VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 640: Eyes on the Van

Chapter 640: Eyes on the Van

November 14th.

By the time Ryoma and the team step off the plane in Manila, whatever image people might have of fighters arriving sharp and composed fades almost instantly.

They had chosen to depart from Haneda to avoid the long drive out to Narita, convincing themselves it would make the journey easier. But five and a half hours in the air still takes its toll.

The cabin air leaves their throats dry. Their bodies feel heavier, muscles stiff from staying in place too long, joints slow to respond as they forward with the rest of the passengers.

“My shoulder feel like I just went ten rounds?” Aramaki mutters, rotating his shoulders as if trying to loosen something stuck deep inside.

Kenta presses his fingers briefly against his temple before exhaling. “You’re lucky it’s just your shoulder. My head’s still spinning. Feels like the ground’s moving slower than it should.”

Aramaki lets out a quiet breath, flexing his arm once more. “And we paid extra for better seats. Imagine doing this in economy.”

Kenta huffs a faint laugh. “Please, don’t start it.”

When they finally step into the airport, the difference in air helps a little, but not enough to erase the fatigue clinging to them.

Okabe lets out a long breath, stretching his neck as he walks. “I don’t care how we plan it next time. I’m not doing that again without knocking myself out first.”

Ryohei glances at him, his expression just as worn. “You were out for half the flight.”

“Not enough,” Okabe replies, rubbing his shoulder.

This time, the group feels more complete. Okabe and Ryohei are both here, brought along to serve as sparring partners while also supporting the corner team, adding a different kind of energy compared to the smaller team that went to Melbourne.

But at the same time, there’s an absence that doesn’t go unnoticed. No offhand comments from Sera about how this is nothing compared to the flights he got used to during his years in England.

Sera has to stay behind with Satoru, whose All Japan Rookie King Final is scheduled on December 27th­­. The gym’s focus had to be split, and this trip carries only part of it forward.

Ahead, Nakahara and Hiroshi walk at their usual pace, while Ryoma follows just behind them, quieter than the rest.

“We’ve had worse,” Hiroshi mutters, “but that doesn’t mean you ever get used to it.”

Nakahara gives a small nod. “One or two trips won’t change that. At best, you just learn how to manage it a little better each time.”

“Still,” Hiroshi adds, “we made the right call coming early.”

“Yeah,” Nakahara replies. “Five weeks before the fight. We’ll have to cover two weeks ourselves, but it’s necessary.”

Further ahead, Kurogane has already headed straight toward the baggage claim area, clearly intending to handle the luggage before the fighters even get there.

If he moves fast enough, they won’t have to deal with the added strain of hauling their own gear after a flight like this.

***

Waiting for the baggage turns out to be its own kind of test. The conveyor belt moves at an unhurried pace, while the fighters stand there with bodies that still haven’t fully recovered from the flight.

No one complains out loud anymore, but it shows in the way they stand, in how often their eyes drift toward the belt as if willing their bags to appear faster.

For a brief moment, there’s a shared expectation among them that the hardest part of the journey is over after that. But the moment they step past the exit, the space ahead is already crowded.

Voices rise before they can even fully register what’s happening. And then the movement begins; cameras lifting, microphones pushing forward, people closing in from every direction.

“Ryoma! Ryoma, over here!”

“Ryoma Takeda, how do you feel arriving in Manila?”

“Are you confident going into the unification bout?”

“Is this the biggest fight of your career so far?”

“What message do you have for Filipino fans?”

The questions come too fast, overlapping, stepping over one another as the group instinctively slows. The formation tightens, bodies shifting slightly to keep space, but the focus is clear. Every lens, every outstretched hand, is aimed at one person, Ryoma.

For a split second, he remembers how he had agreed to lean into this, to help build momentum, to play his part in promoting what’s coming. But right now, his body feels heavy, and his eyes are already moving, scanning for a way through the crowd rather than a place to stand.

