VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma does not answer immediately. Instead, he slowly turns his chair toward the window beside his desk and watches the light snowfall drifting across the streets outside.

“Do you know why some global audiences have started losing interest in La Liga and Bundesliga, Kirizume-san?” he begins.

Kirizume frowns. The sudden shift toward European football catches him completely off guard.

“What does that have to do with…”

“Monopoly,” Ryoma cuts in.

Then he turns back, his tone remains casual. “When Real Madrid and Barcelona become too dominant, or when Bayern Munich keeps stripping the best players away from every domestic rival, the competition becomes predictable. People get bored. Rivalries lose their edge. Eventually the entire ecosystem starts losing value.”

Ryoma then leans back slightly. “The same thing is happening in Japanese boxing. And I have to admit, Nakahara and I helped create it. We crushed Iron Fox Gym. We buried Narisawa Gym. We turned gym rivalries into major storylines, and every time their fighters lost, their reputation collapsed with them.”

Only now does Kirizume begin to understand where the conversation is heading. For the first time since entering the office, Kirizume feels genuinely unsettled.

“Now imagine the same thing happens to you,” Ryoma continues. “The last meaningful counterweight disappears. People stop seeing gyms competing with each other. They stop seeing factions. Rivalries. Narratives.”

His finger taps lightly against the desk. “If the domestic scene turns into Nakahara Gym’s private swimming pool, then Japanese boxing slowly loses its heat. And if that happens, I’m the one who loses.”

A short laugh escapes him. “It becomes much harder to sell a fight when everybody already knows who’s supposed to win.”

The realization finally reaches Kirizume. It’s never a sympathy, not charity, not friendship. Ryoma never intends any of those things.

“So…” Kirizume says slowly. His throat feels unusually dry. “I’m being kept alive just to play the villain in your story?”

Ryoma shrugs. “You can think of me as a business partner or a competitor. I don’t really care. But I want the public to keep seeing us as enemies. I need the media talking about Kirizume Gym and Ronin Fight Management like we’re locked in a war that’ll last the next decade.”

Kirizume slowly nods. Finally, he understands, while Nakahara is driven by emotion, Ryoma only cares about business.

Unfortunately, that understanding changes nothing.

“There’s a problem with your idea,” Kirizume says, “I’ve already challenged Aramaki publicly. Your side accepted it publicly. If I suddenly withdraw now, everything you’ve said about preserving my reputation becomes meaningless.”

Ryoma simply shrugs. “That’s your fault for not listening to my advice from the beginning.”

Kirizume’s jaw tightens. “Then there’s no point discussing this any further.” Kirizume rises from his chair and begins adjusting his coat. “It seems I wasted my trip.”

“Ah.” Ryoma suddenly raises a hand. “What if I told you there’s still a way?”

Kirizume stops. Slowly, he turns back. One eyebrow rises with curiosity.

“You could make Serrano injured,” Ryoma says simply.

“Injuring my own fighter?” Kirizume bellows, eyes widened by anger. “Have you lost your mind?”

“No.” Ryoma shakes his head. “Not actually injured. You just need the paperwork.”

For a moment, Kirizume cannot believe what he’s hearing. “You want me to forge medical records?”

Ryoma blinks once. “Kirizume-san,” he says, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Why are you acting shocked now? Come on. Let’s not suddenly pretend paperwork is where you draw the line.”

Kirizume says nothing after that. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t dismiss the idea, and doesn’t even bother concealing the uncomfortable truth that part of him is already considering it.

“You need a reason to cancel the fight,” Ryoma continues flatly. “And you need time. An inactive champion is still a champion. The commission will create an interim title fight. Aramaki gets his opportunity. Serrano keeps his belt. And you keep your reputation.”

“But Serrano can’t fake his injury forever,” Kirizume says. “Eventually, the commission will force him to have a mandatory title fight against the interim champion.”

“I’ll keep Aramaki busy,” Ryoma says. “I can delay the collision for a few months. And meanwhile, you keep pushing the narrative that Serrano is preparing for the world stage.”

Silence fills the office. The idea looked like it came out of a whim. But hearing it now, it sounds too prepared, far too much of it sounds convenient.

Almost like Ryoma has already thought through every possible outcome long before Kirizume arrived.

Eventually, Kirizume asks the only question that matters. “And what stops you from exposing all of this later?”

Ryoma laughs out of genuine amusement. “Simple. If I expose you, you can expose me. Half the public will believe you. Half the public will believe me. And suddenly our rivalry becomes even bigger.”

He taps the desk once. “More attention. More controversy. And more money.”

For the first time in the conversation, Kirizume genuinely struggles to decide whether the man sitting across from him is a genius, a madman, or something far more troublesome than either.

Kirizume remains silent for several moments, weighing every implication of the proposal. The more he examines it, the more he dislikes it. Yet that dislike alone does nothing to change the reality in front of him.

Eventually, he exhales through his nose, gives a reluctant nod, and turns away.

“Fine, I’ll do it as you say.”

He starts walking toward the door, but with every step, a growing sense of unease settles inside him. Kirizume gradually realizes just how dangerous Ryoma has become, that he finds himself genuinely afraid of him.

It has little to do with money, influence, or even the growing power of Ronin Fight Management. It comes from Ryoma’s ability to see the board several moves ahead and guide people toward the outcome he wants, all while making them believe they arrived there on their own.

Just when Kirizume’s hand reaches the doorknob, Ryoma suddenly speaks again.

“Wait. There’s something else.”

Kirizume pulls the door open but does not leave. He lingers there, glancing back over his shoulder.

“While you’re arranging Serrano’s injury,” Ryoma says, “it might be a good idea to start looking for another star. I can even give you a name.”

This time, Kirizume turns around completely. The irritation and caution remain, but the fear and contempt momentarily give way to curiosity.

“Liam Kuroda,” Ryoma says, leaning back in his chair. “Since losing to Kenta, he practically disappeared from the scene. But the truth is… he spent most of last year demanding a rematch, something Masahiro Nishiyama could never afford to give him.”

A faint smile appears on Ryoma’s face. “And if I were a betting man, I’d wager he never extended his contract with Raging Fox Gym.”

Kirizume blinks several times, immediately sees the huge opportunity.

Liam still carries value. And unlike Serrano, Liam Kuroda has the same qualities that once made Renji Kuroiwa the backbone of the gym: discipline, ambition, and the ability to make an entire gym work harder simply through his presence.

It is exactly the kind of fighter Kirizume desperately needs right now. More importantly, if Ryoma’s assumption is correct, then Liam Kuroda may be available.

And judging by the state of the division since Kawamoto Sozen vacated the belt to pursue a world ranking, the Japanese Welterweight scene has become noticeably thinner. With Liam Kuroda, another national title suddenly feels within reach.

Yet Kirizume says nothing back to Ryoma, no gratitude, no acknowledgement. He keeps his face flat, steps out of the office, and quietly closes the door behind him.

Ryoma simply shrugs, a faint smile remains on his face, relaxed and almost boyish. It is the sort of expression that makes him difficult to understand, because there is no trace of malice, triumph, or even relief.

To him, it seems this is simply another day, another problem solved, another piece moved across the board in a game he genuinely enjoys playing.