VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

By the time Malik steps out of the house, the morning air has already settled into the same damp grayness London has been offering all week.

A van is already waiting by the curb. As Malik approaches, Coach Darren turns his head toward him through the open window in the front passenger seat.

”How’s your fever?”

”It’s gone,” Malik says, sliding open the side door and climbing inside. ”But I’m down to sixty point six. Must’ve sweated a good chunk of that off with the fever.”

”Ah, man…” Barry groans immediately. ”Didn’t I tell you last night to hydrate properly?”

”How was I supposed to hydrate while I was sleeping?” Malik shoots back.

”At least the fever’s gone,” Darren says, giving the driver a small gesture.

The van finally pulls away from the curb. But barely three minutes into the journey, Malik already reaches for a small packet of tissue.

”My fever’s gone,” he says, blowing his nose into it. ”But this bloody thing is still bothering me.”

Barry suddenly remembers something. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small packet of health product.

”Breathe Right,” he says, handing it over. ”It won’t cure anything, but it should make breathing a bit easier.”

Malik looks at the packet, then at Barry.

”Thanks.”

He tears it open and removes the nasal strip before carefully pressing it across the bridge of his nose. Then he draws in a slow breath through his nose, and his shoulders loosen slightly.

”Bloody hell.”

Barry glances at him. ”Better?”

Malik takes another breath, testing it.

”Yeah.”

***

By the time they reach the venue, Malik catches sight of the cameras gathered outside. Immediately he feels a small, unwelcome pressure settle in his chest.

His fingers brush against the Breathe Right strip across his nose. Suddenly the strip feels so conspicuous. The fact that he had spent the past few days making jokes about London’s weather makes it considerably worse.

As Barry is busy helping with the luggage, Malik secretly peels the Breath Right away from his nose. But as the team walks together toward the stage, Barry notices it anyway.

”Malik, why’d you take the strip off?”

”The effect wore off,” Malik says. ”Besides, my nose isn’t bothering me anymore.”

Soon, they find Ryoma and his entire team already there, ten of them altogether, and every one of them is wearing a mask, including the five personal bodyguards, also Kurogane and Sera who arrived in London just three days ago.

Against the uncovered faces surrounding them, the contrast is almost comical. The masked group stands together in almost perfect formation, looking like a delegation that has been informed the building might contain something highly contagious.

”Now, can anyone remind me why we all agreed to do this at once?” Sera says, visibly uncomfortable with all the attention they are getting.

Kurogane chuckles lightly. ”We look a little suspicious, don’t we?”

”Well…” Hayakawa chimes in, ”we certainly stand out.”

Even Malik’s entourage slows for a moment, caught off guard by the unusual sight. They had already heard journalists questioning Ryoma’s strange remarks about rain being capable of killing him, but seeing his entire team standing there in masks makes the whole thing look considerably more absurd.

”Christ, look at them,” one of the assistant coaches says. ”Whole bloody family reunion in masks.”

Another snorts. ”What do they think this is, the Black Death?”

Barry glances at him. ”Ah-uh. They may look a bit excessive, but considering our own fighter came down with a fever right before the fight, I’d rather we didn’t turn ourselves into the punchline.”

***

With both fighters, their respective teams, and the WBO officials all in place, the formal proceedings finally begin. The media settle around the stage as the organizers call the challenger forward first.

”Malik Adebayo. Please step forward.”

Malik strips down to his trunks. Immediately, the room feels cooler against his bare skin, and for a moment, a faint shiver runs through him. His throat tightens slightly as he swallows, followed by a small sniff he tries to suppress.

Ryoma’s eyes sharpen immediately. Malik quickly composes himself, but the brief reaction has not escaped his notice.

Leaning to Hiroshi, Ryoma whispers, ”Something is not right with him.”

Hiroshi raises his brows. ”You think so?”

Ryoma gives a small nod without a doubt. And the impression only strengthens once Malik steps onto the scale.

”60.53 kilograms. Malik Adebayo, clear.”

A restless murmur moves through the media gathered below the stage. Malik has made the lightweight limit, but a gap that large can sometimes raise questions about his preparation.

”That’s lighter than expected.”

”That’s a fair bit under.”

”You don’t cut that much by accident.”

”Something’s clearly changed in the last few days at the camp.”

Regardless of the reaction, Malik steps down from the scale with his confidence intact. It does not waver when he notices Ryoma already beginning to undress before his own name is called.

With his slightly taller frame, Ryoma does look leaner than Malik at the lightweight limit. To Malik, however, it looks like evidence of a weight cut that has gone rather poorly.

