VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, the conference room at Kowa Sports Marketing carries the stale weight of a meeting that has stretched far longer than intended.

Empty coffee cups sit near scattered proposal sheets, and the projector screen still displays the sponsorship tier chart with several revised numbers highlighted in red.

Mihara exhales slowly as he adjusts his glasses. “I understand your ambition,” he says evenly, “but forty-five million yen remains an aggressive target. Our current pipeline does not support that ceiling.”

They have already gone through the arguments repeatedly. Kowa has warned about market resistance, sponsor hesitation, and regional limitations. Nakahara has clarified the scale of the event.

Kurogane has recalculated margins more than once. And the discussion has circled back to the same number every time.

Finally, Kurogane straightens the papers in front of him and speaks with measured calm. “Our total exposure approaches one hundred seventy million yen. We cannot structure sponsorship as if this were a cautious regional card anymore.”

Mihara presses his lips together. “But if we price premium slots too high and brands pull out, we lose momentum entirely.”

“We are not asking you to inflate randomly,” Kurogane replies. “We are asking you to price the inventory according to the scale we have already chosen. Set the premium placements at the revised figures. Do not negotiate downward simply to close early deals.”

Nakahara adds quietly, “Thirty million leaves us exposed, Mihara-san. You are going to put me at great loss even after we secure sponsors for the available slots.”

Mihara looks from one man to the other. “And if they walk away? If they decide the risk is not worth it and never return?”

“They will return,” Kurogane answers without raising his voice. “This event has every ingredient to create a sellable narrative.”

He pauses before adding, “Unless you believe Kowa cannot sell that story.”

The air tightens slightly, though his tone remains controlled.

Mihara studies him for a long moment. “Alright, we will pursue forty-five million. We will adjust the tier structure and push the prestige angle. However, if the market resists, you must understand that the risk is shared. Don’t put all the blame on us alone.”

“That is fair,” Nakahara replies.

They stand, and the handshake is firm but restrained, the fatigue evident in both camps.

***

After the door closes behind Nakahara and Kurogane, everyone left in the room exhales tiredly.

“Forty-five million for a regional event?” one staff member mutters. “This isn’t a world title fight.”

“Local sponsors will not burn money without guaranteed sellout,” another adds. “And overseas brands will not care.”

“Stop treating this regional event already,” Mihara says calmly.

A third voice chimes in, “If this is truly Vegas-level, our ten-million retainer is too low. We should have demanded more.”

Mihara keeps gathering the documents into a neat stack. “This isn’t only about money. If we deliver this at that scale, our reputation changes with it.”

The room quiets, though doubt lingers.

As he slides the revised projection into his folder, Mihara considers the larger picture. “We are not only selling sponsorship slots. We are positioning this company beside the rising wave surrounding Ryoma Takeda. Remember that.”

The risk is real, but so is the potential. If this event lands, it will not be remembered as regional at all.

Before leaving the room, he pauses at the door and looks over his shoulder. “If this event succeeds, Nakahara Promotions Firm will become the largest boxing stable in Japan. And we will secure our place as their marketing partner for years to come.”

***

Outside, the van with the Aqualis logo glides out of Kowa’s parking lot and merges into the late-afternoon traffic.

Kurogane keeps both hands steady on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Nakahara sits in the passenger seat, staring out the window, his expression clouded with anxiety.

The meeting with Kowa lingers between them like unfinished business. They secured the target, but the weight of it has not lightened.

A red light forces the van to stop. Kurogane taps the steering wheel once, then glances sideways.

“Where to next?”

Nakahara does not answer immediately. He inhales, considering, and then turns slightly toward him.

“We should adjust the ticket pricing too,” he says. “Lower the price to ensure sales.”

Kurogane’s brow creases. “Come on, Nakahara-san. Stop being so pragmatic.”

“No,” Nakahara says, shaking his head once. “I cannot risk everything on projections. I am prepared to accept negative cash flow for this event. But I am not prepared to see empty stands at Yoyogi.”

The light turns green, and the van moves forward again. Kurogane exhales slowly through his nose as he changes lanes, giving himself a few seconds before replying.

“If we lower everything, we damage positioning,” he says. “Perception drives value.”

“I am not talking about lowering everything,” Nakahara replies evenly. “But thirteen thousand seats is not a small number. If the lower tiers stall, the arena will look half alive. That image will hurt us more than a smaller margin.”

