VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The room stays quiet after Sera’s words, the kind of quiet that suggests a conclusion already forming before it is spoken aloud.

Nakahara’s fingers rest against the edge of the desk as his gaze drifts inward, already counting numbers that do not yet exist on paper.

“If this goes where we think it will,” he begins carefully, “we need to talk about money.”

But then he stops himself mid-sentence, glancing first at Kenta, then at Aramaki, his expression tightening with restraint rather than doubt.

“I’m sorry,” Nakahara says. “This part stays within management. I don’t want the fighters carrying this on their backs.”

Kenta nods without protest, Aramaki following suit, and they excuse themselves with quiet efficiency.

Ryoma exhales and moves to follow, disappointment slipping through his composure despite the effort to hide it.

Nakahara looks up sharply. “What are you doing?”

“You asked us to leave,” Ryoma says, pausing by the door.

“You’re not part of them,” Nakahara replies. “You’re part of the ownership. Stay.”

Ryoma blinks once, then smiles faintly as if reminded of something he keeps forgetting.

“Alright,” he says.

He closes the door behind Aramaki before taking a seat on the sofa. Now only the three of them remain.

“If we host the event,” Nakahara continues, his tone settling into calculation, “the total expense could reach forty million yen. That includes your purse, Thanid Kouthai’s purse, purse for the openers, venue, broadcast, everything.”

He pauses briefly. “But if it goes to purse bid, we’re no longer just funding the event. We’re bidding upfront for the right to hold it.”

Sera nods, already following the numbers. “Based on McConnel’s last title fight, and what Ryoma received,” he says, “the purse could reach around USD 100.000.”

Ryoma shifts on the sofa, shaking his head once. “That was with me stepping in late,” he says calmly. “As a replacement.”

Both men turn to him, not arguing, but waiting him to finish.

“In a normal situation,” Ryoma continues, “with full promotion and a scheduled mandatory, it could reach USD 150.000. That’s without pressure.”

Nakahara’s brow tightens. “So you’re saying…”

“If they really want June 25th, and they really want Bangkok, they won’t stop at matching. They will go higher to make sure they win the bid.”

Sera exhales slowly. “…Could be 175,” he says.

Ryoma nods once. “At least, that’s the price of forcing a fight.”

Nakahara turns his gaze to Ryoma. “How much is that in yen?”

Ryoma raises an eyebrow, eyes unfocusing for a second as he does the math in his head.

“Roughly 20 million yen,” he says.

Nakahara’s expression creases, not in shock but in recognition of weight. “It could push the total to 50 million,” he murmurs. “And right now, the gym only has about 27 million yen.”

He looks up again, meeting Ryoma’s eyes without softening the truth. “With sponsors, we could cover an event. But a purse bid is different. That money has to be placed on the table immediately, before the OPBF, before the other side.”

Sera exhales slowly. “Twenty million yen just to win a purse bid isn’t small. Not for a gym our size.”

Nakahara nods, his fingers folding together as his thoughts turn outward rather than inward.

“Then I’ll look for help,” he says. “If we can bring in a co-promoter, we split the burden. That way, we could bid high enough to take control.”

Sera glances at the clock, then back at the screen. “Before any of that,” he says, measured now, “we wait for the OPBF to make it official.”

Nakahara gives a single nod, the decision settled but unresolved.

After this, the gym slides back into its usual rhythm, ropes creaking softly, gloves snapping against mitts, the ordinary noise of work resuming as if nothing waits beyond the walls.

Nakahara moves through it all with practiced steadiness, yet the tension never quite leaves his shoulders.

Sera keeps himself anchored to another responsibility, Ryohei’s upcoming title fight demanding focus that cannot be compromised by Ryoma’s situation.

Still, every time he waves Ryohei toward the bench for water, his feet carry him back to the office almost without conscious decision.

But the inbox remains unchanged, stubbornly empty, the refresh sound repeating often enough to irritate him even as he presses it again.

***

And the next morning brings no warning, only noise.

Nakahara, Kenta, and Sera arrive at the gym to find so many journalists stand clustered near the entrance. Aki’s already there too, pale and breathless, phone in hand as she hurries toward them.

“Coach, Nakahara. The OPBF released it this morning,” Aki says quickly. “It’s on the website. Everyone’s reacting.”

Sera takes Aki’s phone without a word, eyes moving quickly as he scrolls past the headline and into the body of the article, his expression tightening with every line he reads.