Malik takes his seat and leans toward Barry. ”Christ, look at him. I’m starting to feel rather healthy.”

Ryoma finishes removing his trousers, leaving him in the short trunks required for the weigh-in.

The official calls him forward. ”Ryoma Takeda. Please. It’s your turn.”

Ryoma walks toward the scale, his mask still covering the lower half of his face.

”Could you remove the mask, please?” the official asks.

Ryoma stops. ”Is that part of the protocol? That masks aren’t allowed?”

”No. We just need to make sure you’re really Ryoma Takeda. Not someone else.”

Ryoma creates a little distance between them, then lowers the mask just enough to expose his face.

”Is this enough?”

The official frowns at him for a moment before finally nodding.

Ryoma steps onto the scale. The numbers settle, and the official announces the result.

”61.18 kilograms. Ryoma Takeda, clear.”

A polite round of applause spreads through the venue as Ryoma steps off the scale. Malik, however, watches with a slightly sour expression, evidently less pleased than he had been a moment ago.

”Forget the bloody mask,” Barry whispers to him. ”Looks like his conditioning is perfect. Unlike someone else in this room.”

Malik opens his mouth, apparently ready with a response, but the moderator is already calling them toward the press table.

”Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll now move into the final media session before tomorrow night’s fight. Please welcome both fighters to the podium.”

The media shift forward almost immediately, cameras rising as both fighters are directed toward their seats.

The opening questions are polite and predictable. Neither fighter gives the room much to work with.

The session remains uneventful until one journalist finally turns toward Ryoma’s entourage.

”Mr. Takeda, forgive me if this sounds rude, but you seem to be taking the use of masks rather seriously. It’s not just you, but your entire team, as though everyone suddenly caught a virus the moment you arrived in a foreign country. Is there any reason for it that might be a little easier for the rest of us to understand?”

Ryoma answers without hesitation, his tone calm and measured. ”In Japan, wearing a mask in public has become a collective awareness, especially when the weather is less than ideal. I believe it is a good habit, and at the moment, my team and I are simply trying to set an example. I would recommend adopting it.”

Another journalist leans toward his microphone, sensing an opportunity to push the subject further.

”Don’t you think this is getting a little… excessive? Maybe even offensive?”

”Offensive how?” Ryoma asks.

”I remember the last time you came here for the purse bid for your fight with Miguel Cabello,” the man says. ”You weren’t wearing masks like this then. Now you arrive with your entire entourage looking like this, and frankly, it looks like a mind game. I can understand if that is directed at your opponent, but this goes beyond that. You’re giving the impression that our country is somehow so dangerous that you and your entire team need to protect yourselves from simply being here.”

For a moment, Ryoma feels the pressure of the question. He recognizes the trap immediately: answer badly, and his image could become the story.

But his belief in the responsibility he carries as a regressor from the future gives him enough resolve to take the risk anyway.

”You have to understand that influenza viruses evolve every season,” Ryoma says. ”The reason we continue to live alongside them is because we adapt as well. But I’m concerned that it won’t always work, especially when the evolution of a virus is deliberately engineered to serve the interests of certain people in the pharmaceutical industry.”

The man looks caught off guard. ”Sorry, but… I find it hard to follow your statement.”

”I believe you understand me well enough,” Ryoma says. ”You’re simply not ready for it yet. But trust me, in a few months, when the world is no longer as healthy as it is today, you’ll understand how important this message was.”

A few puzzled looks pass between the journalists. Some struggle to suppress a chuckle behind their hands, while others make no effort to hide their amusement, pulling exaggeratedly silly expressions as though Ryoma has just delivered the strangest lecture of his career.

”What the hell is this kid rambling about?” someone whispers to his friend.

”This is getting out of hand,” the friend murmurs. ”I’ve heard him say some ridiculous things before. Like that whole ’leak from the future’ business. But this is getting ridiculous.”

There is now something almost absurd about watching a world boxing champion suddenly sound like a scientist who has wandered into conspiracy theory territory simply because someone gave him a microphone.

”This is too much…” Malik says, suddenly slapping the table once with an exaggerated laugh.

For a moment, his obsession with turning every situation into stand-up comedy overwhelms even the concern that has been hanging over him since the cold began.

Malik reaches for the microphone, then turns toward Ryoma with a grin. ”Mate, I came here to fight a boxer, not listen to you predict the end of civilization because somebody sneezed near you. At this rate, I’m starting to think a doctor might be good for your mental health. You are bloody lunatic.”