VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

After Ryoma’s statement at the press conference, the tone of public discussion shifts subtly but noticeably. The skepticism that had shadowed Nakahara’s event, fueled by the Arman Sargsyan controversy, begins to ease.

Sports portals highlight the co-promoter’s clarification, and social media chatter leans toward admiration for the candor displayed. Ticket sales, which had slowed earlier in the week, start moving again.

By late afternoon, nearly twelve thousand tickets have already been purchased, with physical queues at the box office stretching longer as latecomers hope to secure a spot for the evening’s main events.

Whispers ripple through the crowd gathered near the entrances. Fans speculate about the card, trading predictions and recalling past fights with hushed excitement. A few ask one another whether global stars might be attending.

“Do you think Mercer is coming tonight?”

“They caught him at Narita. And dude said himself he’d be here.”

“Volkov too, right? The new WBA champ? I heard he landed at Haneda the other day.”

“Imagine seeing them walk in… this place would explode.”

“Ticket lines are insane already. I can’t believe we got spots.”

“Last time I saw Miguel Cabello up close, it was electric. Tonight will be wild.”

“Hopefully they don’t get mobbed before the main event even starts.”

Not long after, the international celebrity boxing entourage emerges from sleek black SUVs. Elliot Graves steps out first, his manager close behind, the two navigating the throng of eager fans and camera flashes.

A cluster of autograph seekers surrounds him immediately, their hands outstretched and voices rising in simultaneous calls.

Graves pauses, a courteous smile on his face, signing a few. But then, his VIP escort from the event staff quickly intervenes, guiding him toward the designated entrance for distinguished guests.

Graves chuckles, his expression a mixture of amusement and excitement. “This crowd is incredible,” he says, barely audible above the roar of the crowd.

“The last update said over twelve thousand tickets sold,” His manager adds, matter-of-fact. “Look at these lines at the box office. If the trend holds, the event could very well sell out before the main card even starts.”

Graves grins wider, shaking his head slightly. “It’s going to be a night to remember.”

The energy of anticipation spreads through the surrounding fans, their chatter and speculation mingling with flashes and camera shutters, while the city lights begin to reflect the approaching spectacle of the arena.

***

Soon after Elliot Graves disappears behind the VIP entrance, another ripple of attention moves through the arrival lane as a small, well-dressed group exits a dark sedan.

Word travels quickly among the insiders near the barricade that they are part of the team representing Iván “El Martillo” Duarte, the current WBC number one contender. Duarte himself is not in Tokyo, but his head trainer and promotional advisor exchange firm handshakes with several executives before heading inside.

They are followed minutes later by the management team of Malik Okoye, the Nigerian-born contender ranked number two by the WBC. Okoye’s manager walks with controlled discretion, offering brief acknowledgments to familiar promoters while avoiding unnecessary attention from cameras and fans.

Neither fighter has made the trip despite earlier public interest in attending. The reason is widely understood within the sport. Duarte and Okoye are scheduled to meet in a WBC title eliminator later this year, a high-stakes bout that will determine who earns the mandatory challenge against Celeb Mercer.

Ironically, the reigning WBC champion himself arrives minutes later. Celeb Mercer steps out of a long black vehicle surrounded by four imposing bodyguards, his presence immediately igniting the crowd.

Fans surge forward, calling his name, holding out posters and phones. Security forms a tight perimeter, but Mercer still manages to sign several autographs, flashing a practiced smile as cameras capture every second.

The commotion around him grows so intense that when Miguel Cabello exits his own car shortly afterward, he is momentarily overlooked.

Cabello pauses, his expression tightens for a brief moment. “So this is how it is,” he mutters. “World champion walks in, and the rest of us disappear.”

“Isn’t that better?” the manager says quietly. “We get inside without chaos.”

Before they can move far, a handful of sharp-eyed fans recognize Cabello and rush toward him with hopeful expressions.

Cabello stops immediately and signs their memorabilia without hesitation. When an event staff member approaches to escort him toward the VIP lane, Cabello gently waves him off.

“Let me stay a minute,” he says. “They’re the reason any of this exists. My purse probably comes from their pockets.”

Not long after, several world-class promoters begin arriving one by one, stepping out of luxury vehicles with their respective entourages.

They are not widely recognized by the general audience, and most spectators barely glance at them, assuming they are foreign executives or sponsors. And indeed, many international visitors have traveled to Yoyogi for this event.

Two veteran promoters walk side by side toward the entrance, their conversation low but candid.

