VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Takumi Hasegawa’s smile stays in place, but something beneath it begins to tighten. Renji’s casual assessment lingers, gnawing at him because it’s precise. He realizes, belatedly, how shallow his own read has been.

He’d only judged Nakahara by reputation alone: a stubborn old trainer, a struggling gym, a year framed by whispers of failure. He never bothered to look past the surface, never imagined momentum building where he’d already written an ending.

Now his attention shifts, sharp and wary, to Kaito. The young brand strategist sits composed, but his eyes occasionally drifting with intent.

Takumi follows that line of sight and finds it landing, again and again, on Fujimoto Hirotaka.

“That damn Kaito…”

The boss himself sits at a distant table, surrounded by gravity. Executives, local officials, and figures who shape policy with a word.

Takumi exhales through his nose, realizing Kaito’s play. He knows what Kaito wants; a clean bridge, one moment, Ryoma placed in front of Fujimoto without filters or intermediaries.

And Takumi knows just as well how dangerous that would be.

However, for nearly an hour, the tension stretches. Kaito keeps glancing toward the boss. And Fujimoto never once looks back.

And that gives Takumi a sliver of relief.

“Good…” he murmurs. “Just keep ignoring them, old man.”

“Hm?” Yoshizawa glances at him.

Takumi blinks, and smiles thinly. “Nothing. Just… rich food.”

Then the lights soften. A hush rolls through the hall as Fujimoto is called to the stage. Applause swells, respectful, and expectant.

For the first time that night, Takumi allows himself to relax. Fujimoto is already past the age of long evenings and lingering conversations. Once the speech is done, the boss will make his customary early exit.

The opening will be short, but Takumi doesn’t need more than that. He’s been at Fujimoto’s side far longer than Kaito ever has. That moment belongs to him.

He turns to Yoshizawa, voice smooth, reassuring. “After this, I’ll introduce you and Yanagimoto-kun to Fujimoto-san,” he says. “Briefly. That’s all we need.”

Hope flickers back into Yoshizawa’s eyes. And Takumi smiles, clearly has no intention of letting a rookie get there first.

***

Hirotaka Fujimoto stands at the podium without haste, hands resting lightly on the wood as the room settles.

“Thank you for gathering here tonight,” he begins. “The end of the year is a busy time for everyone. Tonight’s event is meant for reflection, on what we’ve built, what we’ve endured, and what we choose to carry forward.”

A few nods ripple through the hall.

“Aqualis Labs started small,” he continues. “Like many of you here, we did not begin with certainty. We began with conviction. With the belief that quality, patience, and responsibility would outlast trends and noise.”

He continues in the same steady tone, speaking of perseverance, of lessons learned over long years, of choosing substance over speed.

Around the hall, people nod politely, some sincere, others already waiting for the moment it ends, smiles held in place by etiquette more than interest.

Then he brings it to a close.

“I am grateful to our partners, our athletes, our collaborators, and our staff. Past and present. You are the reason this company still stands, and the reason it will continue into the next year.”

He inclines his head slightly. “That is all I wished to say tonight. Thank you.”

People rise from their chairs, applause rolling through the hall as the old man steps back from the podium.

Takumi leans toward Yoshizawa and lowers his voice. “Get ready. He won’t stay long. I’ll bring you both to his table. Make sure you leave a strong impression.”

Yoshizawa nods, a hopeful smile forming. “I’d appreciate that.”

But then Fujimoto stops. He turns back, raises one hand, not asking, simply signaling. The MC freezes for half a beat before scrambling forward to offer the microphone back.

Fujimoto accepts it with a faint smile. “Ah,” he says, almost casually. “Before I step down… indulge an old man for just a moment longer.”

The room stills. People blinking, takes their seats again, expecting for the second round of sermons.

“We spoke tonight about trust,” the old man continues. “About conviction. I believe those ideas should be visible, not only in what we make, but in who we stand beside.”

Murmurs begin, uncertain.

“So,” Fujimoto says, voice calm and measured, “allow me to introduce someone who represents that conviction moving forward.”

He looks toward the floor, not at Takumi’s table, not at Kirizume’s, but elsewhere.

“Our new main brand ambassador,” Fujimoto says, lifting a hand and gesturing calmly toward the far side of the hall.

