VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Shin-Osaka Teppan Boxing Gym has offered Ronin its facilities for the full two-week conditioning camp in Osaka, but Ryoma has chosen to remain at his own residence instead. The team will only move to Osaka for the final three days before the weigh-in, and before that, Ryoma wants one more session with Dr. Miyahara Saki.

When he sits down in her office, Miyahara’s attention immediately goes to his appearance. He is noticeably thinner, slightly pale, and visibly dehydrated, none of which she expected to see.

”You look terrible. Is something wrong? Don’t tell me you’re getting stressed out because of the pressure before the fight.”

”It’s normal,” Ryoma says. ”My ideal weight is somewhere around 66-67 kilos, but Lightweight caps you at 61.2.”

”So you’re expected to fight in this condition?”

”Not exactly. We manipulate the weight. Most of what we cut is water. Once the weigh-in is over, we have roughly thirty hours before the fight to get back close to my normal weight.”

”Cutting more than five kilos before a fight sounds extreme,” Miyahara says. ”And I thought boxers were supposed to follow a healthy diet.”

”No. The cut isn’t in one go. It has to be gradual, spanning around two weeks.”

”I see.” Miyahara pauses briefly. ”Boxing has weight classes, so why not simply compete at one closer to your natural weight?”

”With 67 Kg?” Ryoma says, raising an eyebrow slightly. ”That’d be in Welterweight. But even there, most of the fighters are much bigger than me. And they do the same thing with their weight.”

Miyahara’s expression tightens slightly. ”It’s certainly an unusual way to make a living. I understand that weight cutting doesn’t automatically cause psychological problems, but dehydration and dietary restriction can affect mood, concentration, sleep, and anxiety. Given your tendency to overthink, I wouldn’t dismiss those effects.”

Ryoma remains quiet, considering Miyahara’s words while quietly going over everything he has experienced throughout all the weight cuts he has gone through.

The process is always monitored by professionals like Hiroshi, but that does not make it entirely comfortable. Ryoma has felt the effects himself: stress, mental pressure, sudden mood swings, and terrible sleep. And no matter how carefully the final stage is handled, the final three days remain miserable.

Right now, he still has five days to go. Yet just last night, his thirst had already become bad enough that the sound of water dripping kept bothering him in the middle of the night.

Miyahara remains quiet as well, giving Ryoma room to think while quietly observing him. But she does not let the silence linger for too long, unwilling to let her patient disappear too deeply into his own thoughts.

”Ryoma-kun?”

Something changes briefly in Ryoma’s expression before he looks back at her.

”How are you feeling now? Are you experiencing any of those symptoms?”

Ryoma nods. ”A little. But I can manage it.”

”And what about our talkative little friend?”

”You mean the voice in my head? He hasn’t shown up for a few days.”

”Oh. That sounds like progress. Did something happen between the two of you?”

”I’ve been trying to ignore him for weeks. It’s harder than it sounds. And lately, I’ve also stopped using the Vision Grid.”

”You can stop it simply by deciding to? Like giving it a command?”

”Yeah. Pretty much.”

”Well, that’s certainly something.” Miyahara lets out a small, amused laugh. ”At this rate, you might actually convince me that you have some kind of AI system inside your head that really does obey your commands.”

Ryoma falls quiet again, but this time he is not simply lost in thought. He hesitates, weighing whether he should tell her the whole truth, before finally deciding to open up.

”It’s not exactly like that,” he says. ”The system seems to follow my commands to a certain extent. But when I told it to shut everything down completely, it started resisting. It would always leave one or two features active and shut down the rest. I had to be pretty damn stubborn before it finally turned everything off.”

”And the voice?”

”He’s the most stubborn one,” Ryoma says with a tired sigh. ”At first, the feature appeared as Speech Assistance, so I wouldn’t have to waste time reading the overlay text during a fight. Then it evolved to the point where it could imitate someone’s voice when I read their lips from a distance. And then, somehow, it started acting like it had a mind of its own. Eventually, it began appearing without me activating it, to the point where it started influencing my decisions.”

Miyahara immediately writes several notes, her expression intent as she carefully records Ryoma’s explanation.

