VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Still in fear, still running, but the school grounds gradually lose their shape around him. The buildings blur. The fences disappear.

Even the voices behind him begin fading into something distant and indistinct. Yet Ryoma keeps running, and somehow, the world changes.

The next step lands on wet asphalt. Rain pours from a dark sky. His school uniform is gone, replaced by a familiar training sweater already soaked through by the weather.

His legs are longer now, his body heavier. Somewhere along the way, he has become an adult again. Yet he is still running, still trying to get away from something. The fear remains exactly the same.

Water splashes beneath his shoes. The rain obscures everything beyond a short distance, turning the city into a collection of blurred lights and vague silhouettes.

By the time he reaches the edge of the road, he barely notices his surroundings anymore. Then a horn suddenly tears through the rain.

Hoooonk!!!

Ryoma instinctively turns his head. But it’s too late. Something crashes into him, and the impact sends him sprawling across the asphalt.

Pain erupts through his body, especially his left leg.

”Urgh… my leg…”

For several seconds, he can only lie there, clutching his left knee.

Then footsteps approach. At first, the figure is only a dark silhouette standing above him. Ryoma squints through the rain, trying to make out the face.

”You… Kanzaki?!”

It’s not the Kanzaki from earlier, but the one he beat at rookie tournament, older, looking down at him with disappointment and contempt.

”What’s wrong with you, coward?

”Running around like a scared little brat because you saw a ghost?”

”Look where it got you.”

His eyes drift briefly toward Ryoma’s leg before returning to his face.

”You got yourself hit.”

Ryoma tries to push himself upright, his face clouded his confusion. But Kanzaki simply lets out a dry laugh.

”You keep saying you’re not a coward. Then why are you always running?”

Then coldly, Kanzaki moves toward Ryoma’s left leg, lifts one foot, and brings it down with brutal force.

”NOOO!”

Ryoma jerks awake. His body is twisted awkwardly across the bed, one arm stretched forward as though trying to stop the stomp from coming down.

For several seconds, he can only sit there, breathing heavily while his heart pounds against his ribs. It takes a moment before he realizes he is in his room.

Ryoma drags a hand across his face and exhales. The fear fades slowly, leaving behind a deep exhaustion that settles over him like a weight.

”Damn it...”

He falls back onto the bed and stares at the ceiling.

***

Unlike the previous morning, Ryoma doesn’t even bother preparing breakfast. He just stands in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his own reflection while time slips by unnoticed.

It isn’t as though he needs that nightmare to remind him of the past. But for the first time, he finds himself looking at that memory from a different angle. Maybe this is the real reason Kanzaki despises him so much.

Back then, Ryoma actually admired him. When he entered high school, he had approached Kanzaki, hoping to learn boxing from someone he genuinely looked up to. Instead, Kanzaki dismissed him as a weakling, a coward who wasn’t cut out to become a boxer.

For years, Ryoma assumed that Kanzaki simply disliked how close he was to Kaede. Now, however, he isn’t so sure anymore.

Then, for some reason, he hears somebody crying. Ryoma instinctively turns his head toward the corner of the room and startles.

A younger version of himself is sitting there, dirty middle-school uniform, head lowered, arms wrapped around his knees, muttering insults toward himself between sobs.

”I’m a coward…”

”I shouldn’t have run away…”

Ryoma blinks once, and suddenly, the corner is empty again. He stares at it for a few seconds before letting out a long breath and rubbing his face.

”...I seriously need to see a psychiatrist.”

And almost as if waiting for the opportunity, the voice returns.

>

Ryoma’s brow twitches. ”You... Didn’t you say you couldn’t see my dreams?”

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Ryoma clicks his tongue and splashes water onto his face again, despite having already done the same thing several times this morning.

After that, he returns to his room, goes through a few stretches, puts on his training sweater, then slips into his running shoes for roadwork.

At least this time, before leaving the apartment, he puts on a mask. The precaution feels slightly ridiculous, but he keeps it on anyway.

If somebody is really targeting him specifically, then even a simple mask should force them to hesitate for a moment. They would have to take a second attempt to confirm his identity.

And sometimes, a single moment of hesitation is all it takes to notice danger before it reaches you.

>

The voice returns not long after Ryoma starts his roadwork.

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Ryoma says nothing and simply focuses on regulating his breathing while continuing his run.

Besides, the words are far less irritating than usual. There is some truth in them, and for now, he accepts that much.

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”Ah, right,” Ryoma replies dryly. ”The same presence that always makes me uncomfortable whenever I’m in the toilet. You can see everything I see. And it’s not like you can watch my back.”

>

The voice coughs awkwardly.

>

***

Ryoma still keeps an eye on his surroundings while running, occasionally glancing over his shoulder out of habit.

The difference is that he no longer does it every few seconds. The anxiety is still there, but it no longer controls every movement.

Even during the breaks between dashes, he continues surveying the area while going through a few rounds of shadowboxing.

And by the time he reaches the area near Aramaki’s abandoned hut, something catches his attention.

More than three hundred meters away, he can already make out several figures having a fight in the yard.

Ryoma slows slightly. As a boxer with a fight less than three weeks away, the correct decision is obvious. He turns around, ignoring it, and keep running.

But then he stops. Now that he thinks about it again, it wasn’t really a fight. It was six against two, a bullying.

The thought immediately leaves a bad taste in his mouth. If he walks away now, it will feel no different from back then.

Eventually, Ryoma exhales, turns around, and approaches the hut.

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Ryoma ignores it and continues walking toward them with steady resolve. The voice keeps nagging at him the entire way, only falling silent once he reaches the front yard.

”Hey,” Ryoma calls out. ”That’s enough.”

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The six men turn around. Only then does Ryoma notice the tattoos peeking out from beneath their worn shirts.

His eyes then shift toward the two men on the ground, and they have tattoos too.

Ryoma immediately clicks his tongue.

”Ah, shit. It’s a gang fight between yakuza.”

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A short chuckle follows.

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Ryoma’s mind immediately begins assessing the situation. Six opponents, possibly more inside the hut, and more importantly, they are yakuza. And that last part matters more than the number itself.

Yakuza are not mere street thugs. They are familiar with fighting in groups, familiar with using their numbers to overwhelm someone.

Ryoma’s best option would be to prevent them from surrounding him, constantly forcing one-on-one exchanges whenever possible. Unfortunately, against six Yakuza, it won’t be that easy.

Even if he wins, the chances of leaving without injury are slim. A lucky punch, somebody grabbing him from behind, or simply a bad fall could become a problem.

More importantly, there is always the risk of damaging his own hands. Boxers spend years conditioning their fists, but they are still not meant for repeated bare-knuckle punches.

One poorly placed shot against a forehead or an elbow could injure his knuckles. Less than three weeks before a fight, even a minor injury would be disastrous.

As Ryoma weighs the risks, one of the men suddenly walks into the hut. A few moments later, a loud clattering sound comes from inside before he emerges carrying a wooden club thicker than his forearm.

While walking back toward the group, he casually swings it at one of the men lying on the ground, casually striking him across the side of the head.

DSH!

The injured man stops moving altogether. Without a trace of concern, the yakuza flips the club once into the air before catching it again.

”This isn’t your business,” he says calmly. ”Don’t try to play hero now. Wearing a mask doesn’t make you a Kamen Rider. Please leave.”