VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma and his group remain standing, unsure where to settle, half searching for an unoccupied table, half hoping to fade into the room’s edges.

They glance around, making a quiet effort to look as though they belong, as soft jazz drifts through the banquet hall, smooth and unhurried, threading between conversations like a practiced courtesy.

Waitresses move with quiet precision between tables, black vests and white gloves immaculate, champagne flutes and wine glasses balanced effortlessly on silver trays.

One of them pauses at Ryoma’s group.

“May I?” she asks softly.

Nakahara barely reacts. He notices Kirizume across the room and offers a small respectful bow. Kirizume catches it, and lifts his glass in acknowledgment.

Kenta, on the other hand, waves a hand toward the waitress, flustered. “Ah… no, no, we’re good.”

Aramaki follows suit a second later, shaking his head in an awkward mirror. But his girl, Nanako, does not understand the ritual at all. Her eyes light up at the glassware, tiny fingers reaching out toward the flute.

Aramaki freezes. “Oo… Nanako. No,” he says quickly, catching her tiny fingers before they can curl around the glass. He lowers his voice, solemn, conspiratorial. “That’s not for kids. It’s poison.”

Nanako blinks up at him, wide-eyed, processing this new and horrifying information.

“It turns you into a bad girl,” he adds gravely, as if delivering a sacred warning.

Nanako gasps, yanks her hand back, and clutches it to her chest, scandalized. And a ripple of quiet laughter passes through the tension.

At the same time, across the room, Ryoma’s gaze shifts and and meets Renji’s. For a brief wordless moment, the chatter softens, the music dulls, and something unspoken settles between two fighters who recognize weight when they see it.

Renji inclines his glass slightly, and Ryoma answers with a small nod. It’s an exchange of acknowledgment, clean and mutual, between fighters who understand what it costs to stand where they stand.

“They’re everywhere,” Ryoma murmurs, leaning toward Nakahara.

Nakahara nods. “That’s how it is. In this business, you don’t just fight in the ring. You compete for sponsors, too.”

A few seats away, Kaito stands with a member of the hotel staff, speaking in low, efficient tones. With discreet gestures, he directs the rearrangement of a nearby round table.

Chairs are removed, place settings consolidated. Guests are guided elsewhere with polite bows and murmured apologies. No offense given, no reason offered, only quiet authority in motion like it’s part of the protocols.

The movement doesn’t go unnoticed. Other look around, noticing the ones that move actually local celebrities.

When Kaito finally turns and approaches Ryoma’s group, heads begin to tilt. Conversations thin, then resume in hushed layers.

“Takeda-san,” Kaito says, bowing lightly. “If you would please follow me.” He gestures to the newly cleared table.

A few nearby guests exchange looks.

“What?”

“Who are they supposed to be?”

“Did Aqualis really invite people like that?”

Eyes linger on Nakahara’s plain suit, on Kenta’s stiff posture, on Aramaki’s visible discomfort. They don’t look like industry insiders. They don’t look like money.

As Ryoma’s group is seated, a voice from the adjacent table speaks up, casual but curious.

“Hey… isn’t that Ryoma Takeda?”

Another man leans closer. “Who?”

“The Chameleon,” the first replies. “You don’t know him?”

“The Chameleon?” comes a scoff. “What is he, some pro-wrestler?”

“No,” the man says, shaking his head. “Boxer. Real one. I watched his last fight. Kid’s sharp… beat the Philippine champion in four rounds.”

That earns attention, quiet looks turning their way, curiosity rippling outward as conversations falter and unfamiliar faces begin to reassess them.

“He’s from a small gym,” the man continues, lowering his voice, “but his potential’s no joke. Aqualis sponsored two of his recent events. I heard his name floating around again recently.”

The murmurs shift. People look again, this time more carefully.

Across the hall, Renji’s table remains unchanged. The tension there doesn’t soften just because attention elsewhere has shifted.

Takumi Hasegawa watches the movement with a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “So we’re rearranging tables now?” he grunts. “Moving people like Yura and Urumi just to seat a group of… peasants?”

Eiichi chuckles softly, swirling his glass. “If it bothers you that much,” he says, “why don’t you tell Kaito to move them somewhere else?”

Takumi clicks his tongue. “Tch. Not in my job description. Why don’t you do it yourself?”

Eiichi lifts an eyebrow. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a slow sip, then rises from his seat.

