrupted. The exhaustion from the long travel and the prior night’s sleep lost now works against them. A long nap during the day has pushed their circadian clocks into disarray.

Nearing midnight, the rooms remain dimly lit, occupants restless, tossing or staring at ceilings. The villa is quiet, yet sleep eludes them. The very timing of their own biology keeps them awake.

In the common room, Nakahara, Hiroshi, and Kurogane sit around a small table, papers and tablets spread before them. The three lean in, negotiating adjustments to the training schedule.

“We can’t push morning drills earlier than ten,” Hiroshi says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Everyone’s still wired from the last night. If we force it, the session will be wasted.”

Kurogane leans forward, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Then we move everything back. Sparring shifts later in the afternoon, conditioning after lunch. Two full days just to normalize.”

Nakahara nods, eyes scanning the plan. “Agreed. Two days. Then we resume properly.”

Hiroshi exhales, shoulders heavy. “Frustrating, but safer than risking mistakes from half-asleep athletes.”

Kurogane’s gaze hardens slightly. “Exactly. We can’t compromise preparation. Even small mistakes now could carry forward.”

Upstairs, Ryoma lies on his bed, eyes closed, one arm resting across his forehead. More than half an hour have passed with him in this position. He slows his breathing, tries to empty his mind, tries to let the tension drain out of his body.

At one point, he even counts imaginary sheep, forcing his thoughts into something simple and repetitive. But it doesn’t work.

His body feels too awake, too light. His eyes refuse to stay shut, and his mind keeps moving, drifting back to familiar territory; angles, timing, counters, fragments of exchanges replaying and reshaping themselves into new possibilities.

Ryoma’s mind drifts back to Villanueva; his movement, the subtle shifts in footwork, the way he disrupts rhythm without ever overcommitting. The more he plays it out, refining sequences, testing counters in his head, the further sleep slips out of reach.

“…Damn it!”

He exhales sharply and sits up on the bed, running a hand through his hair until it falls messily out of place.

“If this keeps up, I’m going to turn nocturnal like a damn bat.”

The irritation sits plainly on his face now, restless, unsettled. And then, a voice slips into his thoughts.

>

>

>

Ryoma raises an eyebrow, considering it.

“…Not a bad idea.”

The moment the thought forms clearly, the system responds.

***

[ Phantom Mode Activated ]

***

A faint glow emerges in front of him. At first, it’s nothing more than a shimmering blue light, unstable, flickering like heat rising off asphalt.

Then it begins to take shape, lines forming, structure building, until a figure stands there, fully realized.

It’s Dante Villanueva, shirtless, boxing trunks and gloves already on. It’s not quite real, but close enough to blur the line.

“Come,” the figure says in Japanese. “Put on your gloves. Let’s have some sparring.”

Ryoma exhales once more, then stands. He pulls his shirt off and tosses it aside, reaches into his bag, and takes out his gloves. The familiar weight settles into his hands as he straps them on, tightening them with practiced ease.

He takes a moment to stretch his arms and roll his shoulders, adjusting his stance as he measures the limited space inside the room.

The area is cramped, but it is still enough for controlled movement if he stays precise. He raises his guard, his eyes locking onto the projection in front of him as his posture settles into readiness.

“…Alright.”

Without hesitation, he steps in, and the sparring begins within the narrow space of the room, each movement kept tight and deliberate as the intensity builds.

For a while, the room feels just enough. They exchange jabs in a steady rhythm, each of them testing range, adjusting timing, probing for angles within the narrow space.

Ryoma keeps his movements tight, controlled, making small shifts with his feet as he calibrates distance against this projected figure.

But as the sparring begins to intensify, the limitation of the space starts to show.

The phantom Villanueva begins to move more, his footwork smooth and fluid, incorporating subtle side steps, slipping just out of range the way he normally does in a full ring. He avoids engagement not by retreating, but by shifting angles, forcing Ryoma to adjust with him.

Until then, the back of his foot meets the edge of the bed. There’s no more space to give.

