VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Dr. Mizuno and Yoritomo had expected Ryoma to be fascinated, maybe even amused by the headlines. Instead, his face drains of color, eyes shadowed with worry.

“No… I can’t let this reach my mom,” he mutters, voice tight with urgency.

Almost immediately, he pulls out his phone and makes an international call. The line rings longer than expected, each second stretching his nerves tighter. When it finally connects, the voice that answers isn’t his mother’s.

[Hi, Ryoma… how are you?]

Ryoma blinks, his face growing even paler. The warmth in the voice doesn’t calm him at all.

“Kaori… why are you the one answering? Where’s my mom? Did something happen to her?”

[No, no… she’s fine. Your mom is cutting a customer’s hair right now. She didn’t feel right leaving midway, but she also didn’t want to ignore your call. She knows you worry too much, so she asked me to answer.]

From the distance, faint but clear, his mother’s voice comes through.

[Kaori… Tell him to just focus on his training.]

Kaori lets out a small laugh.

[You heard her yourself, right? She said you just focus on your training.]

Just like that, the tightness in Ryoma’s chest eases. He exhales, running his left hand through his hair a few times.

Then Kaori’s voice shifts slightly, speaking away from the phone.

[Nanako… stay here for a bit, okay? I’m going to throw this out.]

A brief rustling follows before she returns, her tone more subdued now.

[Hey… how’s my husband doing? I heard something happened. You two were attacked during training?]

Ryoma doesn’t answer immediately. He listens instead, waiting. A moment later, he hears the faint creak of a door opening, then closing.

“Kaori, are you outside now?”

[Yeah. Behind the shop. Throwing out the trash.]

“Stay there for a bit. I need to talk to you.”

[You’re worried about your mom finding out, aren’t you?]

“She already knows?”

[She heard it from a customer while working. But she didn’t react badly. She said she read the news and thinks it’s fake. Staged. Just hype for your fight. You know… the kind of story to sell tickets.]

Ryoma goes quiet. He remembers saying exactly that to her before, more than once. Whenever something went wrong before a fight, he would brush it off as manufactured drama, just to keep her calm.

He just didn’t expect her to use that same explanation now. Still, he isn’t fully at ease.

“Kaori… have you seen her taking her medication lately?”

[The antidepressants? Not that I’ve noticed. But I don’t know if she takes them before sleeping. I can’t exactly watch her all the time.]

A brief pause, then her tone softens.

[But you don’t have to worry so much. I’m here with her. I’ll take care of her… so you take care of my husband over there. You know how Aramaki is. He gets startled easily.]

A small laugh escapes her, and Ryoma hears the door open again.

[Do you still want to talk to your mom? She might be busy for a while.]

“No. It’s fine. Just tell her I’m doing well here. Aramaki too.”

[Alright. Tell Aramaki Nanako and I send our regards.]

The call ends soon after. Ryoma lowers the phone slowly, letting out a long breath.

Aramaki, who has been watching him with concern, steps closer.

“How is your mother?”

“She’s seen the news,” Ryoma says. “But Kaori says she’s handling it well.”

Aramaki nods slightly. “Isn’t that… a good sign? Maybe her anxiety isn’t as bad as before.”

“I hope so,” Ryoma replies, slipping his phone back into his bag. “By the way… your wife and daughter send their regards.”

Meanwhile, Okabe and Ryohei slow to a stop almost at the same time, exchanging a brief glance. The concern is there, shared and understood.

Ryohei leans in slightly, keeping his voice low. “Something feels off… don’t you think?”

Okabe doesn’t answer right away, his eyes briefly drifting toward Ryoma before returning.

“…Yeah.”

A short pause settles between them.

“…Part of me thinks we should’ve stayed in Tokyo,” Ryohei mutters.

Okabe exhales quietly. “You’re not the only one.”

A short distance away, Kenta keeps working the heavy bag, his fists landing in a steady rhythm. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even look their way, as if none of it concerns him.

It isn’t that he doesn’t care. The situation weighs on him too. But long before coming to Manila, he has already been dealing with his own pressure, doubts creeping in about his chances in the upcoming title fight. And that recent incident only makes it worse, leaving his thoughts restless and unsettled.

Even now, it starts to show again. His timing is just slightly off, his breathing not as controlled as it should be. Small things, but noticeable. Nakahara and Hiroshi have noticed it for a while now, though they see it as part of the usual dip in condition as the weigh-in approaches.

“Hey, Kenta…” Hiroshi calls out, walking over. “You’ve been on that bag for too long. Don’t force it. Take a break.”

