If anyone asked Ryoma what kind of power he wanted most, he would say the Sharingan. Not the fancy, bleeding-eye, space-warping kind. Just the basic one, the two tomoes are enough. Enough to copy a boxer's jab, dodge a sucker punch, or set a perfect counter. With that alone, he could dominate any street fight.
Even Trafalgar Law's devil fruit power would do. Room. Slice space. Walk into a bank vault. Commit the greatest heist in history without leaving a fingerprint. Walk out rich.
He's not asking for much, just a way out, one real edge. And the joke is, he actually has one, a unique ability.
It's not from some weird looking fruit or a ninja bloodline, but something that sparks in his brain after an accident. Something wrong behind his eyes.
Now he notices everything, too much of everything. The staggered rhythm of a man's breathing. A loose thread on someone's sock across the train. The faint tremble in a cashier's hand when she counts change. Details no one's supposed to notice. Details that bury themselves in his mind and refuse to leave.
But he gained it the same moment he lost the ability to properly use his left leg. It doesn't help him fight, doesn't help him live.
And he's tried. Really tried, using it for living.
He once thought maybe art could be the answer. He'd sketch what he saw, but raw detail isn't talent, not when his fingers can't guide a pencil the way his brain demands.
He even went to the police, told them he might be able to catch lies, spot inconsistencies, read micro-expressions. But they looked at him like he was out of his mind.
He applied for freelance work too: bug testing, quality control, data entry. But employers didn't want someone who saw too much.
So now he's here, ringside at a title match, front row, center seat. The ticket cost the last of his savings. He leans forward on his elbows. His eyes lock onto the two men in the ring.
"Oh, come on! What's with that clumsy footwork?" Ryoma shouts, half whining. "How the hell did you get here with technique that ugly?"
He used to dream of being in there himself, fighting, owning a belt. But that was before a truck came out of nowhere on a rainy Tuesday and crushed his left leg, his future, his everything.
Now all he has is a sharp eye, and a crumpled betting ticket in his hand. He's put everything on the challenger, every last yen, even coins scraped from the bottom of a tea-stained drawer.
Not because the odds are good. The champion's defending his title for the seventh time tonight, undefeated, untouchable. Almost everyone in the arena is riding on him.
If the challenger wins, Ryoma walks out of here the richest man in the block. But if he loses… he isn't planning to wake up the next morning.
Unfortunately, the challenger is getting torn apart. He's been on the defensive since round one. There's no spark in him, just stubbornness and a chin that hasn't broken yet. He fights just like Ryoma lives: cornered, desperate, and barely hanging on.
"Come on!" Ryoma gestures in frustration, shifting his weight off his dead left leg. "Did you even train? Step it up next round!"
Then the bell rings. Round three begins, and the match surges forward. Gloves thunder, sweat flings off flesh, but Ryoma isn't watching like a fan. He's analyzing, dissecting, betting on the only thing he has left: his sharp eyes.
And then, he sees it. A tiny delay in the champion's guard reset. A half-twist in his posture. The way his upper body dips when backing out of close range.
Then the challenger lands a soft body shot, not much but just enough to make the champion winces.
There Ryoma's breath catches. Then he shoots to his feet, heart hammering.
"THE LEFT RIB! AIM AT THE LEFT RIB!"
The champion hears him, even glances at him. Suddenly, his rhythm falters, and his footwork slows. He grows cautious, too cautious.
"I knew it," Ryoma whispers, clutching his ticket.
"HE MUST HAVE HURT HIS LEFT RIBS DURING TRAINING. AIM FOR IT!!!"
But the challenger doesn't hear him. And the bell rings again, ending the third round. The champion walks back to his corner. He is still in control, but the confidence has left him.
"What's wrong?" his Second asks. "Why didn't you end him there?"
The champion says nothing. His eyes stay locked on Ryoma.
"Who is that guy?"
No one answers, no one knows. Because Ryoma is just a nobody.
The bell rings again. But Ryoma has already left his seat. The betting ticket is still clutched in his hand, only because of his anger.
And then…
WAAAA!!!
The crowd erupts.
Ryoma turns, and there he sees the champion is on one knee, clutching his left ribs. The challenger has just grazed the same spot again.
But this time, the pain shows, and the Champion's mask has completely gone. He gets up, but he's not the same.
The challenger sees it now, he smells blood. Then he gambles everything, throwing himself at that one weakness, betting his life on the line.
And…
"ANOTHER DOWN!"
"That's twice in a minute!"
"Can he stand? Can he continue?"
"Oh my god… The challenger pulls off the most tragic upset in championship history!"
The crowd freezes, stunned, completely silent.
And Ryoma? He might be the only happy spectator in the building.
***
Later… at a bar near the Ryogoku Kokugikan arena, Ryoma is a god among mortals.
He stands at the center of the bar, flushed with victory, bathed in neon and praise, surrounded by strangers calling him a genius.
"Drinks on me!" he shouts, holding the winning ticket high. "Drink like it's the end of the world! I may not have the money, but look at this ticket."
Sake flows, and music booms. A waitress kisses him on the cheek. People lift him like he's some kind of prophet.
He grins so hard it hurts. For once, he feels seen. For once, he wins. But the joy never stays, because it ends soon after the bar door creaks open.
Three men walk in, black suits, silent, and cold.
Ryoma turns, blinking. "You wanna have a drink too?"
BANG, BANG!!!
Two bullets, punch through his gut.
Ryoma collapses to the floor, gasping. Blood spreads beneath him. The ticket is still clutched in his hand, red soaking through the paper.
People scream, chairs topple, and the hitmen simply walk out without a word.
Ryoma's eyes remain open, still sharp, still seeing everything in great detail. But it doesn't help him now.
A man with unique ability dies even before he unlocks his true potential.
***
Fortunately, fate has other plan. The moment Ryoma's eyes capture light and send signals to his brain, something feels wrong, and off in a way he can't describe.
He's no longer on the bar floor, no blood, no pain, no bullet holes. Instead, he finds himself seated on a hard bench. A pair of men in black suits stand silent at the wide doorless exit.
It looks like a locker room, a fighter's prep room. For a moment, Ryoma blinks hard, wondering if he's backstage at Ryogoku Kokugikan.
Did someone find me? Patch me up? Bring me here for some kind of redemption arc?
It almost feels like a second chance, almost.
Then Ryoma stares, baffled. Not just by the fact that he's still alive, or by the sudden shift in location. He is confused by the glowing interface now hovering in front of his eyes.
A translucent window floats mid-air, gently pulsing with soft blue light.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING…]
Welcome, Ryoma Takeda.
You've been transferred.
You are no longer in your original world.
Please remain calm as your Core Authority is assigned.
Core Authority Unlocked: VISION GRID SYSTEM
Type: Perception-based Utility & Combat Enhancer
Grade: Unique
Description:
Your enhanced perceptive ability has been translated into a structural combat module. Your vision no longer sees the surface. It breaks the world into pieces, and lets you choose which ones to exploit.
Initialization Complete.
Let the Trial Begin.