VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

By the time Ryoma and Kurogane return to Ronin Gym, the afternoon sun has climbed high enough to flood the building’s entrance with heat.

The moment they step inside, Ryoma begins loosening his tie. Before they have even reached the staircase, he has already slipped off his suit jacket, unbuttoned his dress shirt, and casually draped both over one shoulder as though shedding the role he had been playing all morning.

Kurogane glances sideways at him. ”Why are you stripping already?”

”I’m going to train,” Ryoma says.

Kurogane slows to a stop near the top of the stairs. ”But there’s nobody here to supervise you.” His brow furrows slightly. ”Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Ryoma merely keeps walking toward his office. ”Relax. I know my limits. I won’t push myself.”

Kurogane watches him disappear down the corridor before letting out a quiet snort. ”Saying you won’t push yourself is probably the least believable thing I’ve heard all week.”

A few minutes later, Ryoma emerges from his office wearing a black training shirt, dark training pants, and a pair of running shoes.

Because the morning had been consumed by his meeting at NovaLink, he has no choice but to do his usual roadwork close to midday instead of before sunrise.

Fortunately, he has no intention of treating it as a full conditioning run. Knowing the humid June weather in Tokyo is far from ideal for endurance work, he keeps it to an easy fifteen-minute jog, just enough to warm up before the rest of his training inside the gym.

By the time he returns, sweat has already glued the back of his shirt to his skin. Ryoma tugs irritably at the damp fabric before giving up with a quiet sigh.

”I hate this weather... and I hate feeling sticky even more.”

The rest of the session passes much as it always does.

Skipping, shadowboxing, heavy bag work, strength training, Ryoma moves from one drill to the next with the same discipline he has maintained since long before Ronin ever existed.

No coach watches over him, no one counts his repetitions or reminds him to correct a mistake. Yet if anything, he becomes even more meticulous, carefully keeping today’s workload within the limits he had set instead of allowing himself to chase exhaustion for its own sake.

By the time he reaches the mitt work station, however, he stops. A thought quietly crosses his mind, and a faint smile appears.

”...That’s right. Why don’t I just use Phantom Mode?”

>

”Sure.”

A pale blue projection flickers into existence a few steps away before gradually solidifying into the familiar figure of Nakahara himself.

The unruly white hair remains as impossible to tame as ever, his moustache and beard are every bit as untidy as Ryoma remembers, and the faded towel draped carelessly around his neck looks old enough to belong in a museum.

Even a pair of focus mitts materialize over his hands. ”Come on, kid!” Nakahara barks without wasting a second. ”One-two!”

As it turns out, training alone isn’t much of a problem after all. With Phantom Mode filling in wherever a training partner or coach would normally stand, Ryoma moves through the session almost as smoothly as he would on any ordinary day.

Once the mitt work with Nakahara’s profile comes to an end, the old trainer lowers the pads and strokes his scruffy beard.

”Actually, kid… I’ve got a more ridiculous idea.”

Ryoma raises an eyebrow. ”What?”

”Why don’t you use yourself for mitt work?”

Ryoma blinks. ”...What do you mean?”

”We have recordings of your training sessions with Kenta. I can load your profile instead.”

”...That’s actually a good idea.”

Nakahara’s figure immediately dissolves into a pale blue hologram. The familiar silhouette breaks apart into countless glowing lines before reforming into another human shape. A moment later, the light condenses once again. Now standing opposite him is Ryoma himself.

Ryoma stares for a second. It is the first time he has ever loaded his own profile into Phantom Mode. He folds his arms and gives the projection an appraising look.

”...Turns out I’m pretty handsome.”

The other Ryoma smirks. ”Don’t force it. This isn’t exactly the first time you’ve seen yourself in a mirror.”

Ryoma’s face immediately twists. ”...Hold on. Am I really this annoying?”

”Less talking.” The phantom lifts up the focus mitts. ”We’re already behind schedule.”

From the very first exchange, the imitation proves disturbingly accurate. Every combination is accompanied by the same dry sarcasm Ryoma habitually throws at Kenta.

Sometime, the mitts snap forward without warning, forcing Ryoma to react instantly, while the nonstop stream of mockery, provocations, and perfectly timed corrections never lets up.

”Tight. Tight. Tight.”

”Move your feet.”

”Keep it tight.”

”You planning to box today, or just admire your own jab?”

”Tight.”

”...Seriously? I said tight!”

”Tighter.”

”Tight, tight, tight!”

”Stop admiring your defense!”

”Here, catch… and now!”

”Stupid! You miss your timing again!”

The insults themselves are meaningless. What matters is their timing. Every sarcastic remark arrives exactly as his concentration threatens to drift.

Every provocation overlaps with another cue, every cue with another target, every target demanding an immediate response.

There is never enough time to become comfortable, never enough silence for the mind to wander.

”Counter. Reset. Read.”

”Tight.”

”Keep moving.”

”Make it tighter.”

The rhythm refuses to break. Another mitt flies, another cue appears, another opening provokes for another immediate counter.

”Tight.”

The voice keeps talking. The mitts keep moving. And his feet never stop.

”Tight.”

Slip, counter, pivot.

”Tight.”

The exchanges continue until thought quietly gives way to movement, every response arriving before language has the chance to form around it.

Now there’s only instinct left, only reaction, only boxing. The pace never slows, neither do the interruptions.

And somewhere within the relentless rhythm of cues, sarcasm, and split-second reactions, Ryoma’s concentration climbs naturally toward that familiar edge every fighter spends years trying to reach.

The mitt snaps forward again, but this time Ryoma’s fist arrives first, landing squarely on Phantom Ryoma’s nose before the other pad has even settled into position.

Dsh!

”Hold on, wait…”

But Ryoma already throws another punch.

Bugh!

Phantom Ryoma stumbles backward, quickly pulling one mitt off his hands before flinging it straight at Ryoma’s face.

Even that one fails to connect as Ryoma instinctively slips past it without breaking his rhythm.

”I said enough!”

Ryoma blinks, the intensity in his eyes fading almost as quickly as it appears.

”...Ah. Sorry.”

Phantom Ryoma fixes him with an unusually serious look. ”You slipped into the zone. That’s the entire purpose of this drill. But once you reach that point, mitt work stops serving its purpose because you stop responding to my commands.”

”I said sorry.”

”Learn to stay there without losing yourself. The day you can still hear instructions while standing on that edge... that’s when you’ll become truly dangerous.”

”I said sorry.”

Without another word, Phantom Ryoma throws the remaining mitt at him. Ryoma casually leans aside, letting it fly past him.

A heartbeat later, both mitts dissolve into blue particles, followed by Phantom Ryoma himself, leaving the training area empty once again.