VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Knowing full well the situation he’s been cornered into, and the deal he made with Logan, Nakahara has no choice but to swallow the sting in his pride and keep his tone steady.

“Kenta’s twenty-seven, not a rookie,” he says, voice controlled. “He was ranked thirteen a few years back. After his layoff he slipped, but with the win over Park Hyun-seok recently, he’s now fifteenth in the OPBF.”

Coach Nishiyama reacts with the bare minimum: a faint arch of one brow, nothing more.

“Fifteenth,” he repeats. “And you think that gives you the right to challenge my fighter?”

Nakahara holds the polite smile, even as something inside him knots. “Winning isn’t the point here. It’s experience. I’m organizing a major event, Ryoma Takeda versus Paulo Ramos, a Philippine champion. For a card like that, it’s only fitting to have someone of Liam Kuroda’s level in the semifinal.”

That is the moment Nishiyama’s expression shifts, subtly, but unmistakably. The idea that a gym like Nakahara’s, the one being whispered about, ridiculed, ostracized across the country, is bringing in a foreign champion… and then casually asking to use his foreign star as a semifinal attraction?

That hits him not as an offer, but as an insult. An insult wrapped in courtesy.

Still, there’s money in the air, and money has its own gravitational pull. But a man like Nishiyama can’t just accept it straight. He wants the performance, the posturing, the moral lecture, the dominance display, before he agrees to anything.

“Everyone knows what happened lately,” he begins, tone oily. “Your kid offended every boxer in this country. They’re demanding a public apology, something you haven’t delivered.”

“We don’t apologize,” Nakahara replies, voice cooling by a few degrees. “We didn’t do anything wrong. My kid is a legitimate contender. It’s his right to challenge the champion. But they dismissed him. Not about them refusing the challenge. They dismissed his worth as a contender entirely. So he called them out, all of them. I won’t apologize for that.”

A murmur goes through the gym. A few fighters scoff. One shakes his head and mutters, “Old man’s delusional.” But Nakahara pretends not to hear it.

Nishiyama hears the explanation, and though he tries to mask it, something in his eyes acknowledges the truth of it

Deep down, he knows Ryoma’s ability, knows he’s one of the few young fighters actually good enough to demand such a match-up. But acknowledgment doesn’t mean mercy.

“If I accept a fight from you,” Nishiyama says, tilting his head, “they might start treating us the same way.”

“Kenta has nothing to do with this,” Nakahara counters. “Neither do you. Even the JBC hasn’t said anything. This is all coming from Shinichi Yanagimoto’s camp. Their accusations aren’t valid enough to deem us guilty. And frankly, it looks like an excuse to avoid my boy. But I believe you’re not like them.”

That gets Nishiyama’s attention. His eyes widen, offended. “You’re saying I’m avoiding your fighter? Out of fear?”

“Don’t twist my words,” Nakahara replies smoothly. “I said you’re not like them. Unless, of course, you want to be.”

The challenge lands this time, hard. And for a moment, the gym’s noise dips just slightly, as though everyone senses the hit.

Before Nishiyama can respond, a voice cuts through the room. Hanazawa Matsusuke, a twenty-six boxer, cocky grin, number six in the Japanese Super featherweight rankings, raises his chin from where he’s shadowboxing.

“Just kick that geezer out, Coach. If you keep cornering him, he might die from humiliation.”

Laughter erupts. A few gloves slap against thighs. Someone mutters, “Harsh, but he’s not wrong.”

Nakahara’s brow twitches at the insult, just once, but the anger that sparks in his chest is quickly smothered under something colder. He decides he’s done playing around.

“Three million yen for Liam Kuroda,” he says calmly. “And one million for that cocky brat who’s been stuck at number six for years.”

The laughter dies instantly. Nishiyama blinks. His assistant freezes mid-step. Even Hanazawa lowers his guard.

Three million for Liam. One million for Hanazawa. For fights that aren’t even title matches, it’s unbelievable.

“You’ve gone too far, old man,” Nishiyama says, though his voice carries a tremor of excitement he can’t hide. “Not just Liam… you’re underestimating Hanazawa too. Who’s he fighting? Another rookie? That idiot in your gym who can’t box to save his life, the one who only charges forward like a mad bull?”

“Ah, yes,” Nakahara replies lightly. “Tatsuki Aramaki. The mad bull. Not that hard to beat, honestly. So? Are you accepting or not?”

The provocation pushes Nishiyama into a grin, wide and manic, the grin of a man who smells profit and victory in equal measure.

“Alright, old man,” he says. “But Liam is currently ranked…”

“Five million,” Nakahara interrupts, not giving him a chance to shoot back. “If he wins. And two million for that brat if he beats my Aramaki. But under one condition: if you lose, you apologize publicly for how you treated me here.”

This time Nishiyama doesn’t even bother hiding it. His eyes practically light up like yen symbols. Five million yen for a non-title match? Two million for Hanazawa? Against fighters he’s convinced are below his level?

The apology condition barely registers. Why would he think he’ll lose?

“You’ve got guts,” he laughs, stepping forward and patting Nakahara on the head like a child. “I’ll give you that, old man. Now come with me. Let’s talk business.”

He calls for his assistant to prepare the paperwork.

“Matsui, come here with me.”

It’s a bet, but a bet that needs signatures and seals before anything becomes real.

“I’m not letting you run away after I beat your boys,” Nishiyama says as they walk toward his office. “We’ll put everything in writing.”

“Fine by me,” Nakahara answers.

His voice is steady. His steps are steady. But inside, he knows exactly what this moment is: The price of being cornered, and the first step in clawing his way out.

***

Once the paperwork is finished and the terms are sealed, Nishiyama hands over a stamped copy. Nakahara slips it neatly into his folder, rises, and bows just enough to remain polite.

“I’ll send the official contract once it clears the commission,” he says.

He’s already halfway through the doorway when he pauses. Not dramatically, just a small, deliberate stop. He glances back over his shoulder, voice low and calm.

“You’d better prepare your boys for the worst. My fighters have a habit of breaking their opponents mercilessly.”

The room goes still for half a second.

Nakahara doesn’t wait for outrage, scoffs, or bravado. He turns and walks out, maintaining a steady pace, refusing to let his shoulders betray the tremor running through him.

Each step is practiced composure, even as a whisper of inferiority coils in his chest, disbelief that he pushed back this hard, that he wagered this much.

When Nakahara finally steps out of the gym, the room loosens as if a strange pressure lifts with him.

Hanazawa clicks his tongue. “That old geezer’s nuts,” he mutters, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Talking big like he’s running Teiken or something.”

A couple of fighters snicker, shaking their heads.

Someone else adds, “Five million for Liam? Where the hell did a tiny gym like his even get that kind of money?”

Coach Nishiyama exhales through his nose, not quite laughing, not quite scowling, but caught somewhere between mockery and a reluctant sort of interest.

He flops down onto the nearest folding chair, arms crossed. “He’s reckless. Absolutely reckless.”

Matsui the assistant coach peeks out the gym doors, watching Nakahara’s shrinking silhouette. “Still can’t believe he said all that. Comes all the way from Tokyo just to throw money around like he’s betting on racehorses.”