VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Frank rises fully, posture straightening with effortless authority. He glances at Logan as he speaks in smooth unhurried English.

“You should mention as well,” he says, “that my camp currently manages a reigning world champion, and a WBA top welterweight contender.”

He expects Logan to translate.

Logan inhales to begin, but Ryoma cuts in first.

“No need,” he replies in clear English. “I understand you. And I’m aware of your reputation.”

Frank pauses briefly, then his brows lift in a pleased, almost predatory arc. And a slow smile forms.

“Good,” he says. “That makes things easier. And I’m sure you already understand why I wanted to meet you.”

Ryoma only nods, calm and detached. Sensing the weight between them, Logan steps in quickly with a polite laugh.

“Well then… let’s sit.”

Ryoma takes the seat across from Logan and Frank, posture relaxed but attentive. Reika takes the seat near her father, tablet resting lightly on her knees as she reviews a few final notes.

She isn’t beside Ryoma anymore; she sits angled slightly toward Logan, close enough for quiet consultation.

When Logan speaks, Reika remains attentive but silent, her expression calm and neutral, as if she is simply there to observe the outcome of what she helped initiate.

Her presence isn’t warm or intimate, just trying to be professional, trying to win her father’s trust, positioning herself exactly where it should be for this kind of meeting.

Meanwhile, Frank’s eyes are analyzing Ryoma already; his bone structure, posture, potential brand value, long-term marketability.

And Ryoma can almost see the numbers moving behind those irises of his, and the Vision Grid already flickers faintly in his mind.

***

[Initial Scan Update: Frank Donovan]

Heart rate: steady.

Breathing: controlled.

Intent: acquisition.

***

Ryoma keeps his expression normal, calm and detached. They want something, and they’re very good at hiding just how badly they want it. But he still can read it through.

Logan leans forward, hands steepled. “Let’s get straight to the point. You’re not competing locally anymore. We all know the situation. We’ve seen exactly how the Japanese champ and the rest of the contenders have been shutting you out. Thankfully, your name has already begun to cross borders. And NSN wants to shape that carefully.”

Frank folds his arms lightly, adding, “And we want to ensure the momentum goes global, not just national.”

Ryoma says nothing. He simply watches, and listens.

Frank continues. “You have raw potential. Exceptional potential. Enough to redefine the landscape if properly developed. But potential alone doesn’t last. What matters is the infrastructure behind the fighter.”

Ryoma catches the faint inflection, properly developed; conditioning, brand, public persona, fight selection, media control.

In essence: ownership.

Logan gestures toward Reika, who calmly slides a document forward. “We’ve run projections: coverage, sponsorship, international interest. The numbers are, frankly, unprecedented for someone at your stage.”

Reika doesn’t look at Ryoma while she presents it. It’s purely professional, efficient, her hand stops at the edge of the table so Logan can take over.

He taps the paper lightly. “And these projections are conservative.”

Ryoma glances down only briefly before lifting his eyes again. “So you’re offering me backing.”

“Not just backing,” Frank replies. “Direction. Protection. Reach.”

He adjusts his seating position, crossing one leg over the other, posture immaculate.

“We’re offering to put you on a trajectory that guarantees world-title contention.”

Ryoma studies him quietly, and the Vision Grid shifts its parameters, running a deeper assessment of the man’s sincerity and the truth behind his interest.

Logan smiles again, that polished warmth sliding back into place. “I won’t pretend it’s altruistic. You win, we win. That’s how business works. But we know how to turn fighters into something the world can’t ignore.”

Ryoma’s gaze shifts slightly, just enough to take in the subtle details around Logan; the slight rub of his thumb against his index knuckle, a micro-pause before each strategically placed compliment. And the careful use of “we” and “you,” but never “us.”

He knows, Logan’s a true salesman wearing a president’s badge.

“And what do you expect from me?” Ryoma asks, leaning back.

Logan’s answer comes instantly. “Commitment.”

Reika’s eyes flick up at that word, but she stays silent.

Frank nods once. “Commitment to a clear path. Clean training schedule. Media discipline. Selective fights instead of taking every challenge that comes your way.”

Ryoma hears the subtext clearly, that they want full control over his career moves.

Frank continues, gentler: “A fighter with no direction becomes a story that fades too soon. Of course, we don’t want that for you.”

Ryoma’s lips tug into something almost like a smile. “Honestly, there are moments when I prefer to choose my own fights.”

Logan lifts a hand in reassurance. “We’re not here to control you. We’re here to elevate you.”

Ryoma studies him, and it doesn’t take long to see the truth beneath the words; a lie, soft and polished, dressed up to sound like sincerity.

His Vision Grid also pulses faintly…

***

[Scan Update: Logan Rhodes]

Deception: moderate

Intent: persuasion

Threat level: low

***

But Ryoma doesn’t need the system to see through it. His instincts have always been keener than anyone realized.

He shifts his weight just slightly forward, elbows settling on his knees, eyes locked onto Logan with the calm of someone who has seen through countless feints.

“Why…” Ryoma asks quietly, “Why am I so important to you?”

It’s a simple question, a disarming one. But the moment it lands, the room changes.

Frank sits straighter. Reika subtly stills. But Logan’s smile doesn’t disappear. It tightens.

And for the first time, Ryoma sees it: a hint of hunger. It’s not greed, not financial desire, but something deeper. It’s about legacy, influence, a name shaping another name.

But before Logan finds his answer, Frank responds smoothly, guiding the conversation toward the subject he thinks holds real weight.

“Let’s speak plainly.” He lifts a single finger, as if cutting through the air. “If you sign under my management, your base contract starts at two million USD a year. Guaranteed. Not tied to wins.”

A second finger. “Add sponsorships, ones I can secure within the first quarter, you’re looking at another three to five million annually.”

A third. “Your first title fight? Depending on the belt and venue, a minimum purse of eight figures.”

He lets the numbers settle, not rushing a single syllable.

“This isn’t a projection,” Frank continues. “This is the contract I’m putting on the table. For someone your age, with your power, your discipline… it’s not just a career. It’s a dynasty waiting to happen.”

The room falls still again. All eyes turn to Ryoma.

Ryoma’s composure doesn’t budge, not a flicker. But the moment Frank’s numbers settle thickly in the air, the system lets out a low, admiring whistle, converting everything into yen with unnecessary enthusiasm.

>

The tone is casual, fully playful, like a buddy elbowing him. But the figure hits hard all the same, a quiet reminder of just how massive the offer truly is.