VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

By the tenth day after Ryoma’s interview began circulating, the numbers no longer look like a spike. They look like a climb.

Kenji Matsuda ended his artificial market stimulation on the sixth day, just as promised. No more controlled bulk purchases, no more algorithmic nudges.

The board had held its breath, and the curve kept rising.

As for the result, a total of 5,347 seats in the lowest pricing tier are now sold out in a steady acceleration that the data traces with quiet precision.

More telling is the ripple effect. The VIP sections, which had been lingering at just over three-quarters capacity, begin tightening by the hour.

Scarcity becomes visible. And once it’s visible, scarcity pulls power toward it.

At Kowa Sports Marketing, sponsor sheets have been filling steadily.

Gold Tier: 4 of 4 secured.

Silver Tier: 8 of 8 secured.

Bronze Tier: 11 of 15 confirmed, negotiations ongoing.

Each signed sponsor comes with VIP seats allocations automatically attached, with corporate hospitality blocks embedded into their contracts.

What Kazuhiro had not fully anticipated was what followed. They want more of these free VIP seats.

However, anticipating how tight availability would become, Kazuhiro had denied the request without hesitation and redirected them toward buying the seats at market rate.

And so, corporate buyers, many representing international brands, begin purchasing additional VIP seats outside their original packages.

The VIP seating map, once orderly, now resembles contested territory.

Broadcast interest follows the same trajectory. By the eleventh day, over fifteen regional networks had secured rights. Some are modest cable sports channels. Others are national platforms with far wider reach.

***

June 18th, 2017.

The gym feels strangely hollow this afternoon. The heavy bags hang motionless, chains barely swaying. The ring lights are off.

Only the office light remains on in the back, where Nakahara and Kurogane sit surrounded by glowing monitors and layered spreadsheets.

“ESPN confirmed,” Kurogane says quietly, as if even speaking the name requires a lower register. “Sky Sports signed this morning. DAZN finalized two hours ago. And the Singapore platform confirmed their bundle.”

Six International Advertising Windows had been created for the clean global feed. And now, four are already gone, each one bundled with broadcast rights.

It’s not simply distribution access, but one of the six global advertising windows attached to the international stream.

Nakahara rubs his palms together without realizing he is doing it. The room is not cold, yet something moves along his spine.

“Four International Advertising Windows,” he murmurs. “In less than a month.”

“Bundled rights and ad window,” Kurogane adds. “Premium rate. And only two windows remain.”

The silence between them stretches, not tense, but weighted, thick with calculation rather than conflict.

“We offer the remaining two to the next rights buyers,” Nakahara says at last. “Bundle them. Today.”

Kurogane looks up. “There’s no direct bid for the ad windows right now.”

“Then attach it to the rights deal,” Nakahara presses.

“We can just wait,” Kurogane replies evenly. “Interest is rising. If we hold, the bundled price increases. Scarcity pushes it further.”

Nakahara shakes his head. “Or momentum cools, and they hesitate. I want this closed. Clean.”

Kurogane leans back in his chair, fingers steepled as he calculates the spread between timing and leverage.

“They’ll pay more if we wait,” he says.

“They’ll respect us more if we finish,” Nakahara argues, keeping the pragmatism.

The old trainer’s voice remains steady, but beneath it sits something sharper. It’s not desperation, but finality. He does not want an unfinished board going into Yoyogi.

After a long pause, Kurogane exhales softly. “…Fine. We’ll structure a revised bundle. Broadcast rights plus one international window. Premium uplift.”

Nakahara nods once. “Inform Kowa. Let them initiate the offer.”

Kurogane begins drafting the message. And right in that moment, the front door of the gym slides open.

A bright voice echoes down the empty corridor.

“Good afternoon! …Eh? It’s so quiet. Hello? Is anyone here?”

Nakahara blinks. He recognizes that voice instantly.

“That’s Aki…” he mutters, rising from his chair. “Send the message. Tell Kowa to proceed with the bundled offer.”

Kurogane nods without looking away from the screen. Nakahara steps out of the office and into the dim hallway, the sound of his shoes soft against the floor.

Aki stands near the entrance, one hand still resting on the sliding door. She wears a light trench coat, eyes scanning the dim interior as if she has walked into the wrong building.

She turns when she sees Nakahara. “Oh. Nakahara-san,” she says, before gesturing vaguely toward the heavy bags. “Did I come on the wrong day? It feels like a museum after closing.”

