VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Nobusawa’s final remark lingers in the room long after she finishes speaking. The satisfaction surrounding Night of Revenge has faded almost as quickly as it arrived. One by one, attention shifts toward a different stack of documents spread across the conference table.

The words printed across the cover are enough to change the mood entirely.

YOYOGI PROJECT

(Working Title: One Step from the Summit)

Compared to Ota, the scale is almost absurd.

Several staff members quietly flip through the pages while others study the financial projections displayed on the screen.

Depending on production requirements, sponsorship commitments, international broadcasting arrangements, and final fight-week expenses, the total budget is expected to approach US$5 million. Possibly more if the event is managed poorly.

Sitting near the end of the table, Nakano slowly raises his hand. As an intern, Nakano rarely speaks during meetings unless he is absolutely certain he has something worth saying.

“But… that’s still enough, isn’t it?”

Several heads turn toward him as Nakano clears his throat, gathering enough confidence to continue.

“I mean, we don’t need to pay the entire budget upfront, right?” Nakano says. “Assume we only need roughly 40% of the projected expenditure for advance payments, that’s around two million dollars. We already have enough capital to cover that. The remaining obligations can be settled after the event, once all the revenue has been collected.”

Kurogane nods slightly. “That’s usually how it works. Which means we’d still be using almost everything we currently have just to cover the opening payments.”

The room grows noticeably quieter as several people lower their eyes toward the projections, suddenly able to picture just how little margin for error the company would be carrying into Yoyogi.

Nobusawa folds her arms. “And we’ll be able to settle the remaining obligations only if the event performs as projected. If revenue falls short, those liabilities don’t disappear. The vendors still need to be paid. The fighters still need to be paid. The production companies still need to be paid.”

She taps the Yoyogi proposal with a finger. “And if that happens, the question becomes how those debts are covered.”

Her gaze moves briefly toward Ryoma. “Not to mention how the next event gets funded. From what I’ve heard, we’re already discussing something even bigger after this.”

Nobody needs her to explain what she means. Ryoma’s eventual WBO title fight has been sitting in the background of every long-term projection since Manila. And they still want to host that event in Japan.

Silence settles over the room once more. Kurogane remains quietly staring at the projections. Nakahara glances toward Ryoma for only a moment before lowering his eyes back to the documents in front of him.

For the newer employees, the discussion sounds like nothing more than normal business planning. The company possesses more capital than it has ever held before. The numbers are larger. The opportunities are larger. Everything about Ronin Fight Management appears stronger than it was only a year ago.

Yet for Nakahara, Ryoma, and Kurogane, the feeling is strangely familiar. They have seen this position before. Different numbers, different stage, different opponents, but the same feeling.

No matter how much the company grows, every step toward a higher level seems to bring them back to the same place: sitting at a table, pushing nearly everything they have into the middle, and trusting that one night of boxing will be enough to justify the risk.

Then another voice speaks up. “There is still the NSN proposal.”

Several people turn toward the speaker. Tachibana Hiroki, a staff working directly under Kurogane, flips through several pages before continuing.

“If we’re only discussing liquidity, NSN already offered to cover most of that problem.”

The reaction is immediate, not from the newer employees, but from the three founders. Ryoma’s expression stays flat, not showing emotion, but clearly doesn’t look excited. Nakahara’s face becomes noticeably sour, while Kurogane simply remains silent.

Hiroki, seemingly unaware of their reaction, continues. “Four million dollars upfront for exclusive Japanese broadcasting rights. On top of that, NSN would handle the entire production at their own expense.”

This time, several people around the table visibly react.

“Four million?” Nobusawa mutters, blinking several times. “Wait. Are you serious?”

Hiroki nods. “Completely. If you doubt it, you can confirm with Kurogane-san.”

Nobusawa turns toward Kurogane, and after a brief pause, Kurogane gives a single solemn nod.

“The project plan isn’t even finalized yet,” Nobusawa says, looking genuinely puzzled now. “And they’re willing to pay four million dollars upfront?”

“We’ve worked with NSN before,” Nakahara finally speaks. “But honestly, if possible, we’d rather not deal with them again.”

