VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma does not answer immediately. His gaze lingers on the open briefcase resting on the glass table between them, where the bundles of American hundred-dollar bills sit in precise rows.

The amount of money inside that case could change the course of a person’s life in a single evening. For many fighters, it would represent freedom. Five million dollars could buy houses, investments, years of comfort after retirement.

But that is not what Ryoma sees when he looks at the money. What he sees is a chain.

Accepting a deal like this would not simply mean losing a fight on purpose. It would mean tying himself to men like the one sitting across from him now.

People like this never offer money without expecting loyalty in return, and loyalty to the wrong people tends to become permanent.

Ryoma exhales slowly and lifts his eyes from the briefcase. “I appreciate the offer,” he says calmly. “But it’s not something I can decide myself.”

The Frenchman watches him in silence for several seconds. The earlier confidence in his expression does not disappear. Instead, it shifts slightly, as though Ryoma’s refusal has only confirmed something he already suspected.

“You’re cautious,” the man says at last. “That is understandable.”

His fingers rest lightly on the edge of the briefcase, tapping once as though emphasizing the weight of the money inside.

“But I don’t think you’re refusing,” he adds.

The Frenchman leans back comfortably against the sofa, studying him with the relaxed patience of someone who believes the conversation is still unfolding exactly as expected.

“I think,” he continues, “you are interested. You simply feel the price is not convincing enough.”

For a moment the room remains quiet. Ryoma does not bother correcting the assumption. Whether the man believes him tempted or not changes nothing.

The Frenchman’s smile grows slightly wider. “You see, the five million dollars you are looking at right now is not the only payment involved.”

He raises a hand and snaps his fingers lightly. “After the fight is finished, you will receive another five million dollars.”

Ryoma’s gaze sharpens almost imperceptibly. Not with greed, but with recognition. That amount is no longer simply an attractive bribe. It is an extraordinary fortune, large enough to tempt almost anyone who lives in a profession as fragile as boxing.

And in that moment, something becomes clear to him. As long as he continues refusing politely, the man across from him will simply continue pushing.

The numbers will grow larger. The persuasion will become more elaborate. This discussion will stretch on until either Ryoma accepts the offer or the situation turns ugly.

Ryoma exhales quietly through his nose. Then he rises from the sofa. “I’m not interested. And to be honest, I’m not brave enough to take a deal like that.”

The Frenchman tilts his head slightly, watching him stand. Ryoma reaches down to pick up his bag from the floor beside the couch.

“Things like this always bring trouble sooner or later,” he continues. “People talk. Problems appear. Investigations happen. Careers disappear overnight.”

He slides the strap over his shoulder, and then turns toward the door, as if the matter is already settled.

“I’ve already had enough distractions lately. For now, I’d rather keep my life simple.”

The Frenchman’s smile fades just slightly as he watches Ryoma begin to leave.

“Wait.”

The voice stops him halfway across the room. Ryoma glances back over his shoulder.

“If you worked with us,”

the Frenchman says calmly, “you would not have to worry about distractions anymore. In fact, your career would become much smoother. No unexpected obstacles. No unpleasant complications. No inconvenient opponents appearing at the wrong time.”

The words are delivered without arrogance, almost conversationally. For a brief moment Ryoma does not respond.

But it is not because he is considering the offer. Instead, he is measuring the meaning behind those words.

Just how far does the influence of people like this actually reach inside the boxing world?

Promoters control matchmaking. Sanctioning bodies control rankings. Television networks control exposure.

Heknows full well, his career can rise or collapse depending on decisions made in quiet rooms far away from the ring. A lot of things in this sport already move in strange directions.

Ryoma studies the Frenchman one last time, committing the man’s calm expression to memory, expecting this won’t be last time he will dealing with him.

Then he turns back toward the door and continues walking, not bothering answering.

“Sorry, the talk ends here.”

But the large bodyguard stationed beside the entrance reacts before Ryoma can reach the handle. The man steps forward and plants himself squarely in front of the door, blocking the exit with his massive frame.

A heavy hand lands on Ryoma’s shoulder. “You were not told you could leave,” the man says in a low, cold voice.

Ryoma slowly turns his head toward him. His expression remains calm. But inside his mind, a silent command activates.

“Activate X-Ray Targeting.”

A translucent overlay spreads across the bodyguard’s form, mapping the structure beneath muscle and clothing with clinical precision.

[X-ray Targeting Activated]

Bone lines appear faintly beneath the man’s skin: the shoulder joint, the clavicle, the angle of the scapula connecting to the upper arm.

Ryoma only starts thinking his intention inside his head. And soon, thin targeting lines trace possible vectors across the skeletal frame.

Impact probability calculations flicker quietly at the edge of Ryoma’s vision.

[Optimal joint disruption path: 11%.]

[Dislocation probability: 93%.]

The bodyguard tightens his grip slightly, perhaps mistaking Ryoma’s stillness for hesitation.

And Ryoma immediately moves before the man can react.

The motion is so compact it barely resembles an attack. His right hand holding the man’s wrist, his left hand snaps upward, hooking beneath the bodyguard’s elbow while his torso rotates sharply to the side.

At the same instant, his right forearm drives upward beneath the joint with a precise burst of force directed exactly along the highlighted vector.

The strike travels only a few centimeters. But the angle is perfect, and…

CRACK!!!

A sharp sound echoes through the room as the shoulder joint violently pops out of place.

The bodyguard’s arm jerks upward at an unnatural angle. His grip collapses instantly as the sudden shock of pain sends him staggering backward with a choked shout.

“Arrgh… fuck! My shoulder!”

The massive man doubles slightly as the pain shoots through the joint, clutching the ruined limb while it dangles uselessly beside him.

“Goddamn it! That son of a bitch just broke my shoulder!”

Ryoma releases him immediately. He does not raise his guard or step into a fighting stance, nor does he make any effort to retreat.

The motion ends as cleanly as it began, as though the brief burst of violence were nothing more than a minor interruption. Instead, he calmly brushes the man’s hand off his shoulder, flicking it away with the same casual indifference someone might use to remove a speck of dust from a jacket sleeve.

Ryoma then glances back toward the center of the room, his expression unchanged from the moment he first stepped inside. There is no sign of tension in his posture, no quickening breath, no urgency.

“Look,” he says at last, his voice carrying a faint edge of fatigue rather than anger, “I’m really tired today. And I’m not in the mood for a long talk here.”

His gaze drifts slowly across the men gathered in the suite before settling forward again.

“So you’d better not push your luck.”