VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Instead of leaving, Ryoma loosens his shoulders and rolls his neck once. Then he raises both fists to chest level and settles into a stance.

The yakuza carrying the club studies him for a moment. It doesn’t take long to notice the difference.

The man standing in front of him is not some random passerby who got carried away trying to play hero.

There is confidence in the way Ryoma stands, in the way he holds eye contact without trying to look intimidating.

The yakuza already knows Ryoma isn’t going to run. So he makes a small gesture to his friends.

”Make it quick!”

The other five slowly approach Ryoma, their steps cautious rather than reckless.

Ryoma’s eyes briefly move between them before returning to the man with the club. The man remains where he is, staying behind while letting the others take the lead. That alone tells Ryoma enough.

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Ryoma quickly studies the other five, looking for the one who seems most affected by the earlier fight. His attention settles on the man at the far left, and he immediately takes the initiative.

The moment he steps in that direction, the others spread out, trying to create angles from which they can rush him together.

Ryoma only glances at their positions once and stores the image in his mind before focusing entirely on his first target.

The man throws a wide punch. Ryoma ducks under it, slips to the outside, and drives a left hand into the ribs.

BUGH!

Before he can recover, Ryoma grabs his arm and yanks him sideways, throwing him directly into the path of the three nearest yakuza.

The collision is messy enough to disrupt their advance. For a brief moment, Ryoma avoids being surrounded.

Only one man remains directly in front of him.

”Kono yarou!”

The yakuza lunges forward with a front kick.

Ryoma shifts outside the line of attack, letting the kick slice through empty air beneath his right arm.

At the same time, he steps forward and drives a right hand into the solar plexus.

BUGH!

The man’s breath catches. And Ryoma immediately shoves the staggering man, sending him crashing into another attacker.

The pattern repeats. Every time somebody closes the distance, Ryoma strikes quickly and immediately uses that person to disrupt the others.

He keeps circling, keeps changing angles, picking up his target, constantly creating small one-on-one exchanges before the group can strike at him together.

More importantly, he keeps his offense controlled. His punches are sharp but measured. He has no interest in breaking his knuckles against somebody’s skull.

Meanwhile, the Vision Grid continues feeding him information, gaps, openings, weak points in their formation, moments where their balance shifts just enough.

One man rushes him and gets redirected into another. A second takes a low kick to the thigh before being shoved into his own teammate. Again and again, Ryoma keeps the formation unstable.

Not far away, one of the injured men lying on the ground can only stare with his jaw hanging open.

”Who’s this guy...?”

Then he notices the training sweater.

”No way...”

A few weeks ago, Ryoma and Aramaki helped this guy under the bridge. Ryoma didn’t wear a mask back then, but the sweater is the same.

”Could he be...?”

***

More than three minutes pass. Despite being outnumbered, Ryoma controls the pace remarkably well, never allowing any of them to lay a hand on him.

But his restraint comes with a price. He isn’t committing to damaging shots, and so, one after another, they keep getting back up.

Meanwhile, the man with the club still hasn’t moved. He remains at the back, patiently watching the fight unfold, waiting for an opening.

But as the minutes pass, his expression gradually changes. The opportunities he expected never come. And a different possibility begins creeping into his mind.

If this continues much longer, he might be the last person left standing in front of Ryoma.

”The hell are you doing? He’s just one guy!”

The man with the club finally loses his patience and starts moving forward himself. Apparently, joining the fight now feels preferable to being forced into a one-on-one confrontation after everyone else goes down.

Ryoma immediately becomes more cautious. He takes a step back, reassessing the situation now that a weapon is involved. A wooden club changes things. Not enough to frighten him, but enough to increase the risk.

And the mask isn’t helping either. It restricts his breathing more than he expected, and the fight has already lasted longer than it should have.

Eventually, Ryoma reaches up and pulls the mask off. Then he takes a deep breath.

The reaction is immediate. The yakuza freeze for a moment.

”...Ryoma Takeda?”

”No way.”

”You’re Ryoma Takeda... the Cruel King of Korakuen Hall?”

