VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Nakahara studies the contract carefully. And Logan watches without the slightest hint of impatience, because in his mind, the agreement is already a done deal.

He leans back slightly, watching. “Once it’s signed,” he says, still looking at Nakahara rather than Maria, “transfer the upfront money, eighteen million yen, to Nakahara-san’s account.”

“Yes, sir,” Maria replies, already preparing the transfer request on her tablet.

The document lies open between them, ink still warm, the numbers now real. The handshake is done, and the terms are set.

Finally, with a steady stroke of his pen, Nakahara signs.

And that, inevitably, is how business proceeds, even between two men who trust each other only in the places where profit overlaps.

Maria finishes arranging the pages, sliding one crisp copy toward Nakahara while keeping the signed original for NSN’s archive. She tucks it neatly into a labeled folder, efficient to the last detail.

Nakahara accepts his copy with a short nod, already half rising from his seat. The moment the paper touches his hand, something tightens inside him, the urgent awareness that he now has work to do, calls to make, negotiations to launch today, not tomorrow.

“Well then… I’ll get things moving,” he says, pushing back his chair.

But just as he straightens, Logan lifts a single finger, a small gesture, but one that stops Nakahara in place.

“One more thing,” Logan says, his tone shifting into that smooth, deliberate confidence of a man who has just invested real money. “Since we’ve transferred quite a sum… I’d like to suggest the names you should bring in.”

Nakahara exhales quietly and sits back down, reluctantly.

“For Kenta Moriyama,” Logan continues, “go after someone who will make that semifinal matter. Someone with standing. Someone the OPBF will take seriously.”

He glances at Maria, who brings up a profile on her tablet and angles it toward Nakahara.

“Liam Kuroda,” Logan says. “Welterweight. Born in Australia, fighting out of Raging Fox Gym in Kobe. Ranked third in Japan… and sixth in the OPBF.”

Nakahara’s jaw tenses. He knows the name. Everyone in Japanese boxing does. “That’s… ambitious,” he says slowly. “Kuroda’s team doesn’t take low-risk fights. I’m not sure they’ll accept something like this.”

Logan waves a hand, as if brushing away the hesitation. “They have a foreigner under their banner. They didn’t sign him for charity. They mean business. Put money on the table, and they’ll bite. Believe me.”

Nakahara doesn’t answer. He’s already thinking through budgets, angles, possible yeses, likely nos.

“And as for Aramaki,” Logan adds, settling back into his chair, “challenge someone in the Japanese top five. Anyone. Your call.”

Now the message is clear: If NSN is elevating this event, then every fight beneath Ryoma’s must rise with it.

Nakahara understands the weight fully, and nods once, slowly. The weight of the new responsibilities settles over him, but so does the possibility.

A bigger stage. Bigger opponents. Bigger stakes.

“I’ll handle it,” he says.

He finally leaves, and Logan watches him go with a slow, satisfied smile. But beside him, Maria doesn’t mirror the expression. Her posture stays composed, but her eyes carry none of Logan’s optimism.

Once Nakahara disappears down the hallway and the door clicks shut, she exhales and speaks.

“You really like this boy, huh? Ryoma Takeda,” she says, gathering the documents into a neat stack.

“I do,” Logan replies without hesitation.

“But pushing this far for a small gym like his…” She glances at him, brow slightly raised. “Isn’t this a bit too generous, even for you?”

Logan chuckles softly. “I made a mistake before, Maria. I nearly lost the kid’s trust. When that old man walked in here today, he looked at me like I was some sort of vampire… and honestly, he wasn’t wrong. So to rebuild trust? A little sacrifice is necessary.”

Maria smiles faintly. “Judging by how quickly he accepted your terms, I’d say you got that trust back.”

“Not just his trust,” Logan says, leaning back in his chair. “I secured the future. With today’s deal, he’ll come back to us when he’s ready to organize the next event. Maybe I can’t own that kid’s full potential… but I won’t let him slip completely out of my hands.”

***

By the time Nakahara returns to the gym, the sun is already low, casting long shadows across the floorboards. The pros are gone, of course they are. They’ve been training since morning.

Late afternoon belongs to the kids. And sure enough, Nakahara spots them.

Furuse and Yahiro are skipping rope near the corner. Satoru is in the ring with Kenta, working mitts, sharp, steady combinations echoing through the otherwise quiet space.

When there’s a brief break in the flow, he finally speaks.

“You’re looking good, Satoru.”

Satoru straightens, a little startled, wiping his forehead with the back of his glove.

“Thank… thank you, Coach.”

Nakahara nods once. “Keep it up… we’ll talk about making you pro soon.”

The kids at the jump ropes stop mid-count, exchanging quick glances, excitement flickering across their faces.

Satoru freezes, eyes widening. And Kenta gives him a small proud grin.

Nakahara doesn’t linger in the gym. He simply turns away with a heaviness that doesn’t show on his face but settles in his shoulders.

“Hiroshi. Sera. Office.”

The two exchange a quick look, half curiosity, half worry. They follow him into the office, and Nakahara closes the door behind them, the noise of the gym fading into a muffled chatter.

For a moment he says nothing, taking his seat with the quiet weariness of someone who’s been negotiating all day.

Sera is the first to break the silence. “So… how did it go?”

Nakahara exhales once, steady and controlled. “He transferred eighteen million yen.”

Hiroshi blinks. “Already? That fast?”

“And eighteen million… that’s a lot,” Sera mutters under his breath.

“That’s only half of the fee for the broadcast rights he’s buying exclusively,” Nakahara explains.

Hiroshi frowns. “Exclusive how?”

“That means we can’t sell the rights to anyone else,” Sera says, turning to him. “Logan gets the entire stream. Domestic, international, everything. Full monopoly.”

“There’s something extra we have to handle,” Nakahara continues. “I need to bring in Liam Kuroda for Kenta. And the fight must be sanctioned by both the JBC and the OPBF. A ranked bout.”

Sera’s brows knit immediately. “That’s… steep. Honestly, bringing Kuroda might be harder than landing Paulo Ramos.”

“That’s why Logan gave the money,” Nakahara replies, no hesitation in his tone. “We’re going to make them an offer they can’t refuse. Even if I have to pay them more than we paid Ramos.”

Hiroshi lets out a low whistle, the scale of the task settling on him. “That’s… serious.”

Nakahara pushes himself to his feet. “I’m leaving for Kobe tomorrow morning. Negotiations like this can’t be done over calls. I need to talk to them face-to-face.”

“Understood,” Sera says, adjusting her stance as if preparing for orders.

“While I’m gone, I’m leaving the gym to both of you,” Nakahara continues. “Keep everyone focused. No distractions, no media slipping through the cracks.”

They nod in unison.

“I’ll also look for an opponent for Aramaki,” he adds. “A proper top-ten contender. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it seriously.”

Then he turns to Hiroshi specifically. “Once everything is secured, I need you to arrange a full training camp for next month. Three weeks. Heavy conditioning phase. We push them harder than ever.”

His gaze sharpens, firm but not unkind. “This is the biggest event we’ve ever attempted. And I expect all three of them to win, cleanly, decisively, without leaving doubt. We’re not just answering the critics. We’re going to make this gym a stable people can’t ignore anymore… a place they’re forced to show respect to, whether they like it or not.”