Kenta nods without protest. He stops, letting his arms drop to his sides as he stands there for a moment, focusing on steadying his breathing. Then he moves to the bench and sits down, resting his body.

But his mind doesn’t follow. It keeps turning, carrying a weight he has never had to deal with before. Doubt, pressure, expectation, all pressing in at once. And he says nothing about it.

After a moment, Kenta reaches into his bag and takes out his phone. Without much thought, he opens a video he has already watched countless times.

Dela Cruz’s fight begins to play again, showing the same relentless pressure from the opening seconds. Kenta watches in silence, his eyes following every movement, every small detail he might have missed before.

He has studied this fight repeatedly, memorizing the rhythm and patterns, yet the weight of it never seems to lessen. Even through the screen, the aggression feels overwhelming.

When the video ends, another suggestion appears, a recent interview on Dela Cruz. It is in English, leaving Kenta no distance from the words, forcing him to take in every single one.

“I don’t care about that incident. All that talk about someone dodging bullets… that’s just noise.”

“My opponent is Kenta Moriyama. We all know who he is.”

A faint smirk crosses his face.

“Or maybe not. Because the truth is… he’s nobody.”

Kenta’s grip tightens slightly around the phone as he listens.

“I can promise a win. But I won’t promise an entertaining fight. Because I’m ending it early.”

Dela Cruz continues talking boldly, but Kenta quietly stops it.

***

By now, the issue has already spiraled far beyond control, turning into one of the hottest trending topics in the country. Ryoma’s name is everywhere, tied to speculation, exaggeration, and endless replay of the same footage across digital platforms.

Reporters begin gathering outside Shangri-La at the Fort. But hotel security holds the line, not letting anyone inside.

However, the situation at Golden Fist Boxing Gym is a different story. Dante Vilanueva’s camp has already caught wind of everything.

With Alvarez present at the gym, it becomes an easy target for the media. Reporters flood the area, pushing their way in with little regard for boundaries, trying to force reactions from anyone connected to the upcoming fight.

Mendoza watches it unfold with visible irritation, his patience wearing thin. Letting them stay like this will only make things worse.

“You want answers? Fine,” he says, firm and controlled. “We’ll give you a short interview. After that, you leave. No exceptions.”

The moment Mendoza gives the signal, the noise surges all at once. Questions fly from every direction, overlapping, relentless.

“Do you believe this was a targeted incident?”

“Does this affect the unification fight?”

“Will the match be postponed?”

Alvarez steps in first, raising a hand just enough to steady the chaos.

“We are aware of the reports,” he says, voice controlled. “At this moment, the fight remains scheduled as planned. We are in contact with all relevant parties, and we will proceed based on official medical evaluations. Speculation won’t change anything. We deal in confirmed information.”

That barely slows them down. More questions pile on, sharper now, pressing for cracks.

“Is this an attempt to sabotage the event?”

“Does this benefit Dante Vilanueva?”

Mendoza exhales through his nose, stepping forward next, his tone firmer, less polished.

“What happened outside this gym is not our business,” he says. “Our focus is on preparing our fighter. If the fight happens, we’ll be ready. If it doesn’t, we adjust. That’s all there is to it.”

After that, Dante Vilanueva steps forward without being called, slipping into the space with quiet confidence.

“Champ… do you think his injury gives you an advantage?”

Dante tilts his head, a faint smile forming. “Oh, so his shoulder’s injured?” he says lightly. “Right… and this is the same guy who dodged three bullets. And you think that makes this easier for me? Come on.”

He lets out a short breath, a hint of amusement in it. “If anything, that just adds more pressure on me. But don’t worry. I might not be the kind of man who loves making bold promises about winning, but I can promise this… I’ll give you a fight worth watching.”

***

At a boxing gym in Quezon City, Iron Forge Boxing Club, the usual rhythm of training continues, but the atmosphere is subtly different.

Nivola Cortez sits on the bench, his attention fixed on his phone. The video plays again, showing the now-familiar footage from the hotel gym.

Ryoma’s movement, the gunshots, and of course, Aramaki caught in the frame, flinching, scrambling, clearly shaken.

“Look at him… That’s the guy I’m supposed to fight?” Nicola lets out a short laugh, not even trying to hide it. “Panicking like a kid. He looks ridiculous.”

His coach, Mateo Salazar, a man with a steady presence, glances briefly at the screen before looking back at his fighter.

“Anyone would be shaken in that kind of situation,” he says.

Nivola scoffs, straightening up. “Anyone, maybe. But not me.”

He glances back at the screen, watching Aramaki’s reaction one more time.

“If I were there, sure… I’d be surprised. But I wouldn’t lose myself like that. Seriously… look at him. Pathetic.”