A few of them glance at each other. Suddenly, getting toyed with for the last several minutes feels a lot less embarrassing now that they realize they have been fighting the legendary Cruel King.

Ryoma notices the hesitation, and he decides to exploit it. ”Yeah. I’m Ryoma Takeda.”

He rolls his shoulders once. ”And honestly, I’ve been holding back because I’ve got a fight coming up.”

His gaze sweeps across them. ”But don’t mistake that for kindness. I’m not the kind of guy who can keep restraining himself forever.”

His eyes settle on the man holding the club. ”So if a few ribs get broken here, don’t blame me afterward.”

It’s a bluff, a calculated one, but none of them hear it as a bluff. Because they know who he is. They know the reputation attached to the name Cruel King. They know the stories from Manila. They know the rumors about him walking through situations that should have ended far worse.

More importantly, they know what happened to the former OPBF champion whose ribs, nose, and jaw were shattered before being forced into retirement. Ryoma doesn’t need to bring up any of those stories himself. His presence does it for him.

For a moment, the man with the club turns toward the two injured guys on the ground. Whatever point they came here to make has already been made.

With a quiet click of his tongue, he drops the club onto the dirt.

”We’re done here.”

He tilts his head toward the road.

”Let’s go.”

Without another word, he turns around and starts walking away. The others exchange brief looks before following after him.

Ryoma simply watches them leave until they disappear from sight. Only then does he let out a small breath of relief before turning to leave as well.

”Wait!”

Ryoma glances over his shoulder, and sees one of the injured men struggling to get back to his feet. Even standing seems difficult to him.

With one leg drags slightly as he limps forward, the man bows deeply despite his condition.

”That’s the second time...” he says. ”I can’t thank you enough.”

”Just take your friend to a hospital,” Ryoma says, turning away. ”Before it’s too late”

***

By the time Ryoma leaves the Tama River and reaches the busier roads, the sky is already bright.

This is the longest his morning roadwork has taken in a long time. Part of it is because of the fight earlier. The other part is the anxiety that creeps back whenever he lets his guard down.

The fear that someone might be after his life never truly leaves him. And now there is something else to worry about as well.

The yakuza might decide to come back with even more men. Ryoma doesn’t know for sure, but the uncertainty only makes him more cautious.

He keeps moving, but his pace slower than usual, his eyes drifting over his shoulder even more often now.

When he reaches the commercial district near the gym, people already fill the sidewalks. Shop owners are already opening their businesses for the day.

For once, the world feels normal. Ryoma steadies his breathing and continues walking.

But then, without any clear reasons, goosebumps spread across his skin. The feeling comes without warning.

The sounds around him seem to dull. The movement of pedestrians slows.

And then…

Screeeech!

A powerful engine roars behind him. Ryoma turns, and sees a car is charging straight toward him, far too fast. And there is no doubt about its target.

”Oh, shit...”

There is no time to think. Ryoma jumps, and the front bumper misses him by a fraction of a second.

He lands on the hood. The impact dents the metal beneath him.

Instinct takes over as Ryoma twists his body, protecting his hands as much as possible while using the momentum to carry himself across the vehicle.

His back slams into the windshield.

Crack!

Spiderweb fractures explode across the glass.

For a moment, the car continues forward with Ryoma sprawled across it. Inside, two men look panic.

”Damn it! How’d you miss him?!”

”Shut up and hold on!”

The driver stomps the brakes. The sudden stop throws Ryoma off the hood. He hits the asphalt, rolls several times, then immediately forces himself back onto his feet.

His eyes lock onto the vehicle, catching two foreigners inside it. Neither man looks shocked, neither looks concerned.

They look frustrated, and that alone tells him everything he needs to know. This wasn’t an accident.

The engine screams again and Ryoma moves immediately, sprinting in a random pattern while searching for an escape route. Behind him, tires shriek against the road as the car is already making another attempt.

Then Ryoma spots the intersection leading toward the gym, finally a way out. But the thought dies instantly. A second car is already there, same car that has been appearing around him for months.

The vehicle had been moving slowly along the street. But the moment the driver notices Ryoma, it changes lanes and accelerates.

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The voice inside his head sounds unusually serious.

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The second car surges forward.

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