VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

A week later, Hugo Ramirez is escorted from federal custody to begin his extradition to Japan. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he walks in silence between two U.S. Marshals before entering the airport through a secure entrance.

The hours that follow are little more than an exercise in patience. After the paperwork is completed, Ramirez is left waiting inside a secure holding area with nothing to do but watch the television mounted on the wall.

The endless wait slowly wears his patience to the breaking point. As if that weren’t enough, the broadcast suddenly transitions to the morning sports segment.

”Japan’s biggest boxing event in decades continues to dominate international headlines after tickets for the Ryoma Takeda-Miguel Cabello world title fight officially sold out in less than 3 weeks.”

The screen fills with the promotional poster for Ryoma vs. Cabello, framed against the unmistakable backdrop of Tokyo Dome. Much to his annoyance, Ramirez can’t bring himself to look away.

”The sellout has sparked controversy after many fans pointed out that only 33,000 tickets were released through NSN’s public lottery despite Tokyo Dome’s 55,000-seat capacity, leading to widespread accusations that thousands of seats had been deliberately withheld from the public.”

”The backlash has spread beyond Japan, with overseas fans planning to travel to Tokyo expressing the same frustration after failing to secure tickets.”

The footage then shows Maria standing outside NSN Tokyo, addressing a crowd of reporters in Japanese as English subtitles appear beneath the screen.

”Before we introduced the lottery, more than 22,000 tickets had already been sold through our original ’first-come, first-served sale’. Frankly, we never anticipated demand on this scale. We based our projections primarily on the domestic market, yet nearly half of all lottery applications came from overseas. In the end, almost 20% of all tickets were purchased by fans outside Japan.”

Ramirez never takes his eyes off the screen. The muscles along his jaw gradually tighten until a vein begins pulsing beneath his temple.

One of the marshals glances toward the television. ”That’s the Chameleon, isn’t it?”

The other marshal lets out a quiet chuckle. ”Yeah. The one this guy tried to bury.” Then he looks back at Ramirez with a faint smirk. ”Guess you picked the wrong guy.”

The first marshal shakes his head. ”Nah. He picked the right guy. Just the wrong outcome. Funny how that worked out. You tried to kill the kid’s career, and all you ended up doing was making him a bigger star.”

Ramirez says nothing. His cuffed hands slowly curl into fists as the boarding announcement finally echoes through the secure waiting area.

Moments later, he is escorted onto the aircraft well before the rest of the passengers, led through the empty aisle to his assigned seat while the cabin remains almost silent. Once again, all he can do is wait.

It feels as though every step of the journey has been carefully arranged to strip away what little freedom he has left, each passing hour drawing him closer to the prison cell awaiting him in Japan.

***

Meanwhile, Ryoma has finally joined the training camp in the mountains of Nagano. Having arrived only the previous day, this morning marks his first real hard-conditioning session after spending more than a month consumed by his responsibilities as Ronin Fight Management’s promoter.

The steep off-road trail winds relentlessly uphill through the forest, each stride growing heavier than the last until Ryoma is finally forced to slow to a stop. He braces both hands against his thighs, drawing one ragged breath after another as sweat pours from his face onto the dirt beneath his feet.

>

Far ahead, the rest of the team has already disappeared around the next bend, leaving him alone on the endless climb with no one but the System’s irritating voice accompanying every miserable step.

>

>

Ryoma grits his teeth and forces his legs to climb a little farther. Every step burns, but before long the trail begins to level out, revealing the crest of the hill at last.

Several familiar figures are already waiting at the top. Aramaki stands closest to the trail, casually shadowboxing as though he has only just stopped to loosen his shoulders, while Okabe plants both hands on his hips, doing his best to look as though the run has barely raised his heartbeat.

Aramaki glances over and grins. ”There he is. I was starting to think we’d have to send a search party.”

Okabe clicks his tongue. ”Promoter life suits you too well. Another week in Tokyo and you’ll need oxygen after tying your shoes.”

Ryoma exhales sharply without bothering to answer, too busy trying to steady his breathing.

Aramaki lets out a quiet chuckle before offering Ryoma a hand. ”Easy. We all knew you’d be rusty. Three weeks of hard conditioning isn’t something you catch up to in two days.”

”Besides,” Okabe adds with a shrug, ”if you actually kept up with us this morning, I’d be the one feeling insulted.”

Satoru and Kenta can only chuckle at the exchange, the easy banter doing just enough to lighten the mood despite the brutal climb. Training camp mornings have always been like this. No matter how grueling the roadwork becomes, someone inevitably finds a joke before the next session begins.

Ryoma finally manages a faint smile as he catches his breath. ”You guys really know how to welcome someone back.”

”So? How was the VIP room?” Ryohei sneers. ”Comfortable enough to make your legs forget they’re supposed to be a boxer’s?”

Ryoma slowly straightens himself, drawing one long, measured breath before letting it out through his nose.

”...Here we go,” he mutters under his breath. ”Here we go again.”

”Just ignore him,” Aramaki says quietly. ”It’s not worth it.”

Ryoma takes another deep breath, but this time he raises his voice just enough for it to carry up the hillside.

”If you’re really that unhappy with the room we gave you, then why don’t you pay for your own hotel? Aren’t you always bragging about everything you’ve accomplished? Your own effort? Your own money? So what’s stopping you?”

Ryohei clicks his tongue. ”You know what? You’re no different from those global boxing giants. You make the fighters in this gym sweat so you can rake in the profits, then keep pretending to have a humble life just to avoid scrutiny.”

Ryoma’s eyes slowly widen, the restrained fury behind them becoming impossible to miss, while the color gradually drains from his face.

He has spent years sacrificing his own opportunities and taking risks no one else is willing to shoulder, all to make sure everyone at Ronin can succeed together. And this is how one of his own teammates chooses to see him.

”This motherfucker...” Ryoma growls under his breath as he starts marching uphill, the veins along his neck beginning to bulge. ”Maybe it’s time I teach him to keep that mouth of his shut.”

Aramaki immediately steps in, pressing a hand against Ryoma’s chest before leaning closer. ”Hey, don’t let him get to you. He’s just talking shit. Maybe he’s settling the score after putting up with all your trash talk during sparring over the years. Nothing more.”

Ryoma shoots him a glance and brushes his hand aside. By the time he looks back up the trail, however, Ryohei has already resumed his roadwork as though nothing had happened.

He remains where he is for a moment, realizing that no matter how badly he wants to wipe the smug look off Ryohei’s face, his own legs refuse to cooperate. The relentless uphill climb has already turned them into little more than jelly.

At first glance, the friction between Ryoma and Ryohei seems little different from the usual bickering that often fills Ronin’s gym.

Everyone expects it to cool down eventually, or at worst, settle into the familiar teasing shared between two competitive gym mates.

What none of them realizes is how deeply the resentment inside Ryohei has taken root.