“Why?” Nobusawa asks. “With an offer like that, they clearly have a tremendous amount of confidence in this company.”

Nakahara lets out a quiet breath. “Senchoku no Ou. The event you mentioned earlier. We handed almost everything over to them. And the six million yen profit? If you ask me why the number was so small, the answer is NSN.”

He raises a hand before anyone can misunderstand. “I’m not saying they cheated us. The truth is, they helped us tremendously back then. Without Logan Rhodes, we probably wouldn’t have been able to start anything at all.”

“But that’s exactly the problem,” Ryoma says. “If we never learned to stand on our own feet, we’d still be where we were back then. Taking everything you can from someone simply because they need you isn’t what I call a good partner, let alone calling them as savior.”

Then Kurogane finally speaks. “And maybe you need to learn this as well. Logan Rhodes once tried to poach Ryoma from this gym.”

The room shifts almost immediately after Kurogane’s words. NSN is no longer seen as just an attractive financial partner, but as a company that comes with history, leverage, and reasons to be cautious rather than comfortable.

Nobusawa is the first to break the silence. “This isn’t unusual in business. Large partners always come with conditions and dependencies. The question isn’t whether we avoid them. It’s whether we can control the terms.”

She taps the document lightly. “As long as we’re careful, there’s no reason to reject this outright. We still have enough internal production capacity. We can continue working with independent vendors the same way we did in Ota without handing over full control.”

Kurogane speaks without raising his voice. “It still comes at a cost. NSN demands exclusive domestic broadcasting rights. That means we lose the ability to negotiate with any other Japanese broadcasters for this event.”

“Still,” Nobusawa replies, steady and unshaken, “four million dollars plus full production support is worth serious consideration.”

The room falls quiet again as everyone weighs the option in their own way. A few glance toward the documents in front of them, others simply sit back in silence, letting the implications of NSN’s offer settle properly this time.

Then finally, Ryoma exhales and gives a small nod. “We’ll take their offer, but only as a last resort. For now, explore every alternative first.”

After Ryoma’s response, the atmosphere in the room shifts slightly, as though the decision has given everyone permission to move forward with the discussion on the Yoyogi project.

A few people straighten in their seats, papers are adjusted, and attention begins to return to the documents in front of them.

But before anyone can speak, the phone on the desk, separated from the conference table, suddenly rings.

Kurogane reaches for the receiver without standing up, his movement unhurried, almost indifferent to the timing of the call.

“Ronin Fight Management,” he says into the phone.

A brief pause follows. But the moment he hears the name on the other end, his expression shifts slightly.

Then he turns his head toward Ryoma. “It’s Kirizume. He wants to talk to you.”

Ryoma reaches for the receiver, his expression unchanged. “Kirizume… When are you planning to announce Serrano’s cheekbone condition? Or have you already decided not to, now that you’ve secured Liam Kuroda?”

There is a brief pause on the other end before Kirizume answers.

[Sorry, kid… I know you’re probably angry with this decision. But now that I have Liam Kuroda, I don’t think your concern about the future of my gym is relevant anymore.]

“You…” Ryoma mutters under his breath.

[You’re allowed to hate me for it. Isn’t that what you wanted from the beginning? For me to stay strong. For us to remain enemies. And for Aramaki to still get his title fight.]

Ryoma exhales through his nose. “So you still intend to put Aramaki in with Serrano. Are you prepared for the consequences that come with it?”

[I still believe in Serrano’s ability. I understand Aramaki’s potential. And with you in his corner, it only makes the fight more difficult for me. But I’m prepared for that risk. And that risk is something I can take now because of you.”

“So this is how you say thank you,” Ryoma says flatly.

[At the very least, I’ll be setting Kazuya Tojo as Satoru’s next opponent. I know you’ve been asking for that matchup. No matter the outcome, it should be enough for Satoru to secure his A-class license. Consider it compensation. A gesture, if you will.]

[I’m looking forward to the day we meet at Korakuen Hall.]

[Next time… not as negotiators.]

[But as cornermen on opposite sides.]