Her voice carries easily in the hollow space. “It’s too quiet,” she adds, stepping forward. “Where is everyone?”

“All the pros are at training camp,” Nakahara says. “Sera and Hiroshi went with them.”

Aki’s eyebrows lift. “All of them?”

“All of them,” he repeats. “Which means the youngsters have the afternoon off. No trainers around to supervise.”

She lets out a small hum. “So you emptied the building on purpose.”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the camp?”

Nakahara looks at her flatly. “That was scheduled specifically to remove distractions. There’s no scenario where I tell a journalist like you where they are.”

Aki presses her lips together, then gives him a shy, apologetic smile. From her coat pocket, she takes out her recorder, thumb brushing the power button.

“Well,” she says lightly, “since I’m already here… perhaps I can borrow your time instead?”

“Sorry, but I’m busy right now,” Nakahara replies without hesitation.

She tilts her head. “Too busy for something useful?”

“That depends.”

“For you.”

He studies her for a beat. “What kind of useful?”

She raises the recorder slightly but doesn’t switch it on yet. “Interview first.”

“No.”

She exhales softly through her nose. “You’re very difficult today.”

“And you’re very persistent.”

“Fine,” she says. “Five minutes. Off the record if you want. Then I tell you something you’ll definitely care about.”

Nakahara watches her carefully. “…All right,” he says at last, stepping aside. “Come in.”

He leads her back toward the office. The door slides open to reveal controlled chaos; documents spread across the table, sponsor sheets stacked in uneven piles, seating charts taped to the wall.

Aki stops just inside. “Oh,” she says, blinking. “This looks… intense.”

Kurogane does not look up from his screen. He just keep typing, preparing a formal letter for Kowa.

“So,” Aki continues, carefully stepping around a stack of printed contracts, “how’s it going? I heard ticket demand is increasing.”

“It is,” Nakahara says, gesturing toward the sofa against the wall. “You can consider that your first question answered.”

Aki sits with her naïve smile, crossing her legs neatly, recorder now resting on her knee.

“Now,” Nakahara continues, taking a seat opposite her, “what kind of intel are you bringing today?”

Aki’s expression shifts, less playful now. “The story circulating overseas has gotten wild. Five of the WBC’s top contenders have confirmed they’ll be present. Including the champion himself, Celeb Mercer.”

The room changes. Kurogane’s fingers stop entirely as he turns his head.

“…Celeb Mercer?” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Aki replies. “And not just him. The new WBA Lightweight champion too. Aleksandr Volkov.”

Kurogane glances at Nakahara. “I knew it,” he mutters under his breath.

Aki blinks. “Oh? You already had the information?”

“Not quite,” Nakahara says calmly. “We just confirmed a cluster of VIP seats purchased by corporate buyers from Kazakhstan. We speculated it might be Volkov’s camp.”

Aki smiles faintly. “Your instincts are good.” She leans forward slightly. “There’s more. Miguel Carbello. After he beat Renji Kuroiwa two days ago, I got a chance to interview him in his hotel lobby afterward. I actually mentioned Ryoma to him.”

Nakahara’s eyes narrow a fraction. Kurogane’s gaze sharpens.

“He said he’ll attend Yoyogi event,” Aki says. “And who knows, we might see that fight in the near future.”

She pauses before continuing. “I didn’t publish that part. I thought I should tell Ryoma first.”

“It’s better not to,” Nakahara says immediately.

Aki looks surprised. “Why?”

“You may already know this,” he says evenly. “Ryoma sees Renji as his rival. Now Carbello beats Renji. If you tell Ryoma that Carbello is circling, he’ll start looking past his next title defense.”

Kurogane, who’s been so quiet for a while, finally speaks. “And even if Ryoma defends his title,” he says, voice measured, “I don’t think we should accept a fight with Miguel Carbello.”

Aki turns to him. “Why? You think Ryoma can’t win?”

“That’s not it,” Kurogane replies. “I believe in Ryoma’s ability. And his potential.”

He folds his hands together on the desk. “But a world-level fight is a different league. Thanid Kouthai is his first title defense. A test within the Pacific region. Before you step onto the world stage, you choose something less volatile. Something that lets him feel the difference. Measure himself properly.”

He looks directly at her. “Carbello just defeated Renji. If he beats Ryoma next… that’s not just a loss. That’s a statement against Japanese boxing.”