VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

By the time Nakahara returns to the gym, the light outside has begun to soften toward dusk. Inside, Ryoma is still there, moving alone on the floor, a single weight plate resting on the rubber mat beneath his foot.

His steps rise and fall in a steady pendulum, controlled and deliberate, the same drill he did yesterday.

Nakahara stops just inside the entrance, and glances at the wall clock: nearly four-thirty.

Lately, Ryoma has been staying late to help train Satoru. That usually ends by three. Four would already be pushing it if he intended to keep the rest of his work light.

But staying this late, there is no mistaking it. He’s stayed to wait.

Even so, Ryoma does not notice Nakahara yet. His focus stays locked on the floor, on the plate, on the timing of his feet.

Then Nakahara clears his throat. And the sound snaps Ryoma out of the drill.

“Coach,” Ryoma says, straightening. “You’re back? How did it go with the arena?”

Nakahara gives a small nod and gestures toward the office. “Come.”

Hiroshi and Sera are still tidying the gym. Nakahara calls to them as well, and both leave what they are doing and follow him inside.

The moment the door closes, Sera speaks. “So?”

“Yoyogi National Gymnasium,” Nakahara answers.

That is all it takes, and the weight settles instantly in the room.

Nakahara lowers himself onto the sofa, his posture visibly tired. “Booked it for four days. Two for setup. One for the event. One for teardown.”

“And the cost?” Sera asks.

“After the ten percent reduction, the base fee is 18 million yen,” Nakahara says. “Mandatory utilities, supervision staff, and post-event cleaning add another 4 million.”

Sera murmurs, almost to himself. “So just the building costs us 22 million.”

Nakahara nods. “I’ve paid 6.6 million. The rest comes later.”

Sera doesn’t listen. He’s already writing note. “Kenta versus Arman’s purse is 2 million. Flights and accommodations for two weeks add another 2 million. With the venue, we’re already at 26 million.”

“With 33 million in cash,” Hiroshi says quietly. “That won’t hold.”

Nakahara raises a hand. “Stop looking at it like we have to pay everything today. This business isn’t about how much money you have. It’s about how you move it.”

He places the freshly signed Yoyogi contract on the table, over the scribbled calculations.

“We only need to cover about a third up front,” he continues. “The rest will come after everything done. The purse bid story is still burning. Once Yoyogi is confirmed, smaller sponsors will start circling. Broadcast rights will help too.”

He looks at Hiroshi. “If we can sell nine thousand seats, the arena won’t look empty. That’s enough.”

“Nine thousand?” Hiroshi mutters. “Boss… we’ve always sold out. Sure. But that was Ōta. Four thousand seats.”

Nakahara does not answer right away. He has been carrying that question since he left Yoyogi.

“I don’t expect a single yen of profit from this event,” he says at last. “If we finish the night without debt, and still have enough cash to keep the gym running afterward, that’s enough for me.”

The room stays quiet as no one rushes to speak. The numbers sit between them, fully formed and impossible to ignore.

Ryoma, standing near the door, hasn’t said a word until now. But he keeps watching the old man, feeling the weight settle differently in his chest.

In the ring, pressure comes from an opponent. Outside it, the pressure comes from empty seats, contracts, and deadlines that never stop closing in.

And Nakahara has always carried this part alone. The burden is no longer abstract. It has a place, a date, and a floor beneath it.

Ryoma stays silent, but the resolve settles in him all the same.

***

Before this, the commission has given both camps a two-week window to finalize the bout agreement.

From Nakahara’s side, the deal is already done. He has accepted the challenger’s terms, returned the signed contract, and resolved every clause that matters.

The only reason the OPBF has not yet received formal confirmation is simple: the arena. Nakahara wants the building secured before anything becomes official.

But that delay creates a gray zone. And the gray zone never stays quiet for long. The media senses it immediately. They arrive at Thanid Kouthai’s training camp in the morning.

The sound of pads cracking fills the air as Thanid finishes a round. Sweat still drips from his shoulders when the first question comes.

“There’s still no official announcement from the OPBF,” a journalist says.”Is something unresolved between you and the champion’s camp?”

Thanid takes a towel, wipes his face, and smirks. “We’ve signed,” he says. “What else is there to talk about?”

Another reporter steps in immediately. “Then why is there still no official announcement? Some people are starting to wonder if you are still reconsidering.”

Thanid glances over, amused. “Reconsidering what?”