“Sorry,” he says, lifting a hand slightly without stopping. “I just got off the flight. I’m not in condition to talk right now.”

He keeps walking. But the reporters don’t stop. If anything, the refusal only sharpens their pursuit.

“Just one comment, Takeda!”

“Are you avoiding media today?”

“Is there a specific reason you don’t want to speak now?”

More footsteps close in. More cameras appear from the side, from behind, from all directions. The space tightens, the path forward narrowing as the group is gradually boxed in.

Ryoma exhales once, then slows just enough to give them something, knowing full well they won’t stop otherwise.

“I’m feeling fine,” he says, voice steady despite the fatigue. “Long flight, but we’re here to do our job. I hope the fans enjoy the fight.”

It’s short, controlled, exactly the kind of answer that usually satisfies a first wave. But it doesn’t hold. The questions shift almost immediately, pressing into a different space.

“Takeda, there’s been growing discussion about your camp recently. Any response to calls for transparency?”

“Some analysts are questioning the structure behind your recent fights. What do you say to that?”

“Are you aware of concerns regarding how your career has been managed?”

“Do you believe everything surrounding your rise has been completely fair?”

“Will your team be open about contracts and promotional deals for this event?”

Ryoma says nothing, like the questions don’t land in a place he’s prepared to answer. Nothing forms cleanly in his mind, no simple line he can give and move past. The space feels tighter. the cameras are closer. And for the first time since stepping out, he looks cornered.

“Sorry. That’s it for today,” he says, tone calm but closed. “If you have questions about contracts or anything like that, you should address the host. We’re guests here.”

He steps forward, slipping through the narrowest opening he can find, the rest of the team closing in around him as they finally push past the crowd, leaving the noise and the unanswered questions behind.

Far from the crowd, past the edge of the parking area where the noise fades into a distant blur, a dark sedan sits with its engine idling low.

From the outside, it looks like any other car waiting to leave the airport. From the inside, the view is clear. Two men sit in the front. The driver, a Caucasian man in his late thirties, keeps one hand loosely on the wheel. Beside him, an African-American man leans slightly back in his seat, phone pressed to his ear.

The driver shifts slightly, before speaking in a low, relaxed Harlem drawl.

“Yo, Archie… they rollin’.”

Archie doesn’t respond with words. He gives a small nod, barely noticeable, but enough.

The message is clear. The car rolls forward, smooth and controlled, merging into the flow just as the van taking Ryoma and the group begins to pull away from the curb.

Meanwhile, Archie’s talking to the phone, attention never leaving the vehicle ahead.

“Yeah, we’re on them now.”

There’s a pause as the voice on the other end speaks. Archie’s eyes narrow slightly, listening. Then, juts for a moment, he talks to the driver.

“Dave… keep your distance. Don’t let them clock us.”

“Sure,” Dave replies, easing off the pedal just enough.

The car falls back a few lengths, the movement subtle, the engine settling into a quieter rhythm as he smooths out the drive.

Archie listens to the phone for a moment longer before speaking again.

“Sparring partners? Yeah… we’ve been digging. Trying to figure out who they’re bringing in. But there’s nothing. No local hires, no outside names.”

The voice on the other end cuts in, louder this time.

<< What do you mean nothing? You’ve had over a month. And you’re telling me you still don’t know who he’s sparring with? >>

Archie exhales through his nose. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. They’re not using locals at all. They actually brought gym members. One of them’s the JBC Super Lightweight champ, Ryohei Yamada. Chances are they’re just working with each other. I’ve heard that’s how they do it. Closed circle. No outsiders in sparring.”

The response on the other end comes quieter now. Archie’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a slight tension in his shoulders.

“Yes, I hired a few people,” he says quietly, gaze sharpening. “He’s not getting a single peaceful day here.”

A few seconds later, the call ends. Archie lowers the phone, slipping it back into his pocket.

“Keep following,” he says.