VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Most of the journalists who were at Heathrow that afternoon treat Ryoma’s strange warning about the rain as nothing more than an odd joke. They leave it out of their articles, deciding that there are more important things to write about than a Japanese world champion telling Londoners to be careful of drizzle.

Unfortunately for Ryoma, one of the reporters covering his arrival is broadcasting live for a local television station.

”Well, since it’s almost 2019, to everyone out there, please take care of yourselves. Don’t catch a cold.”

Ryoma pauses briefly before adding the part that will cause considerably more trouble.

”And remember, even the rain can kill you. Don’t take it lightly.”

Back in the studio, the female anchor stares at the camera for a moment before slowly shaking her head. She presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh, while the corners of her mouth continue betraying her.

”Well, there you have it,” she says, her voice carrying the faintest hint of sarcasm. ”Apparently, London has finally found something more dangerous than its traffic.”

She glances down at her notes, then looks back toward the camera with a silly, almost apologetic smile.

”So, if you’re planning to leave the house today, remember to take an umbrella… and perhaps a life insurance policy.”

The clip might have disappeared after the broadcast, but within hours, someone uploads it to social media.

It spreads through Britain first, mostly as a joke about Ryoma’s apparent fear of the weather, before boxing fans around the world begin sharing it and turning the strange warning into an international curiosity.

@LondonPunchline: ”Japanese world champion arrives in London and declares war on the rain.”

@SouthpawSally: ”Someone tell Ryoma we’ve survived worse than drizzle.”

@BoxingNerd88: ”Ryoma: The rain can kill you. Londoners: Mate, this is Tuesday.”

@RingRatUK: ”Imagine becoming world champion only to get bullied by a cloud.”

@FightNightMike: ”Ryoma Takeda vs British weather. Someone book it.”

By the time Ryoma arrives at Elliot’s training gym, the joke even spreads beyond the original television clip. The people inside the gym notice something that makes the whole thing considerably stranger.

Ryoma is wearing a mask. So are the members of his coaching team, along with all five of his personal bodyguards, who remain scattered around the gym while keeping a close eye on him.

As Ryoma steps onto one of the treadmills, he begins his ”roadwork” without removing the mask. He actually prefers doing it outside, but London’s supposedly ”deadly” weather leaves him with little choice but to stay indoors.

A few athletes exchange amused looks from across the gym, struggling to keep straight faces.

”Is that some kind of new training method?”

”Could be. He’s the world champion.”

”Or maybe he really believes that rain and cold could kill him.”

”You think he’s actually afraid of the weather?”

”I don’t know. But if he starts wearing one in the shower, I’m leaving.”

Even Elliot notices how ridiculous the whole scene looks. He stands on the treadmill directly beside Ryoma, watching him for a moment while trying to keep his face straight. It lasts perhaps three seconds before a quiet chuckle escapes him.

”What?” Ryoma asks without slowing his pace. ”Is this some sort of concentration test in the middle of training?”

”Sorry,” Elliot says, still trying to suppress his grin. ”Wasn’t trying to put you off. And, yeah, I know people in Japan tend to wear masks outside when the weather’s rough. Just seems a touch excessive, that’s all. Or is this actually part of your training?”

”Yes. It’s just a training strategy.”

”Oh, sure. And the lads?”

Elliot looks past him toward the five masked men stationed around the gym.

”They’re starting to look less like bodyguards and more like a surgical team.”

Ryoma decides to ignore him, saying nothing more as he concentrates on maintaining his breathing rhythm. The mask makes each breath slightly more difficult, forcing him to work harder to keep his pace steady.

Elliot does not make another joke, but he does not leave either. He remains standing on the treadmill beside Ryoma, occasionally rubbing the back of his head as though he wants to ask something but cannot quite decide how to put it.

”Um, hey... I heard you often help your gym mates back in Tokyo by copying the way their opponents fight.”

”Where’d you hear that?”

”Here and there.”

”…What about it?”

”I was just thinking... maybe you could copy Celeb Mercer and spar with me later.”

Ryoma says nothing for several seconds before finally slowing the treadmill to a stop. He steps onto the stationary edge and turns toward Elliot.

