VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma turns away, running one hand through his hair as he lets out a long breath, making no effort to hide his frustration.

”Can’t you do something?” Kenji asks.

Ryoma shakes his head. ”I don’t know. We’ve already handed the entire ticket distribution over to NSN. I might be able to go to their office and sort something out directly, but before I do that... I need you to find out how many people are genuinely ready to buy.”

”I can do that,” Kenji replies. ”But collecting ticket money from that many members is going to take time.”

”Make it 5,000 first,” Ryoma says. ”Can you do it in two days?”

Kenji gives him a doubtful look. ”I honestly don’t know. If we’re collecting everything manually, even five days sounds unrealistic.”

Ryoma exhales quietly. ”Do it as fast as you can. I’ll contact NSN and convince them to hold at least 5,000 seats before the remaining phases are sold.”

Kenji nods in understanding before walking back to his motorcycle and cracks the engine.

”I’ll call you as soon as I have something. Keep your phone on.”

With that, he pulls away from the curb as the bike rumbles with a deep growl.

Ryoma remains where he is, watching the motorcycle disappear around the corner. His brows stay slightly furrowed, and the restless look on his face does nothing to hide the frustration building inside him.

>

Ryoma lets out a quiet sigh. ”What are you talking about? You follow me wherever I go.”

>

Ryoma can only shake his head before turning around and heading back toward the apartment. If leaving for Nagano is no longer an option, then the best thing he can do is continue training on his own, even if it means spending the next few days sparring with the most annoying system inside his head.

Inside the barbershop, Fumiko pauses in the middle of sweeping the floor as she watches Ryoma through the glass storefront.

”What is it this time?” she murmurs.

”Probably something about the Tokyo Dome event,” Kaori replies while trimming a customer’s hair. ”That was Kenji-san, wasn’t it? The leader of Ryoma’s die-hard fan club.”

Fumiko turns, showing a puzzled look in her face. ”Tokyo Dome?”

”You really don’t know, Fumiko-san?” the young customer says with a laugh. ”Your son has practically thrown the whole country into chaos. Imagine that, a venue as big as Tokyo Dome, and people are still afraid they won’t get a seat.”

***

Fifteen minutes later, Ryoma arrives at the gym, no longer wearing his suit but dressed in running shoes, long training pants, and a T-shirt already damp with sweat.

The short distance from the apartment has served as his warm-up. After stepping inside and taking a moment to cool down, he pulls out his phone and calls Maria.

”Maria, it’s me, Ryoma.”

[Yes? What’s up, Ryoma? Ah, I forgot to tell you. We switched to the Chūsen lottery system.]

”I know. How many tickets have been sold?”

[About 17,000 were sold on the first day before the system changed. After Stage 1 of the lottery, we released another 18,000 seats. Registration for Stage 2 is already open now, with another batch of 18,000 tickets.]

Ryoma rubs his forehead. ”Damn... once Stage 2 is over, there’ll only be about 2,000 seats left.”

[Why? Your project is going better than any of us expected, but you don’t sound very happy.]

”My supporters. The Cruel King Army.”

He walks toward the ring as he speaks.

”Only about 300 of them managed to get tickets, and even they’re scattered all over the stadium. Can you do something about that? I want at least one block reserved for 5,000 of them.”

[If it’s only 5,000 seats... I think we can make that happen. We’d have to reduce the allocation for Stage 2, though. A lot more people are going to be disappointed.]”

”Please do it for me.”

[Alright.]

By the time the call ends, Ryoma notices Kurogane watching him from across the gym, half a piece of bread still in his hand.

”You... didn’t leave for Nagano?”

Ryoma simply shakes his head. He places his phone on the small table beside the bell, picks up a jump rope, and begins skipping without another word.

Kurogane watches him for a while before speaking again. ”If this keeps happening, I doubt you’ll step into the ring in your best condition.”

”You don’t have to worry about that,” Ryoma replies, never breaking the rhythm of the rope. ”In this fight, I’ll show you the best version of myself you’ve never seen.”

