VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Nakahara exhales through his nose but doesn’t answer. Aki, however, brightens again almost instantly, turning back to the old man with renewed enthusiasm.

“But isn’t this good? If he beats Shinichi Yanagimoto later, you can just challenge him afterward, right?”

Nakahara gives her a brief cold glance, and then shifts his attention back to Paulo Ramos’s dossier on the desk.

“Ryoma wants the world,” he says quietly. “The Japanese title is just a stepping stone. Now that we are aiming for the OPBF, there’s no reason to cling to that belt anymore.”

Then Nakahara’s eyes snap toward Aki, sharp and warning. “Don’t bring this up to Ryoma. You hear me?”

Before she can reply, hurried footsteps approach the office. Ryoma appears in the doorway, sweat dripping, breathing uneven, as if he sprinted all the way from the far end of the world.

“Old man! Are you okay?”

Nakahara shoots him a dry look. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

Kenta arrives right behind him, followed by Okabe, Ryohei, and then Hiroshi.

“Coach,” Hiroshi says, still catching his breath, “I just saw Shimamura’s car. Did he come here?”

Nakahara doesn’t hesitate. “He came, yes… only to laugh at me, that the whole boxing scene in Japan is ruling us out.”

They stiffen at once. Okabe mutters a curse under his breath, and even Kenta’s jaw tightens in irritated disbelief. They swallow the story whole, but their expressions burn with offense on Nakahara’s behalf.

But Ryoma’s eyes narrow. And behind them, the Vision Grid flickers to life, reading the tension in Nakahara’s jawline, the stiffness in his shoulders, and the tiny delay before he spoke.

>

Ryoma says nothing, but his gaze lingers on Nakahara a beat too long, sharp, and analyzing.

The old man feels it and pointedly looks away, pretending to organize papers he doesn’t need to touch.

“Enough, kid” he says, steadying his voice. “Don’t get distracted. Focus on your training. We’re aiming for the OPBF now. It’s the shorter road to the world stage, and that’s where you’re headed.”

Ryoma exhales through his nose, ignoring the jab, but the lie settles in him like a weight, silent and undeniable.

>

“Stop nagging at me, already…”

***

The tension in the room thins as the others begin drifting away. And soon, the office is quiet again. Aki finally exhales and adjusts the strap of her bag, gathering her recorder and notes.

“Um… Nakahara-san,” she says, soft but hopeful. “Since things are moving forward… may I interview Ryoma now? I need his response to the champion’s official statement before the weekend.”

Nakahara nods. “Sure. Do it before he disappears again.”

She smiles in relief, and heads for the door. But just as she reaches the frame…

“Aki. Wait!”

She pauses and turns back.

Nakahara’s voice drops into something firmer. “Don’t bring up Shimamura. Not a word.”

Aki freezes for a second. Then she forces a small, awkward smile.

“I won’t. I promise.”

She slips out, and her footsteps fade down the hallway.

Nakahara exhales, sinking back into his chair as if some invisible weight just settled onto his shoulders. Then he taps the sheet containing Paulo Ramos’ dossier.

“Sera. Let’s get to work.”

Sera nods once, serious. “We’re sending a formal challenge?”

“Yeah… to the OPBF No. 4,” Nakahara confirms. “Prepare everything. We’ll make them an offer they can’t turn down.”

Sera heads for the desk, already reaching for the documents.

It has been less than two weeks since the Ota match, yet Nakahara is already neck-deep in preparations for the next event, a bigger one, larger in scale, carrying far heavier stakes.

***

A few days later…

Manila, Philippines, Bayan Warriors Boxing Gym

The morning heat presses into the gym like a second ceiling, thick and humid, carrying the humid smell of sweat, leather, and old wood.

Fighters move around the ring in fast, sharp rhythm, pads cracking, ropes whipping, feet slapping against puzzle mats. There’s noise everywhere, yet an undercurrent of discipline keeps it from chaos.

Near the administrative desk, the assistant coach, Marlon Reyes, sorts through a stack of mail and printed faxes, complaining under his breath about broken toner and useless sponsors.

And then, a sudden beep signals another fax coming through. Marlon groans but pulls it free, scanning the stamped header.