Kurogane eases his foot off the accelerator. He remains silent for a stretch, his expression tightening as he calculates.

After a moment, he speaks again. “Okay, we can adjust the lowest tiers,” he says slowly. “But we have to keep VIP and premium pricing intact. Those tiers signal scale. They must remain untouched. If your concern is visual density and atmosphere, then we make the entry level accessible enough to move in bulk.”

Nakahara considers it for a few seconds, then nods once.

“Fair enough.”

Kurogane’s grip on the steering wheel relaxes slightly as the van continues forward, the Aqualis logo catching light from passing cars while both men return to silence.

***

The next day, Nakahara’s office feels smaller than usual.

The blinds are half-open. The fax machine sits silent near the cabinet, and the office phone rests untouched on the desk.

Nakahara stands behind his chair instead of sitting in it, arms folded, eyes drifting repeatedly toward the phone as if staring at it long enough might force it to ring.

Meanwhile, the young manager, Kurogane, sits at the low coffee table with his laptop open, refreshing the ticketing dashboard every few minutes. The screen glows with neat columns of numbers and seat maps that remain mostly unchanged.

Nakahara exhales slowly. “What if they really pull out?” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.

Kurogane leans calmly on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other. “You will not see any reaction one day after that meeting,” he replies evenly. “Kowa has probably only begun adjusting their materials.”

Nakahara shoots him a look. “And the tickets?”

Kurogane shrugs lightly. “Not even a hundred sold so far.”

“Not even a hundred?”

“Calm down. It is far too early to expect visible traction.”

Nakahara grunts under his breath and rubs his temple, trying to settle the restless energy building in his chest.

Then a knock sounds at the door before Hiroshi steps inside. “Boss,” he says, hesitating slightly. “Okabe hasn’t shown up. It’s already ten, but he’s still nowhere to be seen.”

Nakahara’s eyes narrow. “Did something happen?”

Hiroshi shifts his weight. “I’m not sure. Well… Ryoma and Aramaki pushed him pretty hard yesterday. But I don’t think it would…”

“Ryoma again?” Nakahara interrupts sharply. “What did he do? Did he break Okabe’s ribs?”

“No, no,” Hiroshi says quickly. “Nothing like that. Ryoma was… plotting to agitate him. He thinks it will help Okabe fix his flaws. You know how Okabe is. He gets distracted too easily, provoked too easily. Ryoma and Aramaki were working on that.”

Nakahara closes his eyes briefly and presses his fingers harder against his forehead, the lines on his face deepening.

The weight of the event, the sponsors, the tickets, and now his own fighters begins to stack visibly on his shoulders.

Kurogane watches the scene unfold, and for the first time since entering the room, his composure flickers. He exhales, slower this time, sensing the strain tightening around the old man.

***

The next day brings no relief. The phone remains silent. The fax machine remains silent. And the ticket dashboard shows no meaningful surge.

“How is it going, Kurogane?” Nakahara asks.

“It is still too soon,” Kurogane insists quietly, still busy studying partnership contract papers. “You cannot expect momentum overnight.”

But Nakahara’s patience thins. He then pushes back his chair and strides out of the office, his voice cutting through the gym floor.

“Where is Okabe? He still hasn’t shown up?”

The room stills. Fighters pause mid-wrap. Even Satoru looks up sharply. Aramaki’s shoulders tense, and a flicker of guilt crosses his face.

Nakahara’s jaw tightens as his gaze locks onto Ryoma across the mat. He steps toward him, anger building with each stride.

“You’ve really gone too far! You know Okabe is sensitive. What if he never comes back?”

“I did it for his own good,” Ryoma replies evenly. “If he keeps fighting like a clown, he will humiliate us at Yoyogi.”

“I don’t care if he fights like a clown,” Nakahara snaps. “That’s better than losing him entirely. The card is public. If we change it now, speculation starts. The media will smell blood. They’ll say this gym is cracking under pressure. They will say our structure is unstable.”

He gestures sharply toward the office. “Sponsors are watching. Broadcasters are watching. Every headline shapes perception.”

Aramaki looks down at his gloves. Kenta avoids eye contact entirely. Even Sera remains still, choosing not to intervene.

Nakahara’s voice lowers, but the intensity does not. “If Okabe does not walk through that door today, it will be the start of our collapse. Our event at Yoyogi will be falling apart.”