”Just say you’re itching to fight me.”

For a moment, Elliot’s easygoing expression disappears. His face becomes noticeably more serious, and the look in his eyes carries a challenge he makes no effort to hide.

Then he chuckles lightly and shakes his head. ”Yeah, I’d like that too. But that can wait for our unification fight. Right now, my problem is Celeb Mercer.”

”So… just a polite sparring?” Ryoma asks.

”Yeah. Just a sparring.”

”No ego?”

”No ego.”

Ryoma remains silent for a moment before turning back toward the treadmill. He starts it again and resumes his run.

”Sure.”

***

By late afternoon, more journalists begin arriving at the gym, hoping to gather enough material to fill their newspapers as the fight date draws closer.

They expect the usual training footage, a few interviews, perhaps some comments from the fighters and their respective camps. Instead, they find something rather unexpected.

Ryoma and Elliot are already standing inside the ring, both wearing headgear with their gloves raised and their attention fixed entirely on each other.

Around them, members of both coaching teams and a large number of gym athletes have gathered along the ropes, watching in silence.

The atmosphere inside the gym feels unusually intense. And of course, it is difficult for it not to be. Both men are world champions competing in the same weight division, separated only by the two major boxing circuits they represent.

Ryoma holds the WBO title, while Elliot holds the WBC belt. It is certainly not the first time they have shared a ring; Elliot made the same request during his visit to Japan years earlier, when Ryoma was still a rookie and Elliot had already established himself as a world contender. Now, a few years later, they are back in the same ring again, only this time as world champions.

”Alright, boys,” Sergei calls out. ”Keep it clean and keep it sharp. Danny, bell!”

A young amateur fighter standing beside the ring immediately reaches for the bell and starts the stopwatch in his other hand.

Ding!

The sound cuts through the gym, and both champions leave their corners.

Elliot moves first, his stance compact and balanced, carrying the measured discipline of a Soviet-style system. His feet make small, deliberate adjustments as he takes the centre of the ring, maintaining a tight guard while constantly working to control distance and angles without wasting movement.

Ryoma circles away from him with his lead hand extended, his shoulders relaxed and his weight shifting lightly between his feet. His movement carries the defensive philosophy of American Philly boxing, using subtle head movement, shoulder rolls, feints, and changes of rhythm to make his intentions difficult to read.

Neither man throws immediately. They simply study each other, measuring distance and timing while the gym falls noticeably quieter around them.

The journalists around the ring begin whispering among themselves, their attention fixed on the contrasting movements of the two champions.

”Look at the difference between them.”

”Soviet fundamentals against Philly boxing. You don’t see that at this level very often.”

”And both of them are world champions.”

”Exactly. This isn’t just two champions sparring. We’re watching two completely different systems at the highest level.”

”Elliot’s already controlling the space with his feet.”

”While Ryoma’s making himself difficult to hit without giving up his countering position.”

One journalist lowers his camera slightly, his eyes moving between the two fighters.

”I wonder which style comes out on top.”

”Doesn’t matter. If they give us even half of what they’re capable of, this is going to be one hell of a lesson.”

Elliot is the first to test the distance, beginning with light jabs and a probing lead hook while his feet move in a gentle, pendulum-like cadence, his upper body swaying with the rhythm.

But he cannot maintain the rhythm for long, managing only two light punches, with only the second one brushing against Ryoma’s guard.

The moment Elliot begins drifting backward, Ryoma’s lead hand suddenly snaps upward from a low angle.

Swsh!

The left hand flicks out so quickly that it cuts through the air like a sharp whip.

Elliot manages to catch it on his glove…

Dug.

…but it disrupts his rhythm for a moment.

Ryoma does not waste it. He slides his lead foot deeper into range and fires another flicking jab, immediately following it by lowering his level and thrusting the same left hand toward Elliot’s body.

Elliot reacts in time to the first punch, but…

Dug. Thud!

…the second catches him cleanly against the body and nudges him backward a step.

It is only a light punch, but it is enough to draw a reaction from everyone around the ring.

”Oh, he got through.”

”It didn’t take long.”

”Come on, it’s just sparring. I doubt Elliot’s taking it seriously yet.”