“Japan…?” he mutters, face wrinkles with curiosity “Nakahara Boxing Gym… who the hell is this?”

He goes still, the shift in his posture saying everything. The letter isn’t routine at all; it’s an official challenge for their fighter.

Marlon turns toward the far side of the gym where the head coach, Virgil Santos, a thick-shouldered man with decades of sun carved into his skin, stands with his arms folded, silently monitoring a sparring session.

Virgil’s expression is full with confidence, and every boxer in the room keeps their rhythm when his eyes sweep past.

Marlon approaches, lowering his voice.

“Coach… you need to see this.”

Virgil accepts the faxed paper from Marlon, and his brow tightening as he reads through the header. It’s a Japanese gym, a name he has never heard in any OPBF discussion.

“Ryoma Takeda?” he murmurs. “Who the hell is this guy?”

Marlon opens his smartphone, runs a quick search, and skims the first results that appear. His eyes widen almost immediately.

“Twenty year-old. Only seven fights. Seven wins, no losses. Ranked fifth in Japan’s lightweight division.”

For one second he tries to keep a straight face, but the absurdity hits too hard. Laughter bursts out of him, loud enough that a couple of fighters glance over from the ring.

“Seven fights…” Virgil repeats. “Seven? And they’re already challenging my champion? Are they mad or what?”

He chuckles as well, though more quietly, the sound rumbling like someone amused but not surprised by the world’s boldness.

“How much are they offering?” he asks.

Marlon lifts the fax again, scanning the lower portion. “Five million yen. They want it sanctioned as an official OPBF ranking bout.”

Virgil exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “Five million… not huge. But for a rookie? And with no real risk to our ranking? Could be an easy night.”

And then he raises his voice slightly, looking across the gym where a compact, fast-moving fighter is working the mitts with explosive rhythm.

“Paulo! Come here a second.”

Paulo Ramos, jovial, bright-eyed, carrying the unmistakable charisma of a natural crowd favorite, trots over. With sweat clinging to his forehead, he’s grinning even before he knows what the conversation is about.

“What’s up, Coach?”

Virgil hands him the fax. “Look at this! We just got a challenge from Japan. Thought you might like a laugh.”

Paulo reads a few lines, and immediately folds over, holding his stomach as laughter spills out of him.

And he blinks. “Seven fights? And they want me?”

He keeps laughing until he needs to wipe his eyes with the back of his wrist. Then, still smiling, he looks at the assistant.

“Do they cover travel and all our stay?”

Marlon nods. “Flights, housing, meals. Everything’s included.”

Paulo slaps the paper once, grinning from ear to ear. “Then why not? If they want a fight that badly, we may as well enjoy a free vacation.”

Virgil lifts an eyebrow but says nothing for a moment, letting the gym’s noise flow back around them.

While Ramos returns to training with a satisfied grin, Marlon heads straight to the fax machine to draft their acceptance.

Virgil gives a distracted wave of approval; his focus is already shifting elsewhere. He walks back to his desk, opens his laptop, and begins searching Ryoma’s name, not expecting much beyond local Japanese headlines.

But the moment the first video thumbnail loads, Virgil goes still. It’s the viral video of Ryoma’s fight against Serrano.

He watches five seconds, ten, and then twenty. Then he glances at the upload date: more than a year ago.

A chill settles in his chest, not fear, but calculation. If Ryoma looked like that at nineteen… how much stronger had he become by twenty?

He shuts the laptop with a snap and strides quickly across the gym.

“Marlon,” he calls, voice tight. “Hold the fax. Don’t send it yet. We need to renegotiate. We should ask for more. This isn’t the risk-free fight I thought…”

But before he reaches him, Marlon turns around with a satisfied smile.

“It’s done. Fax already sent.”

Virgil stops in his tracks. A sharp contained frustration flashes across his face. He hisses under his breath, barely keeping his composure.

“Damn it… We should’ve charged more. If Ramos slips even once, he could lose his ranking. We should have asked more as a compensation for that risk.”

Marlon blinks, confused. “Coach? The kid’s just a Japanese rookie. What’s the problem?”

Virgil rubs a hand down his face, jaw clenched. He doesn’t explain further. But his irritation simmering beneath his calm says everything:

The fight they just accepted may not be the easy payday they thought.