VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

An hour after leaving the gym, Ryoma sits at the back table of Shimizu Soba with Kenji Matsuda and two unfamiliar faces.

Shimizu-san sets down a pitcher of cold tea and three extra glasses, then lingers near the counter, attentive but silent.

Kenji is the first to speak. “You said you needed help,” he says evenly. “Is there a problem?”

Ryoma rests his forearms on the table and looks at him without hurry. “In our previous events, the first-day traction was always strong,” he says. “I believed that was thanks to you organizing our troops. You moved quickly. You bought in blocks.”

He lets the words settle before outlining the current issue weighing heavily on the gym’s preparations for August.

“It has been two days,” he continues. “Sales are still low. I am not demanding anything. I simply want to know if there is something I should address.”

His tone remains calm, but the implication is clear. A king does not accuse his generals. He asks whether the battlefield has changed.

Kenji inclines his head slightly. “There is no hesitation on our side.”

He gestures to the two men beside him. “Before I explain, let me introduce them properly. This is Yamaura, and this is Naito. They lead the new branches in the neighboring prefectures outside Tokyo.”

Yamaura and Naito bow their heads in turn.

“Our numbers have grown,” Kenji continues. “After the last event, membership increased significantly. We now have over twenty-five hundred supporters across all regions. However, only around 700 of these new members are formally registered and organized. For now, we can guarantee fifteen hundred immediate buyers.”

Ryoma studies Yamaura and Naito, before turning back to Matsuda. “What about the rest?”

“They are new,” Yamaura answers first. “Enthusiastic, but not yet structured. Many prefer to purchase personally.”

“They will buy,” Naito adds. “But not all through our organization. Not yet.”

Kenji folds his hands again. “There is another factor. Without the usual discount, some members hesitated to commit on the first day. Not because of doubt, but because the price difference matters when buying in groups. And there’s reason behind our decision not to buy them all in one day.”

Ryoma nods once. “Go on.”

Kenji exhales slowly. “We decided not to move immediately. If we purchase fifteen hundred tickets in one day, it creates a spike. It looks impressive. But if the following days are quiet, the narrative collapses. People will assume only the fan clubs are carrying the event.”

Yamaura leans forward. “Yoyogi presents a different challenge. The arena is larger. The public assumes it cannot sell out. That assumption makes them slow, because they believe there will always be tickets left.”

“So you chose not to create a spike,” Ryoma says.

“We chose to create a curve,” Kenji replies. “One hundred on the first day. Two hundred on the second. Three hundred on the third. Four hundred on the fourth. Five hundred on the fifth. Then one thousand on the sixth.”

Naito nods. “It will create a visible upward trend. Each day higher than the last. Enough to make neutral buyers feel the momentum building.”

Shimizu-san lets out a low whistle. “Ahaaa… So you are trying to influence the market.”

“We are controlling their perception,” Kenji says calmly.

Ryoma’s eyes sharpen with interest. “And the total?”

“Two thousand five hundred,” Kenji answers. “If we can consolidate everyone under one coordinated purchase. And that’s the problem lie. No discount this time, and I get it that you are now using other party to handle ticket sales. But it affects our members’ willingness to buy on the first day.”

Ryoma grows quiet, weighing their words carefully and considering the implications behind them.

“Okay,” he says at last. “I will replace the discount. The upper stands have been lowered to ¥8.000 per seat. For 2.500 tickets, the total will be ¥20.000.000. I will allocate ¥5.000.000 from my own funds.”

All three men look at him, surprise flickering across their faces before it hardens into renewed resolve at his willingness to invest himself.

“In return,” he continues, “I want all twenty-five hundred members aligned under your coordination. No scattered personal purchases. If we move, we move as one.”

Kenji does not answer immediately. He turns to Yamaura and Naito first, waiting for their reaction.

The two regional leaders exchange a brief glance, a silent calculation passing between them, before each gives a firm nod.

Only then does Kenji face Ryoma again and bow his head once, measured and decisive.

“We accept,” Kenji says. “We will consolidate every branch. We start with one hundred and increase the purchase each day, reaching the full two thousand five hundred by the sixth.”

Ryoma reaches for his glass and finally takes a slow sip. “Good,” he says quietly. “Let’s see how the market responds when our army moves.”

Ryoma rises from his seat without haste. “Thank you for your time. But I really need to return to the gym. It won’t mean much if we sell every seat in Yoyogi and I lose on August twenty-four.”