Takumi squints, watching him go, baffled. Is he really going to do it?

Eiichi stops at Ryoma’s table and smiles, open and unforced. “Takeda-kun,” he says lightly. “Glad you could make it.”

Ryoma straightens, surprised, and returns the greeting. Kaito shifts aside immediately, making space for his senior.

Eiichi takes the seat beside him, setting his glass down as if he’s been there all along. He exchanges a few easy words with Nakahara, cracks a small joke that makes Kenta laugh too loudly, and within moments the air loosens.

The tension that clung to Ryoma’s group fades away, not really gone but eased. Conversations find their rhythm. Shoulders drop. Even Aramaki and his wife relaxes, just a little.

Takumi watches in silence, his expression darkening. Whatever this is, he realizes, it’s not what he planned.

Then he leans back slightly, swirling the stem of his glass as if the matter barely deserves his attention. His voice drops into a conversational murmur, aimed at Yoshizawa and Shinichi.

“That young staffer over there,” he says, nodding faintly toward Kaito, “has been rather enthusiastic lately. Keeps insisting we sign that kid as a brand ambassador. Very persistent.”

That earns him two reactions at once. Yoshizawa stiffens almost imperceptibly. Shinichi’s fingers tighten around his glass.

Takumi invited them for this very purpose, to secure a deal with Aqualis to be their brand ambassador.

Yoshizawa and his champion exchange a brief glance, silent and heavy, both sensing the opportunity slipping quietly out of reach.

Takumi notices the shift and chuckles softly. “Relax,” he adds, waving a hand. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

He straightens, confidence settling comfortably into his posture. “First of all, my position here isn’t exactly… flexible. I’ve been with Aqualis for over twenty years. I work directly under Fujimoto-san. That Kaito doesn’t get to override me.”

Yoshizawa listens, nodding, forcing a smile, face polite but guarded.

“Second,” Takumi continues, tone sharpening just a little, “Yanagimoto-kun is the reigning Japanese Lightweight Champion. Proven. Marketable. That other one?” He scoffs. “A rookie with an attitude problem. Small gym, no pedigree. He got lucky once or twice against fighters no one remembers.”

Kirizume’s glass pauses halfway to his lips. “No one remembers?” he repeats mildly. “Just saying… he beat Paulo Ramos.”

The table stills. Takumi freezes, the word Ramos echoing louder than it should.

He doesn’t like the correction, but this one is coming from Daigo Kirizume himself, the man whose opinion moves promoters, networks, and commissions alike.

Before Takumi can recover, Renji joins in, his tone casual, almost bored. “And honestly,” he adds, swirling his wine, “I wouldn’t put our current champion on Ramos’ level either.”

Shinichi’s brow twitches at that condescending word, his jaw tightened, even just slightly.

Initially, he’d never hated Ryoma, never even thought about him much. He actually acknowledged him, honestly.

But until now, Ryoma had been an abstract annoyance to him, a name floated by others, a comparison he never asked for. And hearing his own achievements reduced, his belt implied lesser, his reign framed as convenient timing, something sharp digs in.

The irritation isn’t just for Renji anymore. His gaze flicks across the hall, landing instinctively on Ryoma’s table.

The look is brief, controlled, but edged with something darker, resentment tightening into form.

And Renji notices it. But he doesn’t look over. He simply smiles, slow and lazy, gently stirring the wine in his glass, as if enjoying a flavor that’s just begun to develop.

“And let me add something else, Yoshizawa-san,” Renji continues, voice calm but edged. “Takumi-san too. You’d both do well to stop underestimating that old man over there. Kenji Nakahara’s name isn’t as small as it looks.”

He tilts his glass slightly toward the other table. “The big guy beside him, Kenta Moriyama, just knocked out Liam Kuroda in a bout sanctioned by both the JBC and the OPBF. Clean. Decisive. By next year, he’ll be top five in Japan, maybe the entire Pacific.”

Renji pauses, letting it sink in. “And there are two more fighters from that gym. I don’t recall their names, but both reached the Class-A tournament finals. Lose, and they’re still contenders. Win, and they get a direct ticket to a title shot.”

Silence follows. Yoshizawa and Takumi have no immediate reply.

Nakahara’s gym may still be a stable without trophies for now, but the picture Renji paints is impossible to ignore. If things break right, that small gym could soon be holding four belts at once.