Kurogane snorts. ”Oh, really? No matter how good this place is, you don’t have a mitt holder or a sparring partner. You seriously think training alone is enough?”

Ryoma offers no answer. There is no way he can tell Kurogane he already has both without sounding completely insane. So he simply keeps training.

The jump rope gives way to footwork drills. Footwork becomes shadowboxing. Shadowboxing gradually turns into mittwork inside the ring.

Kurogane watches in silence for several more minutes. At first, he doesn’t think much of it. But the longer he observes Ryoma, the more something feels off.

He isn’t a boxing coach, nor does he pretend to understand every technical detail. Still, after spending years around fighters and gyms, he has seen enough training sessions to know what ordinary shadowboxing looks like.

Whatever Ryoma is doing now, however, isn’t ordinary shadowboxing. Every punch seems to land on something. Every defensive movement comes a fraction of a second before an attack that doesn’t exist.

His feet constantly adjust their position with purpose, as if responding to another person’s pressure instead of empty air.

Kurogane frowns. Unable to shake the feeling, he leaves his spot and walks closer to the ring.

”Hey, Ryoma...”

Ryoma doesn’t respond. His movements only become more intense.

Kurogane stops a few steps from the apron, his eyes following every exchange.

”...Don’t tell me you’re actually doing mittwork by yourself.”

And Ryoma still says nothing. From his perspective, he isn’t alone. Standing across from him is another Ryoma, the System’s projection, perfectly mirroring his stance, habits, and timing.

It never stops feeding instructions, presenting new targets, launching counters, and punishing every hesitation, forcing Ryoma to answer with increasingly tighter reactions and sharper combinations.

Just like before, the relentless pace gradually pulls Ryoma into the zone. But just like before, he never manages to keep a clear head.

He ignores almost every cue and instruction his training partner throws at him, relying instead on pure instinct. And the mittwork no longer resembles a training drill. It looks like an actual fight.

Kurogane has watched countless professional bouts over the years, yet even he has rarely seen exchanges this intense.

”...What the hell am I looking at?”

Ryoma may look like moving by himself in the ring. But nothing about his movements resembles ordinary shadowboxing.

He moves with astonishing speed and precision, using almost every inch of the ring while seamlessly shifting between offense and defense.

At times, his body even reacts as if someone has actually made contact. He staggers half a step after an unseen punch, braces himself against invisible pressure, or suddenly twists his shoulders as though fighting to break free from a clinch.

Most unsettling of all are his eyes. They never wander. They remain locked on something Kurogane cannot see, burning with the kind of focus that only appears in the middle of a real fight.

Then, just like before, the phantom Ryoma slips another trap into the exchange and snaps the mitt pad against the base of his jaw.

Plak!

Ryoma stumbles sideways before catching himself against the ropes. A second later, he shakes his head, his breathing turning uneven as the haze finally clears from his eyes.

Once again, he has been pulled out of the zone.

”Ryoma...” Kurogane finally asks. ”What exactly are you doing?”

At the same time, the phantom Ryoma scoffs at the real Ryoma with an annoying smirk.

”Seriously? You couldn’t even beat someone who’s been using nothing but mitt pads. That’s... honestly impressive. Now I can’t tell anymore who’s the real Ryoma Takeda here.”

Ryoma’s jaw tightens. ”Shut up.”

The words come out so suddenly that Kurogane blinks.

”…Right.”

He gives an awkward nod, assuming the irritation is directed at him.

”Okay... whatever it is you’re doing, I’ll leave you to it.”

Kurogane quietly walks away, deciding it is better not to interrupt whatever kind of training Ryoma has locked himself into.

Ryoma waits until Kurogane disappears from sight before turning his attention back to the Phantom Ryoma sharing the ring with him.

”So you think you’re better than me? Then switch to gloves, and fight me for real.”

”Oh?” The phantom chuckles. ”You want to spar? Not with Miguel Cabello?”

”No.” Ryoma’s answer comes without hesitation. ”I want you.”