“The OPBF has decided,” he says quietly to Nakahara, “the mandatory bout will be determined through purse bid.”

“When will the bid be held?”

“The bid will be held here at the JBC headquarters, April third.”

Nakahara exhales under his breath. “Not even two weeks.”

The journalists do not miss the shift, voices rising and overlapping as microphones push closer.

“Coach Nakahara, how will your camp respond to the purse bid?”

“Are you confident you can win it?”

“There’s speculation your gym doesn’t have the funds, is the champion prepared to fight in Bangkok instead?”

Nakahara opens his mouth, then closes it again, the answers refusing to arrange themselves cleanly under the noise.

“I don’t have time to answer questions today,” he says, firm but controlled. “Sorry.”

He steps forward instead, raising a hand just enough to slow them as he moves toward the door.

Before anyone can press further, he slips inside the gym, the door closing behind him and leaving the questions outside, unanswered.

“I need a co-promoter,” he says, almost to himself, already moving toward his office.

He grabs the phone and dials without sitting down, fingers stiff, jaw set. The line connects after a few rings.

[Kirizume speaking]

“Kirizume-san. It’s Nakahara. I won’t dance around it. We’ve got a purse bid coming up. OPBF. I need help.”

[Truly sorry, Nakahara-san. But I can’t. Serrano’s got a title fight coming up. And I’m already setting a bout for Renji against a top-ranked contender. My hands are full.]

Nakahara closes his eyes for a second, and then forces his expression back into place.

“I understand,” he says evenly. “Thank you for taking the call.”

[I can only wish you for the best. I’m sorry.]

“So am I,” Nakahara replies, and ends the call.

He lowers the receiver carefully, then sinks into the chair as if the weight finally catches up with him.

This is the first time the gym has held something real, not a local belt, not a regional headline, but an OPBF title that everyone suddenly wants a piece of.

He knows it will be difficult and complicated. He just never expected it would be this complicated.

Sera watches him for a moment, then clears his throat.

“There is one name,” he says cautiously. “Logan Rhodes.”

Nakahara glances up. “I know,” he says. “But if we can avoid it, we should. Especially now. If we go to him desperate, he’ll squeeze Ryoma until there’s nothing left.”

Before Sera can respond, voices rise again near the entrance, sharper this time, closer. Ryoma’s voice cuts through the journalists, controlled but firm, refusing answers until the door slams shut and the lock clicks.

He exhales once and walks into the office. “So, what are we doing now, old man?”

“I asked Kirizume, but he can’t help,” Nakahara says. “So we have only one path. I use the gym’s money. Twenty million yen for the bid.”

Ryoma’s brow tightens. “And if we win it,” he asks quietly, “how do we run the event?”

“I’ll find the rest later,” Nakahara says, stubbornness edging into his voice. “However I have to. We won’t let you fight half-built again. And not on their turf. We’re not repeating Melbourne.”

Ryoma leans forward. “And if I lose?” he asks. “If after all that, the event itself collapses into a loss? That’s not just my career. It will be the gym’s future. The entire gym will be collapse along with me.”

Nakahara opens his mouth, the instinctive don’t lose rising fast. But he reins himself in, not wanting to put that much burden on Ryoma alone.

The room goes quiet, the kind that stretches, filled with calculations no one wants to finish aloud. They still have time, more than a week, but even that feels thin when options refuse to multiply.

“Let them win the bid,” Ryoma says evenly. “If it comes to that, it’s better to fight on their turf than to bleed this gym dry. Losing control of the event doesn’t mean I lose the fight. I’ll still beat him, even in front of his people.”

Nakahara opens his mouth, but Ryoma’s phone vibrates first. He takes the phone out and answers.

“Yes, Morishima-san.”

[Takeda-kun. We’ve heard about your next title defense. As Aqualis’s main ambassador, your fights carry our brand overseas. Fujimoto-san is concerned. We’d like you to avoid a repeat of Melbourne, if at all possible.]

Ryoma exhales slowly. “I’m sorry. It’s going to purse bid. We’ll try, but we don’t have strong odds.”

[That’s exactly why Fujimoto-san asked me to call. If you have time, could you come to our office? He wants to speak with you and your management directly. Can you come to our office tomorrow?]

“…Sure,” Ryoma says.

Ryoma lowers the phone slightly, his expression darkening.

Now it isn’t just the title on the line. Even the ground beneath his contract with Aqualis is beginning to shift too.