“I still can’t believe an OPBF title fight draws numbers like this.”

“Well, that kid has real potential.”

“Too clever to approach, though.”

“I hope he doesn’t enjoy tonight too much.”

“If he does, we might be the ones struggling to catch up.”

Moments later, a Lexus pulls into the drop-off zone, and Reika steps out with composed elegance. Maria emerges from the passenger side, adjusting her jacket as she surveys the swelling crowd.

The two stand momentarily still, absorbing the scale of what they have orchestrated. Pride flickers beneath their professional calm, mixed with unmistakable tension.

“It’s bigger than projected,” Reika says quietly.

“And the right faces are here,” Maria replies, nodding toward the arriving executives. “That’s Alistair Vaughan from Orion Boxing. Next to him is Rafael Mendes, South America’s largest broadcast promoter. And over there, see the tall one? That’s Frank Donovan.”

Reika studies the unfamiliar faces carefully, before landing on the last one. “I know Frank. He had visited our house before.”

“If you truly want to surpass your brother,” Maria continues evenly, “you need to recognize the rest of them all. Remember who holds influence. This industry runs on relationships.”

Before Reika can respond, her gaze fixes on a familiar figure several meters away.

Jackson Rhodes stands in animated conversation with someone, impeccably dressed and radiating effortless authority. When he notices Reika watching, he excuses himself and walks toward her with an easy smile.

“Congratulations, my dear sister,” Jackson says. “Securing production for something this size as your first major project in Tokyo? Not bad.”

“Jackson,” Reika replies coolly. “I didn’t expect you to show up. You didn’t even visit us. You could have stayed at the house. Mom asks about you often.”

“That’s your mother,” Jackson answers, the smile thinning slightly. “To me, she’s just the woman my father married.”

The distance between them, despite standing only an arm’s length apart, feels far wider than the crowded entrance behind them.

***

Jackson lets the earlier remark about their father hang in the air for a moment, then slowly shifts his attention back toward the arena entrance.

His gaze sweeps across the swelling crowd, the camera cranes, the banners, and the disciplined lines of security personnel managing the influx of spectators.

“It’s impressive,” he says casually. “Hard to believe a small gym like Nakahara’s could orchestrate something on this scale. Production trucks, international guests, near sellout numbers. For an OPBF title, no less.”

Reika studies him without blinking. “It almost turned into a disaster,” she replies evenly. “Thanks to you.”

Jackson turns his head slightly, eyebrows lifting. “Thanks to me? Why?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she says, her voice sharpening. “I know what you did at the purse bid. You showed up knowing your presence alone would distort the numbers. You encouraged me to prepare a bid, let the room believe NSN was serious about escalating the market. And once the tension peaked, you withdrew. The purse only reached half a million dollars because of your interference.”

Jackson’s lips curve into a slow, unapologetic smile. “And what if I did? That’s how you suffocate competitors before they find their footing. You apply pressure early. Make them bleed capital before they even realize they’re wounded.”

“This wasn’t your battlefield,” Reika says.

He tilts his head. “Neither yours. But why, Reika… why are you so upset? This event has nothing to do with you personally. Or does it?”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Ah, maybe Father was right. Maybe you’ve grown sentimental. Blinded by your attachment to that Ryoma Takeda.”

Reika’s expression hardens. “It’s none of your business.”

Jackson chuckles softly. “What a joke,” he says under his breath.

Without another word, Reika turns and walks away, her heels striking the pavement with controlled force. Jackson watches her retreating figure with an easy smile, as though he has simply finished an entertaining exchange.

Maria lingers just long enough to offer a brief bow. And Jackson simply waves her off dismissively.

“Keep an eye on my foolish sister,” he says lightly. “Don’t let her make any more mistakes than she already has.”

“Excuse me?” Maria asks, her tone cool but edged.

“I know what you did,” Jackson continues. “Vegas-level production for just thirty million yen. Ambitious. Reckless. You’re fortunate Father is distracted with his new investment on Shimamura Suzuki. If he weren’t, this would already be under review.”

Maria’s composure falters for a fraction of a second.

“He will notice eventually,” Jackson adds. “When he does, I hope you’ve prepared a convincing explanation.”

He then gestures toward Reika, now already several meters away and disappearing into the crowd.

“Go,” he says. “Before you lose her.”

Maria inclines her head stiffly, then moves quickly after Reika, weaving through the gathering spectators with sharper steps than before, unwilling to let her president walk alone into a night already charged with more tension than anyone publicly acknowledges.