VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Out on the main floor, the other five pro fighters stop their movements. Ryoma, still clutching his towel, stands slowly from the bench. He looks toward the office, his brow furrowed in confusion and growing discomfort, sensing the storm brewing between the two men who hold his career in their hands.

Inside the cramped office, Nakahara feels a crushing weight in his chest. A part of him screams to defend his honor, that he had actually fought Kurogane’s idea from the start, sensing the risk to Ryoma’s recovery.

Yet, as the head of this gym, the final signature was his. He had allowed Ryoma’s stubbornness to overrule his own veteran instincts. Now the guilt of failing both his fighter and his benefactor paralyzes him.

“I… I have no excuses, Fujimoto-san,” Nakahara mutters, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I allowed our shared principles to slip through my fingers. For that, I am truly sorry.”

“No, this was my initiative from the beginning,” Kurogane cuts in, his voice trembling but determined. “Nakahara-kaichou opposed it vehemently. If anyone is to blame for the marketing strategy, it’s…”

“It’s me,” Ryoma’s voice rings out from the main gym floor.

He then steps forward, and stops at the doorway, still wrapped in his sweat-damp towel, hair clinging to his forehead.

“I’m the one who pushed for it,” he continues. “I couldn’t stand the idea of Yoyogi looking half-empty.”

He walks in now, ready to take the blame. “As you know, Fujimoto-san, I’m not just a fighter here. I own shares in this gym. For this event, I’m acting as co-promoter. Seventy percent of the purse you secured went to me. And I used that money to help finance the promotion.”

The room stills. Fujimoto’s eyes widen, not with anger at first, but with something closer to disbelief. Then it settles slowly into disappointment.

“I understand your ambition,” Fujimoto says. “You’re twenty-one. I know that. But you’ve made us forget that fact. You’ve carried yourself like a man far older. That’s why this disappoints me.”

His gaze hardens. “You are the primary brand ambassador of Aqualis. I invested half a million dollars so you would never repeat what happened in Melbourne. I wanted you stepping into that ring at your strongest. Not hollowed out.”

He then takes a step closer, his voice rises just a fraction. “And yet you risked your conditioning, just to push ticket numbers a few inches higher?”

The question lingers, sharp as wire. Outside the office, the other fighters shift uneasily, tension etched plainly across their tightened jaws and restless eyes.

“If this was your objective,” Fujimoto continues, “why did we fight to win that insane purse bid? Why did I put my name, my capital, my company behind you?”

His eyes lock onto Ryoma’s. “I could have let them bring you to Thailand. Let you crawl into that ring half-drained and call it ’experience.’ Would that have satisfied your pride? Or was half a million dollars still not enough for you?”

Ryoma remains silent, his head bowed. He knows Fujimoto is right; his gamble for ticket sales had directly undermined the very protection Fujimoto had bought for him.

But before he can force out an apology, Kurogane speaks up again, drawing Fujimoto’s gaze back to himself.

“Forgive my intrusion, Fujimoto-san. But every decision made here, including the ticket drive, is no longer about the money.”

Fujimoto turns to him, his expression deeply puzzled. “Explain yourself.”

“On paper, we are already guaranteed a positive turnover,” Kurogane continues. “Every sponsor slot is sold, and broadcasting rights have exceeded our wildest targets.”

“Then why force the ticket sales?” Fujimoto demands.

“First, I don’t mean to shift the blame to you,” Kurogane says, bracing himself. “But this all started with your decision to win the Purse Bid with half a million dollars.”

Fujimoto recoils as if struck. To hear his massive investment labeled as the source of the chaos sparks a flash of visible anger.

Nakahara notices the shift in Fujimoto’s face, and quickly steps in. “Watch your tongue, Kurogane! You’re new here; you don’t understand what this gym went through before that bid. Fujimoto-san sacrificed everything to save Ryoma’s career!”

“No, Kaichou,” Kurogane interrupts. “I’m not looking for a villain. But everyone in this room needs to realize that even a good deed with good intentions doesn’t always end well.”

“Young man, you speak as if you know business far better than me,” Fujimoto says, turning a cold gaze toward Nakahara. “Who exactly is he, Nakahara?”

“He is our manager,” Nakahara says, bowing his head. “He joined us only two months ago.”

Kurogane gives a short bow, respectful but not submissive. When he straightens, his eyes are steady.

“I am new,” he says evenly. “And young. There are gaps in my business experience, I won’t deny that. But with respect, President… there are realities in boxing you may not fully see.”

A faint crease forms between Fujimoto’s brows. “If that is what you believe,” he replies coolly, “then by all means… enlighten me.”

