VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The office goes still the moment Ryoma finishes speaking. His words settle between them like a weight, and for several seconds no one moves, as if even breathing might tip the balance of what comes next.

On the speakerphone, the silence stretches long enough for Sera to shift uneasily and for Nakahara to release a slow, controlled breath.

Finally, Virgil answers. His voice is measured, almost too calm, the kind that comes only from someone forcing themselves to stay composed.

[So that’s the tone you want to take. You’re young, and you speak without caution. You don’t seem to understand the responsibility behind what you’re provoking.]

Ryoma doesn’t look away from the device, expression set in stone.

“I’m waiting…” he says.

There’s another pause, quiet and steady, but heavy with calculation on the other end of the line. When Virgil speaks again, the edge in his voice is subtle but unmistakable.

[…Very well. We won’t withdraw. Fifty thousand stands.]

Right at the moment, Sera lets out the breath he’s been holding, his shoulders easing as though a knot has finally loosened. Nakahara doesn’t show relief, only a slight lowering of his gaze, already thinking several steps ahead.

Ryoma stays motionless, absorbing every nuance.

But Virgil hasn’t finished. His tone changes once more, losing its restraint and settling into the kind of confidence that comes from years of watching his fighters dismantle opponents.

[Let’s settle this in the ring. We’ll see whether you can last even one round against my champion.]

The line cuts off cleanly. And for a moment, the office feels suspended again, as though the conversation still echoes faintly in the air.

Sera runs a hand through his hair, half laughing from nerves. “I thought for sure they were going to cancel. That was too close…”

Ryoma exhales through his nose, his irritation simmering just below the surface. “One round. Did he really think his fighter can put me away that fast.”

“Don’t take their confidence lightly,” Nakahara warns. “Teams like that don’t speak without reason. Their arrogance is built on something real. Respect that, or you’ll regret it.”

The room settles again, not into silence this time, but into a shared understanding:

The fight is locked in, no turning back for either side.

Sera is the first to break the lingering tension. He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he turns toward Nakahara.

“…So what do we do about organizing the event?” he asks. “Five million already on the table just to bring in their main card, and with Ryoma…”

He hesitates, his eyes flicking toward the young fighter.

Nakahara exhales through his nose, pulls a chair, and then sits back with a weary honesty.

“Sorry, kid,” he says. “But don’t expect me to pay you anywhere near what I’m giving them. One million… that’s the most I can manage. I still need to cover the purses for the undercards and the semifinal. And with Kenta already at fifteen in the OPBF rankings, I might try to bring in another OPBF fighter for him. Maybe someone in the top ten if we’re lucky.”

Ryoma doesn’t even blink. “I don’t care even if you don’t pay me,” he says. “Just make this fight real.”

Sera looks at him in surprise. Nakahara pauses, and then lets out a slow, resigned breath.

“…Very well,” he says quietly. Then his expression shifts into something more calculating. “In that case, considering the scale of this event… I might have to ask Logan to finally deliver on the bet he made with you.”

Ryoma’s expression changes, not anger, but a subtle tightening around his eyes, the kind that shows deep dislike.

“Honestly,” he mutters, “I’m not thrilled about doing business with him. It feels like he wants to own me rather than cooperate.”

“I don’t like him either,” Nakahara admits without hesitation. “But right now, I have to take that risk. Our funds are limited. I’ve been saving this favor for something bigger, maybe even a title shot down the line.”

He folds his arms, gaze heavy. “But we’re at the edge. If we want this event to happen, we need him now.”

Ryoma absorbs that, then nods once. “Fair enough,” he says, turning toward the door. “I leave everything to you.”

He steps out, the weight of the coming fight, and everything it demands, settling around the room like a quiet storm.

Nakahara lifts his chin in a small gesture toward the computer. “Go on. Send the official request to the OPBF commission.”

Sera moves behind the desk, sliding into Nakahara’s chair, fingers moving fast but stiff with nerves. The room stays unusually quiet, only the soft clicking of the keyboard behind them.

“…I still can’t believe it,” Sera mutters while filling in the final sections of the form. “Letting a twenty-year-old fighter meddle in something like this. And this is not the first. I mean… have you ever heard of anyone doing this? Anywhere?”

He snorts under his breath. “And look at us… we’re just letting him do whatever he wants.”

Nakahara leans back in the chair, arms folded, gaze steady on the open door Ryoma passed through moments ago.

“I know,” he admits, voice low but certain. “When it comes to Ryoma… I feel powerless.”

He exhales slowly, as if accepting a truth he’s carried for a long time. “Hate to say it, but this gym’s future sits on that kid’s shoulders now.”

Sera pauses typing, glancing back at him.

“But the good part,” Nakahara continues, “is that he knows it. And he carries that weight like someone who understands exactly what it means.”

A tired but genuine smile touches Nakahara’s face.

“I stopped thinking of him as a kid a long time ago. Truth is, if he quit tomorrow, I’d bring him on as staff. He has this strange ability to raise everyone around him. Aramaki, Ryohei… even Kenta. They’ve all grown just by sharing the ring with him.”

Sera doesn’t respond at first. He turns back to the screen, typing the final confirmation, but pauses, fingers hovering above the keyboard. A quiet chuckle slips out of him.

“…It’s strange when you think about it,” he says. “He’s the youngest in this gym, yet the others can’t even push back when he corrects them. Aramaki, Ryohei, Kenta… the moment he starts pointing things out, they just listen.”

He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“Even Okabe… the one who used to take every word the wrong way, doesn’t argue with him anymore. I honestly can’t remember the last time he talked back to the kid.”

Then, with that lingering disbelief still in his expression, Sera finally presses the key.

“There. I’ve sent the request.”

Nakahara nods once, the decision settling over him like gravity.

“Good. Now go deal with the kid. If he’s still messing up his rhythm, push him harder. Don’t give him any mercy today.”

His voice sharpens, not angry, but resolute. “He had the nerve to meddle in our work. So we’re done treating him like a kid.”

Sera gives a short, sharp laugh, half disbelief, half anticipation.

“…Understood.”

He steps out of the office, heading toward the gym floor where Ryoma is waiting without knowing what’s coming.

Once Sera steps out of the office, the door swinging shut behind him, Nakahara exhales and begins rummaging through the drawer.

Papers shift, pens clatter, until finally his fingers brush against a small black name card.

He turns it once between his fingers, then picks up the desk phone and dials the number printed in silver.

The line rings twice before it connects. Nakahara straightens his posture, voice turning politely firm.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Logan. This is Nakahara…”