VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 689: Hold Everything in Place

Chapter 689: Hold Everything in Place

Mizuno doesn’t speak for a moment. The words early-stage tumor don’t register as a conclusion, only as an unwelcome possibility that immediately narrows the air in his chest.

His eyes stay fixed on the MRI, but his focus drifts between what he knows medically and what he is seeing, neither of them quite resolving into certainty.

Ryoma has shown no symptoms so far, no decline, nothing that would normally point toward anything like this.

“You seriously think this is a tumor?” he asks, his gaze sharpening.

“I think that’s the most conservative interpretation,” Davies replies. “But…” She pauses, choosing her words. “The structure isn’t behaving like one I’ve seen before.”

Mizuno frowns slightly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning it has a level of organization that doesn’t fully match pathological growth patterns.” Her gaze stays fixed on the scan. “There are faint fold-like structures. Slight asymmetry compared to the surrounding anatomy. And the density distribution is… inconsistent with typical lesions.”

She finally looks up at him. “Which is why I didn’t dismiss it immediately.”

Mizuno remains silent for a moment, absorbing the information. Slowly, the clinical part of his mind tries to categorize what he’s seeing, but it doesn’t settle cleanly into anything familiar.

“…So your initial concern is still tumor,” he says.

“Yes,”

Davies replies without hesitation. “But an atypical one. Something I would not classify confidently without further analysis.”

The word tumor lingers between them, clinically grounded, safe and familiar. Yet neither of them fully commits to it in the way doctors usually would.

Because the image on the scan, even to Mizuno’s untrained eye, feels like it is resisting that explanation.

Davies lowers the MRI slightly, her expression no longer purely analytical. There’s a hesitation now, something closer to uncertainty than curiosity.

“I need your opinion on this,” she says quietly. “If we assume this is real, do we tell him? Or do we wait until we understand it better? Because there’s still a possibility this isn’t what it looks like. It could just be imaging artifacts, positional distortion, even a benign irregularity that means nothing clinically.”

Mizuno keeps his eyes on the scan for a moment longer before answering. When he does, his tone is steady, grounded more in experience than speculation.

“There are no real symptoms so far,” he says. “No neurological signs, no changes in his performance pattern that would suggest something active or progressive. Even if this is real, even if there is something there, it may never amount to anything harmful.”

He pauses slightly, then adds with a quiet firmness, “And telling him now changes everything for no immediate benefit. He is in the middle of unifying two regional titles. By projection, he will be stepping into a world title challenge shortly after that. At this stage, the cost of that information is far greater than its certainty.”

Davies studies him carefully. “So you’re suggesting we delay telling him?Keep it from him for now?”

Mizuno exhales softly, still looking at the image rather than her. “It’s still a serious matter to ignore. So we keep observing for now. We don’t draw conclusions yet, and we don’t introduce unnecessary fear into his preparation. If there is something developing, we’ll detect it in time.”

He carefully slides the MRI back into its protective sleeve, ensuring the edges are aligned, before returning the sealed envelope to Davies with measured calm.

“We can run another MRI after this fight,” Mizuno adds. “This scan is already over a year old. A new comparison will give us far more clarity than speculation ever could. I’ll inform you immediately once we have it.”

Davies nods once, accepting the plan without further objection. She slides the envelope back into her bag, then casually takes out a business card and holds it out between two fingers, offering it to him without ceremony.

“You can reach me through this,” she says simply.

Mizuno takes the card, glancing at it briefly before she offers a small, courteous bow and steps away.

“I’ll take my leave,” she says, and then turns, leaving down the corridor with unhurried composure.

Left alone, Mizuno looks down at the card in his hand, studying the name more closely now. Only then does it register that he never properly verified her credentials or questioned how deeply she was already involved in Ryoma’s case before sharing sensitive details.

***

Meanwhile, Kurogane is already inside the locker room, standing near the door with his arms loosely at his sides, watching without interrupting.

The space is filled with the sharp rhythm of gloves meeting mitts, the controlled chaos of final preparation before a fight.

Nakahara stands in front of Ryoma, calling the cadence as he moves the pads into position.

“Again. One-two!”

Pat-pat!

“Good. Stay sharp. One-two-three. Don’t chase it.”

Pat-pat-pat!

Ryoma answers each cue without hesitation. Right now, even his right hand snaps out cleanly when asked, crisp and precise, the impact of each strike sounding solid against the mitts.

On the surface, there is nothing unusual about his right shoulder. He moves like a fighter fully in rhythm, fully present.