”Interesting,” she murmurs.

While Miyahara continues writing and quietly piecing together her deductions, Ryoma finds himself studying the psychiatrist in return. Being the patient does not suddenly switch off the instincts he has always used to read other people.

From what he can see, Miyahara seems to have reached some kind of preliminary conclusion about his situation. And somehow, that realization leaves Ryoma slightly uneasy about what she is going to say next.

Miyahara finally stops writing and remains silent for a few moments, deep in thought, before looking up at him.

”Now, Ryoma-kun. With everything that’s happened since our last session, I want to ask you the same question again. On a scale of one to ten, how certain are you that all of this is real?”

Unlike in their previous sessions, Ryoma now seems to need a little time before answering.

Then he shrugs. ”About seven. Maybe six.”

Miyahara gives him a mildly skeptical look. ”You’re still holding on to the idea that they’re real, huh?”

Ryoma takes a long breath, his expression resigned. ”I know what you’re going to say. That all of this is just an illusion created by my brain. And honestly, for the past three days, I haven’t seen or heard any of them at all. It’s the first time that’s happened in more than three years.”

”It sounds like you’ve really been fighting it.”

”Yeah. I’ve been trying damn hard to ignore them. The last time, the voice sounded almost pissed off about it, and after that, it just stopped showing up.”

Miyahara finally closes her notebook, a small look of relief appearing on her face as she seems genuinely pleased by the progress Ryoma has made.

”I’m very happy with how things are progressing. It suggests you have considerably more control over your responses than you did before.”

”Does that mean this is our last session?” Ryoma asks.

Miyahara gives him a teasing smile. ”If I’m being honest, I’d be perfectly happy to keep seeing you. Your visits are quite good for my business.”

”You really are a capitalist.”

”Well, I wouldn’t call this resolved yet. Symptoms like these can return, sometimes when you least expect them. But from here, the choice is yours. If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me. My hourly rate will remain exactly the same.”

Ryoma rises first, followed by Miyahara, and the two exchange a polite bow before he turns toward the door.

”See you soon.”

”Not too soon,” Miyahara replies with a faint smile. ”I’d rather you didn’t end up dealing with this again that quickly.”

The door closes softly behind Ryoma, and Miyahara’s warm, reassuring smile slowly disappears.

She remains still for a moment before returning to her desk. Her expression has become much more serious now, her attention settling on the notebook lying open in front of her.

She turns back through the pages, scanning the brief entries she has accumulated during their sessions.

Voice — autonomous.

System — responsive to commands.

Suppression — incomplete.

Perceptual accuracy — unusually high.

Lip-reading — confirmed.

Analytical ability — exceptional.

Anxiety — persistent.

Miyahara reaches for the small recorder beside her notebook and switches it on.

”Several observations appear to be connected. The voice is not simply recurring. Its behavior seems to correspond with changes in the patient’s own cognitive state.”

She pauses, reading another section of her notes before making another analysis.

”If the system becomes more prominent when his anxiety increases, then it may be functioning as a compensatory mechanism rather than an independent pathological process. Something his mind developed to handle cognitive demands that became difficult to manage consciously.”

Her pen moves slowly across the page, writing down new key words, before making another analysis.

”But that explanation becomes harder to accept when we consider how the system resisted being shut down. If it were simply a coping mechanism, why would it behave as though it had a will of its own?”

”Unless the perception of autonomy itself is part of the mechanism. His analytical ability may also be relevant.”

”He continuously observes, categorizes, predicts, and searches for relationships between unrelated details.”

”Those abilities are highly developed, but they may also provide the cognitive structure necessary for an internal construct to become extraordinarily elaborate.”

”And if his anxiety amplifies that process, then perhaps the voice is not the origin of the problem at all. It may be the product of several otherwise ordinary cognitive functions interacting in an unusually complex way.”

Her eyes remain fixed on the notes, a small flicker of recognition crossing her face.

”That would explain some of the inconsistencies. But not all of them.”

She presses the recorder closer, and a faint smile touches her lips.

”Which is precisely why this case is so interesting.”