VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

A few days after returning home, Ryoma shows up at the gym. Not early, at least not by his own standards, but early enough that the heaters are still running and the place is already alive with movement and noise.

Heavy bags sway in uneven rhythms, jump ropes snap sharply against the cold floor, the familiar smell of sweat and canvas settling into the air as bodies warm up.

Both his hands are still wrapped, thick white bandages stark against his sleeves. The moment he steps inside, heads turn anyway.

Okabe is the first to spot him. He grins immediately. “Look who decided to grace us,” he calls out. “The champion finally remembers where he trains.”

Ryohei glances over from the ring and snorts. “Careful, Okabe. He might start charging appearance fees now.”

Ryoma raises his bandaged hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I’m still affordable.”

Ryohei hops down from the apron, eyes flicking to the wraps. “You know,” he says, half-serious, half-smiling, “I’ve got my own title fight coming up. Don’t get too comfortable up there. I’ll catch up soon.”

Ryoma looks him over slowly, exaggeratedly, then clicks his tongue. “With that focus?” he says. “I’m more worried you’ll trip over your own footwork.”

Ryohei scoffs. “Oh, listen to him. Acting cocky already.”

Ryoma grins, unapologetic. “It’s not cocky when you’re a champion.”

That earns him a few laughs, a few muttered comments, the kind that say nothing’s really changed, even if everything has.

He moves past them and stops at the doorway of Nakahara’s office. The old man is inside, hunched over paperwork, glasses low on his nose, pen moving steadily across a ledger.

He doesn’t look up right away, but somehow he knows. “What are you doing here?” Nakahara says flatly. “Go home. Rest. Treat yourself for once.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer immediately. He steps inside instead, quiet, uninvited, and stops in front of the silverware cabinet against the wall.

Inside it, neatly displayed, is the OPBF belt. He studies it for a moment, then smiles.

“I am treating myself,” Ryoma says. “Seeing this here is the best thing I’ve seen all week. Better than Lake Shinji at sunset”

Nakahara finally looks up, unimpressed. “Oh, really?”

“Actually much better,” Ryoma replies without hesitation.

The old man snorts, shakes his head, and goes back to his paperwork. But the corner of his mouth lifts, even just slightly.

After a few more moments, Ryoma turns away from the cabinet. The belt, as always, offers nothing back. Not even a greeting.

He crosses the room and drops into the chair in front of Nakahara’s desk, leaning forward slightly. “So,” he says, casual, “any word from Sagawa’s camp yet?”

Nakahara doesn’t look up. “Already thinking about your first title defense?”

Ryoma tilts his head. “Shouldn’t I?”

“If you’re that serious about protecting the belt,” Nakahara replies, pen still moving, “you’d better start by studying the OPBF number one. You’re obligated to fight him within six months.”

Ryoma exhales lightly. “I already gave Noya Fumihiro my word.”

That makes Nakahara pause. He sets the pen down and finally looks up, his eyes drifting first to Ryoma’s face, then to the thick bandages around both hands.

“Those won’t heal overnight,” he says. “Six to seven weeks at least. Ten if we’re being careful.” He leans back slightly. “And Sagawa’s ribs were broken. You can give him a chance, sure, but not anytime soon. Not before your first defense. Thanid Kouthai. I heard his side cleared their schedule. They’re making a direct push for your title.”

Ryoma shrugs, accepting it easily. “Fair enough.”

Nakahara picks his pen back up, conversation apparently over. “Then stop hovering. Go home. Or if you’re really that free, find Thanid’s fight replays yourself.”

Ryoma sighs, dramatic but harmless, and drifts over to the sofa instead. He sinks into it, stretching his legs out, and reaches for the remote. The television flickers on.

“Oi,” Nakahara mutters without looking. “You trying to turn this place into a lounge?”

Ryoma lowers the volume. “Relax.”

He flips through channels without interest, eyes dull with fatigue rather than focus. After a moment, he speaks again.

“Anyone from Aqualis come by yet?”

“No,” Nakahara answers flatly.

“Call?”

“No. Why?”

“They still haven’t sent my international win bonus.”

Nakahara snorts softly. “Didn’t the contract say seven to ten business days?”

Ryoma clicks his tongue. “Yeah.”

“Then wait,” Nakahara says. “Or complain to them. Not here.”

Ryoma leans back, eyes on the ceiling now, boredom settling in as comfortably as exhaustion.

What Ryoma doesn’t know is that Aqualis hasn’t forgotten him at all. If anything, they’re taking him far more seriously than he realizes.