Kenji stands as well. “We understand. We will handle the numbers. You handle the ring.”

Then a faint confident smile touches his face. “I’ve always believed you deliver when it matters. This time won’t be different.”

Ryoma gives a small nod, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out several bills. He walks past the table and places the money neatly on the counter.

“For today, Shimizu-san. Thank you for the space.”

“Win properly,” Shimizu replies. “I’ve been telling my customers that I live next to a future world-class fighter. Don’t make me a liar.”

A faint smirk touches Ryoma’s lips. “I won’t.”

Ryoma turns toward the door, taking his leave. But then, as his hand reaches the handle, he stops and remains there for a second, as if something has just returned to him.

“One more thing,” he says without turning fully around. “This should stay here.”

Then he looks back at them, eyes steady. “If anyone finds out I replaced the discount, it will look like favoritism. General buyers will question the pricing. And we cannot afford that.”

Kenji inclines his head. “Understood.”

***

When Ryoma turns the corner toward the gym, he sees three journalists waiting near the entrance with cameras and microphones ready.

“That’s him, Ryoma Takeda.”

“Takeda-san. Please a moment.”

Before this, Ryoma would just ignore their presence. But today he understands, if he wants to operate as both fighter and promoter, he must speak for himself.

“I can give you a few minutes,” he says.

“Thank you, Takeda-san,” one reporter says. First, how is training progressing with so much attention surrounding the Yoyogi event?”

“My preparation remains unchanged,” Ryoma replies. “The scale of the event does not alter the work inside the gym. Pressure does not interfere with discipline.”

Another journalist steps forward. “Kowa Sports Marketing has promoted this event aggressively, but we hear that sponsor engagement has been minimal. Does that concern you?”

Ryoma keeps his expression steady. “Major sponsors rarely move in the early phase. They observe, evaluate, and wait for confirmation of value.”

A third reporter raises his microphone. “Ticket sales have reportedly started slowly, yet the purse bid was unusually high. If the local boxing community does not respond strongly, will your sponsor and promoter feel disappointed?”

Ryoma listens carefully before answering. “Everyone involved understands that large-scale events move in stages. Early sales numbers do not define final outcomes.”

An older journalist, who has remained silent until now, steps forward with a sharper tone.

“Let us speak directly,” he says. “All of your gym’s Class-A fighters are competing on the same night. That concentration creates enormous risk. Is Nakahara-san gambling with his fighters’ careers to pursue his own ambition?”

The question shifts the atmosphere. Ryoma’s posture straightens slightly, but his voice remains controlled.

“Every fighter on that card accepted the bout voluntarily,” he says. “Risk is inherent in professional boxing. We do not avoid risk; we manage it.”

The journalist does not retreat. “Some people believe Nakahara-san is trying to elevate his own standing before he becomes irrelevant. They believe he is using this event to secure personal legacy.”

Ryoma’s eyes harden. “You are questioning his integrity?” he asks.

“I am questioning his motive,” the journalist replies.

“Nakahara has spent decades developing fighters who left for larger promoters once they gained market value,” Ryoma says evenly. “He is not chasing relevance here. He is building leverage.”

The journalist presses. “Or he is gambling on your potential because he has nothing left to lose.”

Ryoma takes a slow breath. “Let me clear one thing. I own thirty-five percent of the gym, and I hold equity in the promotion firm organizing this event.”

The reporters glance at one another. A visible pause spreads through the group.

“If you believe someone is gambling,” Ryoma adds calmly, “you are speaking to him.”

The older journalist blinks. “You are a co-owner?”

“Yes,” Ryoma answers. “All major decisions have been made jointly. I share the financial risk. I share the strategic responsibility. This is not an old man’s ambition. It is a coordinated decision.”

“One more question,” another reporter says carefully. “Are you saying you are acting as both athlete and promoter?”

“I am saying that I take responsibility for my career,” Ryoma replies. “That includes performance inside the ring and direction outside of it.”

He gives them a brief nod. “I need to return to training now. August twenty-four will not be decided by speculation.”

Then he enters the gym, unaware that his words have just shifted the balance of power.

Soon, when the world learns that Ryoma Takeda is an athlete acting as his own promoter, he is no longer just challenging other boxers.

He is challenging the establishment, the ’big sharks’ who have long exploited athletes for their own monetary gain.