VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The local journalists are growing increasingly uneasy. Ryoma is becoming exactly the kind of headline they do not want representing Japanese boxing on the international stage.

Eventually, the same journalist he scolded weeks ago raises a hand. He barely waits to be acknowledged before launching into his question, sounding impatient and reeking of accusation.

”I’m fairly familiar with your controversial reputation during your rookie years. But after you became the OPBF champion and eventually started working as a promoter, you seemed to have done a remarkable job rebuilding your image into one that people actually liked.”

He pauses only briefly before pressing on. ”But now that you’re a world champion, you suddenly seem to be showing your old face again. So what was it? Were you simply wearing a mask all these years to sell an image for money? Don’t you think you owe something to the people whose support you’ve been exploiting all this time?”

The question leaves Ryoma silent for long enough that the journalists begin to wonder if, perhaps, he might finally show a little remorse and change his attitude.

Then, without warning, he lets out a short, amused chuckle. It quickly turns into unhinged laughter, his eyes taking on a manic gleam.

”You’ve got to be kidding me. You people were the ones standing in my way when I was trying to become a champion in this country. And now that I’m a world champion, suddenly you think you had something to do with all of this?”

”This success is entirely my own doing. I trained hard. I lived with the discipline of a twenty-four-seven athlete. I had to suppress every fucking urge just to keep my body in shape. I denied myself good food. I didn’t have sex. I didn’t date. I didn’t drink. Hell, I was actually an alcoholic. A sex addict, too. And I’ve been abstaining from all of it since my debut.”

”And now I’m successful, and you think you had a part in that?”

The journalists simply stare at him. One of them slowly lowers his pen, apparently forgetting that he was supposed to be taking notes, while another shifts uneasily in his seat and glances toward a colleague as if silently asking whether they are hearing the same thing.

The atmosphere in the room changes almost imperceptibly. The accusation that had seemed so satisfying when it left the journalist’s mouth suddenly feels much less clever now that Ryoma has answered it.

Even the foreign journalists, who had been more than willing to challenge Ryoma moments ago, seem reluctant to be the next person to speak.

Even Nakahara and the rest of the Ronin team look completely caught off guard. They are the people closest to Ryoma, and they know better than anyone that he often changes his personality and behavior as part of his psychological warfare. But this is different. This is the first time they have seen him lose control to this extent.

Reika and Aki are left staring at him in stunned silence. The admiration they had built for Ryoma over the years suddenly feels shaken, replaced by the unsettling realization that they may not know the man they thought they did.

From the back of the room, a few cameras start clicking, albeit a bit late, finally realizing that they may have just witnessed something far more unsettling than another ugly side of his personality.

”Now you stand there and tell me I owe you something?” Ryoma continues, his manic grin still plastered across his face. ”For what? Writing articles about me? Selling newspapers because you needed a villain? Pretending you supported me once I became profitable enough to make you look good?”

He shakes his head, his eyes moving slowly across the press table. ”No. You don’t get to rewrite history just because I turned out to be successful. You didn’t make me. You didn’t train me. You didn’t bleed for me. You didn’t spend years starving yourself, breaking your body, or fighting through every fucking urge just to become what I am now.”

He brings the microphone closer, seemingly nowhere near finished. But before he can say another word, Kurogane suddenly reaches over and snatches it from his hand.

”Ladies and gentlemen, I sincerely apologize for the unexpected remarks,” Kurogane says, forcing a polite smile as he turns toward the press. ”I believe we’ve gone far enough for today. Thank you all for attending. This press conference is officially over.”

”What the hell?” Ryoma snaps. ”Kurogane! Give it back. I’m not finished.”

”I know,” Kurogane says quietly, keeping the microphone out of reach. ”That’s precisely why we’re ending this now.”

Ryoma reaches for it anyway, but Nakahara is already moving. He catches Ryoma by the arm and pulls him away from the table.

”Come on, kid. That’s enough. We’re done here.”

”Get your hands off me.”

”Not happening.”

”I said I’m not finished.”

Nakahara tightens his grip as Ryoma tries to pull himself free, but Ryoma is barely even looking at him. His attention remains fixed on the journalists, his manic grin still stretched across his face.

”You wanted honesty, didn’t you?” Ryoma calls toward them. ”So why are you suddenly trying to shut me up? Write this down! Go ahead!”

”Ryoma,” Nakahara says firmly. ”Enough.”

Ryoma laughs and twists against his grip. ”What? Afraid I might hurt their feelings?”

A sudden burst of camera flashes erupts from the back of the room. Several journalists start shouting questions at once, their voices colliding as others scramble to get closer or simply raise their cameras above the crowd.

Seeing Nakahara and Kurogane having trouble in controlling Ryoma, Hayakawa quickly steps onto the stage.

”Hayakawa, tell them I’m not finished.”

”No.”

Ryoma turns toward him, laughing incredulously. ”You too?”

Hayakawa moves in beside Nakahara and Kurogane, takes hold of Ryoma’s other arm. Together, they begin pulling him away from the press table.

”Let go of me,” Ryoma growls, digging his heels against the floor. ”I can walk.”

”Then walk,” Hayakawa says.

Ryoma takes one step forward, then deliberately turns his head back toward the journalists.

”You parasites got your story,” he says, his voice dripping with contempt. ”Congratulations. Now you can all pretend you discovered something profound.”

Ryoma laughs again, louder this time, as the two men continue dragging him toward the edge of the stage.

”You know what you people are good at?” he shouts. ”Making money from someone else’s misery and calling it journalism.”

”Ryoma, stop,” Nakahara says, trying to keep his voice calm. ”Just come with us.”

”Why? They’re enjoying this.”

Another barrage of flashes explodes across the room. And Ryoma actually throws his head back toward them and laughs harder.

”Look at them! Look at you fucking vultures!”

Hayakawa finally loses patience. He steps behind Ryoma, wraps an arm firmly around his upper body, and begins physically steering him toward the exit.

”Okay. We’re leaving.”

”Hey! I can walk!”

”Then stop fighting me.”

”I’m not fighting you.”

”You’re literally fighting me.”

”No! My enemy is them! Those fucking vultures!”

Ryoma continues laughing as Hayakawa forces him toward the backstage entrance, Nakahara following close behind.

”You’d better get a good picture!” Ryoma shouts over his shoulder. ”This is the real me!”

The journalists’ cameras flash continuously as Ryoma disappears through the doorway, still laughing and throwing insults over his shoulder until the doors finally close behind him.

For several seconds, Reika and Aki remain frozen on the spot. Neither of them seems to know what to say.

”Reika…” Aki turns to her, her face pale with concern. ”What happened to Ryoma?”

Reika swallows and shakes her head.

”Don’t ask me.”