***

The conference room at Aqualis Labs is bright without being warm, glass walls catching the late-morning light and throwing it back in clean lines.

A large screen at the far end displays charts and still images from recent overseas coverage; Ryoma Takeda’s face frozen mid-interview, the OPBF belt slung over his shoulder.

Hirotaka Fujimoto sits at the head of the table, hands folded, listening. Kaito Morishima stands nearest the screen, tablet in hand. He doesn’t rush his words; he never does.

“Two months,” he says calmly. “That’s all it’s been since the contract went live. In that time, Aqualis has appeared in Australian broadcasts, Southeast Asian digital outlets, and European boxing media we’ve never touched before.”

He taps the tablet once, and a graph shifts.

“This spike isn’t organic. It’s tied directly to Ryoma’s conditioning narrative. Short-notice fight, overseas title, and visible recovery support. People are connecting the dots.”

Mika Aoyama, seated beside him, nods and leans forward slightly. “We’ve seen a measurable lift in overseas brand sentiment. Not explosive, but clean. Especially among younger demographics. He doesn’t feel manufactured.”

Across the table, Takumi Hasegawa exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “And domestically?” he asks. “Because that’s still our primary market.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Framed coverage is already turning him into a polarizing figure. The airport interview was cut to highlight friction. Public perception here isn’t uniformly positive. We rejected Yanagimoto once for being too safe, remember? Now we’re backing someone who’s already being positioned as divisive.”

Morishima doesn’t bristle. He expected this. “Division creates engagement,” he replies evenly. “Silence doesn’t.”

Hasegawa shakes his head. “That’s a marketing slogan, not a risk assessment.”

Kawata Eiichi, who has been quietly reviewing notes beside Fujimoto, finally speaks. His tone is neutral, precise.

“The international win bonus is already stipulated in the contract,” he says. “That part isn’t optional. Ryoma fulfilled the condition.”

Fujimoto nods once. “That bonus will be transferred. Immediately.”

Morishima shifts his attention to him. “And the title bonus?”

“That’s conditional,” Hasegawa continues, pressing his advantage. “Defenses matter. And if we’re paying for a title defense, Aqualis should be the primary event sponsor. Otherwise, the return isn’t clean.”

Mika frowns slightly. “He brought the OPBF belt back to Japan. That alone…”

“…doesn’t guarantee longevity,” Hasegawa cuts in. “Trust is built on consistency, not one dramatic night.”

The room goes quiet for a moment. Kaito shifts slightly in his seat, lips parting as if to respond, then closing again. Mika’s pen pauses above her notebook, fingers tightening around it.

Both of them clearly have words ready; data, projections, rebuttals. But none that would land cleanly right now.

Fujimoto lifts his gaze at last. “We signed Ryoma because we believed in his trajectory,” he says. His voice isn’t loud, but it carries. “Not because he was safe. Not because he was popular. But because he was undervalued.”

He looks around the table. “That hasn’t changed.”

Hasegawa opens his mouth, but Fujimoto continues before he can even speak a word.

“However. I agree that title bonuses tied to defenses should be aligned with full sponsorship. That’s reasonable.”

Mika’s eyes drop to the table, disappointment carefully contained, while across from her Hasegawa leans back slightly, already satisfied.

“So,” Fujimoto says, “the title-defense bonus will wait. But, we will acknowledge what Ryoma has already done.”

He turns slightly toward Kawata. “There is no clause limiting discretionary rewards for independent media impact.”

Kawata adjusts his glasses. “No, sir.”

Morishima’s eyes sharpen. He understands immediately.

Fujimoto steeples his fingers. “Ryoma has promoted our brand beyond obligation. Interviews, training narratives, recovery transparency. None of that was contractually required.”

He pauses, letting the words settle. “That goodwill matters. And it should be met.”

Hasegawa frowns. “You’re proposing an unscheduled incentive.”

“I’m proposing,” Fujimoto replies calmly, “that I will handle it personally.”

The implication is clear: off-ledger, off-announcement.

Mika exhales softly, relieved. Morishima nods once, already thinking ahead.

Kawata makes a note. Hasegawa leans back, clearly displeased but he reins it.

Fujimoto rises, signaling the meeting’s end. “Transfer the international win bonus today,” he says. “Prepare options for a discretionary goodwill reward. No press. No leaks.”

He pauses at the door. “And remember this,” he adds. “Trust compounds faster than profit. Especially with people who don’t ask for it.”

No one speaks after that. The screen still shows Ryoma’s image as the room empties, unaware that a decision shaping the next phase of his career has just been made.