“The OPBF market was barely worth a hundred thousand dollars,” Kurogane begins carefully. “Then you put that half a million dollars on the table. That didn’t just raise the stakes. It warped them.”

Fujimoto says nothing. His expression doesn’t change, but his fingers tighten slightly against his sleeve.

“That number pulled global attention to Tokyo,” Kurogane continues. “Suddenly, Nakahara-kaichou and Ryoma weren’t just defending a regional belt. They became a statement, an expectation.”

He draws a slow breath before continuing. “They can’t headline Korakuen Hall anymore. Not Ota Gymnasium. Then Yoyogi came as the last answer. But once you announce Yoyogi, you’re declaring scale. And if Yoyogi looks half-empty, it doesn’t just embarrass us. It makes Aqualis and every sponsor look reckless on an international stage.”

His voice lowers, but it doesn’t waver. “That is why we pushed. Not for ego. Not for greed. But because once that number was announced… retreat stopped being an option.”

Fujimoto lets the words settle. He inhales deep, and then exhales slowly, reining himself in. For the first time since entering the gym, the edge in his posture eases.

He had always thought he was playing the savior, shielding a young champion from exploitation. But now he fully understands, that the half-million-dollar purse had been the first tremor, the wave that lifted everything too high.

After giving a small nod, he then turns to Ryoma. “So you did this… for us?”

Ryoma lowers his head slightly. “I’m only trying to honor the trust you placed in us, Fujimoto-san. Nothing more.”

Fujimoto studies him for a long moment before nodding once more. “Fair enough. It’s clear that my ignorance of boxing created this distortion.” His tone is calmer now, but no less firm. “I expect greatness from you. That hasn’t changed. But this burden… it borders on unreasonable..”

He then shifts his gaze to Kurogane. “How many tickets have we sold? And what number keeps Yoyogi from looking hollow?”

Kurogane bows lightly and retreats to the laptop. “One moment.”

His fingers move quickly. “We’ve reached 9,604 tickets,” he says. “It appears a few were sold while we were speaking.”

Fujimoto nods once, then walks toward the doorway. “Shizue. Come here.”

As Shizue hurries in, tablet in hand, Fujimoto turns back to Kurogane.

“What is the current price per seat?”

Kurogane doesn’t respond as a flicker of understanding crosses his face. He knows where this is going.

His eyes shift to Nakahara, reluctant, almost apologetic. But the old coach just holds his gaze for a second, silent but heavy with meaning.

Then Fujimoto’s voice comes again, calm but firmer. “What’s the price?”

The young manager swallows. “The VIP section is sold out,” he says carefully. “The remaining inventory is in the lowest tier. And it’s 8.000 yen per seat.”

Fujimoto turns to Shizue without pause. “Purchase 500 of those seats. Distribute them later to our employees as company gifts.”

Nakahara and Ryoma both step forward at once, instinctively, almost in protest. The refusal is written plainly across their faces.

They cannot let him carry more of this, not when the weight of Fujimoto’s previous investment is already lodged deep in their conscience, pressing heavier than any debt.

“Sir, please…” Ryoma says. “You’ve already done more than enough.”

“Fujimoto-san, there is still a month before fight night,” Nakahara adds. “Ten thousand is within reach. Leave this to us.”

“And if it isn’t?” Fujimoto counters. “I’m also in this, Nakahara-san. This began with my purse bid. I will not pretend otherwise.”

Behind him, Shizue is already moving; tablet lowered, smartphone in hand, her fingers poised to finalize the purchase without hesitation.

“Five hundred tickets would total four million yen, sir. Shall I proceed?”

Kurogane reacts quickly. “Wait, wait… if you insist on that volume, I can call East Gate Promotions. We might arrange an adjustment, perhaps a discreet discount…”

But Fujimoto simply gives an order, “Proceed, Shizue.”

“As you wish, sir.” She taps her screen. “Purchase complete. Five hundred tickets secured.”

Kurogane exhales slowly and sinks back onto the sofa. “At least allow us to reduce the listed price,” he says carefully.

“No,” Fujimoto replies. “Lowering it now signals panic. And panic invites ridicule.”

Ryoma steps closer. “Then let me reimburse you for those seats, Fujimoto-san.”

Fujimoto closes the distance and places a firm hand on his shoulder. “Listen carefully, son. I never intended to place this weight on you. I ask only two things. Enter that ring in your best condition. And win.”

Then he removes his hand, turning to Nakahara first before taking his leave. “Nakahara-san, forgive the intrusion. Dr. Mizuno, take care of these young men for me.”

“Yes, sir,” Mizuno replies with a respectful bow.

Fujimoto gives a faint nod as he walks past him without looking back, with Shizue falling in step quietly behind.