A brief silence follows. Heads turn in a ripple, conversations falter mid-breath. Curiosity spreads first, and then confusion, as guests scan the indicated direction, trying to understand who among them has just been singled out.

Then Fujimoto calls out. “Ryoma ’The Chameleon’ Takeda.”

For a fraction of a second, the banquet hall forgets how to breathe. Not everyone here follows boxing; the name doesn’t immediately land.

Then Ryoma rises. He lifts one hand slightly, offers a brief bow, then turns and bows again, careful to acknowledge the room from different angles.

A low murmur spreads.

“Who’s this kid?”

“Did the old man just say the Chameleon?”

“Is he a comedian?”

The confusion thickens. Even the MC and event staff exchange baffled looks. This announcement was supposed to come later, delivered by the host, not the president himself.

Eiichi blinks once. Kaito stiffens beside him, caught completely off guard, baffled by the timing, a step behind an announcement he never saw coming.

And Takumi? He freezes outright, color draining from his face before sourness sets in.

Beside him, Yoshizawa’s smile falters, his complexion paling as he turns sharply toward Takumi.

“…What is this supposed to mean, Takumi?” Yoshizawa asks in a low controlled voice. “You told us tonight was for introductions. You are treating my champion like a fool?”

Then Renji stands. His applause cuts through the uncertainty, loud and unapologetic. He scoffs lightly in Sinichi and Yoshizawa’s direction.

“Looks like someone moved first. What a shame.”

Sinichi stays silent, but his jaw clenched so hard. He stares at Ryoma, swallowing his anger, refusing to let it surface.

***

Fujimoto gestures Ryoma forward. As Ryoma excuses himself to his mother and Nakahara, the MC snaps into motion, signaling staff.

Quickly, lights dim, and the screen ignites.

A promotional video rolls; raw, barely polished. The last moment during Masuda’s fight reframed as Ryoma driving an uppercut so violent on a monster’s jaw that it breaks a ceiling. And then an isotonic bottle drops cleanly at Ryoma’s feet, echoing Paulo Ramos falling.

Recognition hits. Laughter breaks. Applause swells, louder and warmer, as heads shake at the audacity of it all.

Aramaki leans in, eyes still on the screen, half-amused. “Man… if Masuda and Ramos see this, they’re not gonna be happy.”

Kenta snorts softly. “There’s no way they would be.”

Fujimoto waits for the murmurs to settle, then places a hand lightly on Ryoma’s shoulder.

“Some of you may not recognize his face yet,” he says calmly. “That’s fine. I’m not interested in noise. I’m interested in substance.”

A few chuckles ripple through the hall at the light joke. Some of them know well the kind of noise Ryoma has created in Japan’s boxing community.

“Ryoma Takeda is a young boxer who stood on international soil and raised Japan’s flag with his fists,” Fujimoto continues. “Not through spectacle, but through discipline, resilience, and results. He represents what we value at Aqualis Labs; growth built on fundamentals, strength earned the hard way.”

He nods once, firm. “That is why we chose him.”

Fujimoto finally steps back. Ryoma accepts the microphone with a small bow, pausing just long enough to steady himself.

“Good evening,” he says. “Thank you, Fujimoto-san, and thank you to everyone at Aqualis Labs for this opportunity. I’m still learning what it means to stand in places like this. I’m not here because I speak well, but because I fight, train, and try to improve every day.”

A faint smile crosses his face. “I hope, through this partnership, I can represent Aqualis not just with wins, but with discipline and effort. Thank you for welcoming me tonight.”

He bows again, clean and sincere.

The applause comes a beat late, then gathers weight, fuller as recognition settles in. Heads nod. Phones lift discreetly.

Some clap because it’s expected; others because they finally understand why the name matters. Ryoma bows once more, returns the mic, and steps back as the room accepts him into its rhythm.

Renji exhales through his nose and speaks just loudly enough for Shinichi to hear across the table, never bothering to look away from the stage.

“A real man won’t let that slide,” he says quietly. “Especially not a Japanese champion.”

Yoshizawa clicks his tongue, annoyed. “What are you talking about now?”

Renji finally turns his head, just enough to let Shinichi feel it. “How long are you going to keep running from him?”

Shinichi’s jaw tightens, fuming. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look away either.

Renji’s voice drops, calm and certain. “There’s only one way to take that dignity back. A fight in the ring.”