“The venue,” the reporter says. “There’s no confirmation it will be held in Bangkok. Some fans think you’re uncomfortable fighting outside Thailand.”

Thanid laughs, sharp and dismissive. “Afraid?” he repeats. “Because it’s not in Bangkok?”

“One comment online says you’re brave as long as you fight at home,” another journalist adds. “That without the crowd behind you, maybe the risk feels different.”

Thanid’s smile tightens, pride clearly touched. “You should have already learnt that they won the purse bid with half million dollars. With a purse like that, people would fight in the desert if you asked them to. Location doesn’t scare me.”

He tosses the towel aside as he continues, “And let’s not get confused. I’m a ONE Championship world kickboxing champion. I’ve fought in Japan, China, Singapore. I’ve headlined international cards even since before his debut. My opponent holds an OPBF belt only recently. That’s a regional title.”

“So you’re saying this fight needs you more than you need it?” a journalist asks.

Thanid doesn’t hesitate. “I’m saying people already know my name. I’ve been fighting at world stage for years.”

That’s when Anurak steps in, sensing the direction. “We signed the contract four days ago. If there’s no announcement yet, it’s not because of hesitation on our side.”

“So you’re ready to fight anywhere?” someone asks.

Anurak nods once, measured and deliberate. “We’re ready to fight anywhere,” he says. “If there’s hesitation, perhaps that question should be directed to the champion’s camp, not ours.”

That is all the press needs. The bait has worked. And by the time the cameras leave, the narrative is already set.

***

The same morning, Nakahara’s gym wakes to noise again. Cameras crowd the street. Vans idle along the curb.

No one is allowed inside. So the reporters cluster near the door and front windows, repeating the same questions with different mouths.

“Why is there still no announcement?”

“Is the champion feeling pressure from the purse?”

From behind the window, Nakahara answers them the same way he did yesterday, through narrow gaps, voice calm but fraying at the edges.

“We will speak when the commission speaks,” he says. “Please, leave. We are preparing for a weigh-in.”

Inside, the atmosphere is tight. Satoru sits quietly, hands resting on his knees, jaw clenched. Tomorrow is his fight in the rookie tournament, his first real stage. And yet the gym feels like it’s under siege for someone else’s war.

Nakahara moves back and forth, phone buzzing, mind split between logistics and noise outside.

By late morning, the reporters still haven’t left. Ryoma watches them through the blinds for a long moment. Then he exhales before turning to Nakahara.

“I’ll take Satoru,” he says. “You stay here.”

Nakahara turns sharply. “It doesn’t matter who goes out there. It’s us they want.”

“You’ve been handling them nonstop,” Ryoma replies evenly. “Stay and rest. Let me deal with it.”

Nakahara hesitates. But Ryoma doesn’t raise his voice. He simply reaches for the office desk, picks a folder of document and the van keys.

“Satoru. Let’s go!” he calls.

The two of them step outside together. And the reaction is immediate.

“Ryoma!”

“Champion!”

“Any comment on Thailand’s remarks?”

They surround Ryoma before the van. Satoru is ignored, and he understands why. The gap between him and Ryoma isn’t just two years of age or seven pro fights difference. It’s the presence, and he’s only just begun to see it.

Ryoma stops, bows politely. “We’ve submitted our documents to the OPBF,” he says. “Please wait for the commission’s official announcement.”

A few groans ripple through the crowd. Then one journalist pushes forward, phone raised.

“Champion Takeda,” he says, voice sharp. “Thanid Kouthai says he’s ready to fight anywhere. He also reminded everyone he’s a ONE Championship world kickboxing champion. If anyone’s hesitating, he said it should be you. Do you have a response on that?”

Ryoma hears it clearly. He keeps walking, but inside his head, the system stirs.

>

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Ryoma opens the van door, sits, hands on the wheel.

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Ryoma pauses. Then a smile adorns his face.

He lowers the window, and the reporters freeze. They recognize that expression immediately.

“That kickboxing world title?” Ryoma says, voice calm. “It exists because Ryoma Takeda wasn’t there.”

Cameras snap as reporters lean in. Recorders draw much closer now.

Then he adds without raising his tone, “The moment he steps into a ring where Ryoma Takeda stands, he’ll regret everything he’s said.”

There’s a moment of silence. And before more questions explode, Ryoma rolls the window back up. He starts the engine, and drives off, leaving the fire exactly where he wants it.