Ryoma recognizes it instantly, and his posture changes. He steps in and unleashes a structured sequence, compact and deliberate.

Dug. Dug. Bugh! Thud! Dug. Bugh!

The strikes land in controlled succession, cutting off escape routes that no longer exist.

Then suddenly, Ryoma stops. He takes a step back and lowers his gloves slightly, his expression tightening.

“This won’t do…” he mutters.

The phantom Villanueva shrugs lightly. “Yeah. This space is too narrow for Dante Villanueva’s style. You know how he uses the ring to avoid prolonged exchanges. That’s his biggest strength. In a space like this, I can’t properly simulate that.”

Ryoma exhales through his nose, then scoffs. “Fine. Then simulate a scenario where he’s actually trapped in the corner. I’m going to force him there anyway. Let’s see how he responds when he doesn’t have space to move.”

“That works,” the figure replies, raising both gloves into a tighter, more defensive guard. “Come. Try to keep me here.”

Ryoma raises his guard again and steps forward, applying measured pressure along the edge of the bed, keeping the intensity high while maintaining control, cutting angles carefully so the phantom has no clean path to slip away.

***

In another room, Kenta lies flat on his back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as if it might give him an answer.

His body refuses to settle. No matter how long he stays still, no matter how he shifts his position, the tension doesn’t leave. His muscles feel too alert, his mind too active, like something inside him refuses to power down.

He exhales slowly, then turns to his side. And then he sits up, running a hand through his hair before reaching for his phone.

The screen lights up the dark room, harsh and intrusive, but he doesn’t hesitate. If he can’t sleep, he might as well use the time to analyze Della Cruz’s videos.

The fight starts playing, and Kenta leans forward slightly, eyes locked onto the screen. He watches closely, focusing on movement, timing, the way Della Cruz closes distance.

At first, it feels manageable. He pauses, rewinds, and watches again. But the longer he watches, the more things begin to stand out.

Della Cruz wastes nothing. Every step carries intent, every punch built on something before it, layered with purpose. He fights with relentless aggression, yet everything stays controlled, calculated in a way that leaves almost no openings and barely any room for error.

Kenta frowns slightly, and rewinds again. His grip tightens around his phone. He switches to another match, watching a different opponent step in, yet the result feels the same.

“…Tch.”

The longer he watches, the more dangerous Della Cruz becomes. And his anxiety only grows wilder. The tension builds.

He plays another clip, then another, letting the footage run as he studies every movement. Time slips by without him noticing, and each replay only reinforces the same thought.

“This isn’t going to be easy.”

His jaw tightens. This is his first title fight, and the weight of it settles deeper the longer he sits there alone, looping the same footage in his head. Even when he pauses the video, the image doesn’t leave.

“…Damn it… I should sleep now.”

He sets the phone down, then picks it up again almost immediately.

“Just one more time…”

He presses play, and the cycle continues.

***

By the time it passes two in the morning, the villa finally grows quiet as everyone gives in to exhaustion. Even Douglas and Destin, who are supposed to be on watch, end up slumped on the sofa, fast asleep without realizing it.

And then, around three…

Pop!

Pop! Pop!

BANG!!!

POP! POP! POP!

The explosions tear through the silence.

Doors fly open almost at the same time, footsteps spilling into the hallway as the entire group emerges, their expressions twisted with irritation, sleep violently interrupted once again.

Kurogane steps into the living room, his gaze landing immediately on Douglas and Destin, who are now standing near the sofa, still shaking off sleep.

“What are you doing here?” his voice cuts sharply.

Destin straightens slightly. “Sorry… we were too tired. We fell asleep.”

Kurogane’s face twitches. “I don’t care whether you’re tired or not. Get outside and do your fucking job.”

The two of them don’t argue. They move immediately, pushing past the door and out into the night.

The source reveals itself quickly. A long string of firecrackers lies stretched along the yard, still going off in rapid succession, bursts of light and sound cracking through the dark without pause.

Neither of them knows where it came from. Neither of them sees anyone nearby.

But one thing is clear, whatever this is, the terror isn’t over.