“Two-punch entry. Jab-cross. Reset,” Nakahara calls.

Ryoma steps in, executes it cleanly…

Pat-pat!

…and resets his stance immediately.

His breathing stays controlled, his shoulders relaxed, his posture balanced. To anyone unfamiliar, there is no visible flaw in his condition.

But Kurogane notices what others might miss. Ryoma’s right arm never fully opens into wider arcs. There are no heavy hooks thrown from the outside line, no exaggerated rotations that would pull the shoulder into vulnerable angles.

Every strike from that side is compact, disciplined, almost restrained in design. Even when Nakahara increases the tempo, Ryoma keeps his movement tight, favoring short, efficient hooks and straight punches that return quickly to guard.

“Don’t overextend your right,” Nakahara says as if reading the same adjustment. “Keep it inside. Tight. You don’t need the big shot.”

Ryoma gives a short nod, continuing without breaking rhythm.

The restraint is not hesitation. It is control, a deliberate limitation placed within an otherwise sharp and fluid performance. His timing remains intact, his speed unaffected, his accuracy still precise. Yet everything from the right hand is calculated to avoid unnecessary exposure, as if every movement has been measured against a risk only he fully understands.

“Good. That’s it. Again. Same rhythm,” Nakahara continues, stepping slightly to the side as he changes the angle of the mitts.

Ryoma follows instantly, landing another clean sequence. Jab, cross, compact hook, reset. The sound of leather hitting pads fills the room in steady intervals.

“Don’t overwork your right shoulder,” Nakahara reprimands. “Keep it compact and tight. You need that shoulder stay in its place.”

And even with that hidden restraint, Ryoma’s performance does not weaken. If anything, it becomes more efficient, more controlled, like a fighter who has removed everything unnecessary and kept only what is essential.

***

Kurogane keeps his gaze on Ryoma’s right shoulder for a moment longer, then shifts slightly as a staff member steps into the room.

“It’s time,” the staffer says. “We’re ready for walkout.”

Nakahara immediately lowers the mitts. The sharp rhythm of gloves stops mid-combination. Ryoma rolls his shoulders once, loosening tension out of habit.

Around him, the corner team moves into motion. Tape is checked, mouthguard is secured, water is offered and then pulled away after a quick sip.

Okabe adjusts the robe over his shoulders, smoothing it down as if aligning the last detail of preparation. Hiroshi comes down and tightens the laces on his boots without a word, hands moving fast but careful.

No one speaks much. Everything is procedural now, familiar enough that language is almost unnecessary.

Kurogane follows as the group begins to move out of the room and into the corridor. The sound of the locker room fades behind them.

As they walk, Nakahara stays slightly behind Ryoma, his steps slower than usual. His eyes are not on the path ahead but somewhere further inward, weighed down by something he cannot quite let go of.

The memory of Kenta’s fight keeps resurfacing, uninvited and unfinished. He sees it again in fragments; the corner, the break between rounds, the decision to step back and let Kenta remain in his zone, believing that interference would only break what needed to stay intact.

At the time, it had seemed like the correct call for a fighter facing that kind of opponent. But what followed refuses to stay clean in Nakahara’s mind.

The stoppage. The doctor stepping in. The argument that never got a chance to fully exist before it became final.

“I wonder,” Nakahara says suddenly, more to the floor than to anyone else, his voice rough with thought. “If I hadn’t left Kenta alone in that corner… if I had treated the cut myself… maybe that ring doctor wouldn’t have had the chance to step in like that. Maybe the outcome would have been different.”

Ryoma slows slightly, and glances over his shoulder, catching the expression on Nakahara’s face, the way the older man is walking with his gaze lowered.

Then Ryoma looks forward again and keeps walking as he speaks. “If you want to regret something, then regret the fact that Kenta couldn’t finish it without relying on the Zone in the first place. We all know what that zone is. It’s not a clean solution. It always comes with something attached.”

Nakahara lifts his head slightly at that, the tone sharpening his attention.

“Sorry, kid,” he says after a beat, his voice firmer now. “But if you ever come back to me in that state, don’t expect me to let it slide. I’ll pull you out of it myself if I have to. I don’t want to repeat what happened today. Zone or not, I’m still your second. And I’ll do what a second supposed to do.”

“Relax, old man,” Ryoma replies, letting out a small shrug without breaking stride. “I don’t need the Zone for this one. Just stay back and watch. I’m going to win this clean. No complications. No drama. I’ll finish it early.”