VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma notices Jackson first because the man does not bother hiding his satisfaction. Jackson leans back in his chair with an ease that feels earned rather than casual, one arm resting along the backrest, his posture loose in the way of someone who already got what he came for.

The faint curve at the corner of his mouth is not a smile meant for others, but a private confirmation that the room moved exactly as he intended.

Ryoma’s gaze shifts, sharp and unfiltered, toward Reika. He does not bother masking the contempt this time, a colder frustration, the kind reserved for someone who keeps stepping on the same blade without learning where it lies.

Reika does not see it at the moment. She is turned toward Jackson, her voice lowered as she argues with him in hurried English.

“You said you’d help me,” she whispers, urgency slipping through her restraint. “You said you’d support the bid.”

“I did help,” Jackson says. “This is how NSN does business.”

Then he finally turns his head, his expression patient in a way that feels condescending rather than kind.

“Sit still,” he says. “And learn something.”

The exchange tells Ryoma everything he needs to know. This is not malice on Reika’s part, but ignorance sharpened into damage by proximity to someone who knows exactly how to exploit it.

Ryoma understands that much clearly, and the understanding only deepens the irritation sitting tight in his chest. And the system scoffs in his head, humming in amusement.

>

Reika turns back instinctively, as if searching for reassurance where she should not expect it. Her eyes meet Ryoma’s for half a second, and whatever she sees there makes her freeze.

The contempt lands, and her breath catches.

She looks away immediately, her shoulders drawing inward as anxiety overtakes whatever resolve she had left. Her gaze drops to her hands, fingers knotting together, unable to rise again.

***

The staffer moves, and Ryoma exhales slowly through his nose. He holds it for a moment, then releases it, forcing the tension down before it spills into something unproductive.

He turns toward Sera and shakes his head once, the motion small but heavy with resignation.

“This again,” he says quietly, not even bothering to hide the exhaustion in his voice.

Nakahara exhales sharply, the sound breaking through his restraint. “There’s nothing we can do now,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

He lifts the sealed envelope and extends it toward the staffer. But suddenly, a hand gently closes over his wrist.

Nakahara freezes, then turns left, startled. “Fujimoto-san?”

Fujimoto meets his eyes and gives a small nod. “I was worried it would come to this,” he says calmly.

Nakahara hesitates. “What do you mean?”

Without answering immediately, Fujimoto releases his wrist and unbuttons his suit jacket. The movement draws a few glances, though no one speaks.

He reaches inside his inner pocket and takes out another envelope, and places it into Nakahara’s hands.

Nakahara looks down at it, his breath catching. “This is…?”

“Our statement,” Fujimoto says. Then he tilts his chin toward the staffer. “Give that one to them.”

Nakahara’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second. He turns back and extends the new envelope. The staffer accepts it, glances at the label, and nods before stepping away.

A murmur ripples through the room. Across the aisle, Victor leans forward slightly, eyes narrowed. Anurak’s lawyer stops breathing for a beat, then whispers urgently at his ear.

And nearby, Jackson’s smile is already gone, eyes fixed not on the staffer or the chairman, but on Fujimoto.

***

The chairman waits until the room settles, then nods to the official seated to his left.

“Proceed with the opening,” he says.

The official stands, adjusts his glasses, and lifts the first envelope from the stack. His voice, when he speaks, is measured and procedural, trained for rooms like this.

“Submission from Siam Crown Boxing,” he announces.

He breaks the seal, removes the document, and scans it once.

“Proposed purse: USD165.000. Proposed bout date: June 25th. Proposed venue: Bangkok, Thailand.”

On Nakahara’s side of the room, Sera stirs uncomfortably. Nakahara does not speak, but he turns just enough for their eyes to meet. That figure is already far above what they had initially expected.

The official places the document aside and reaches for the next envelope.

“Submission from Mekong Warrior Promotions,” he says. “Proposed purse: USD 150.000. Bout date: June 25th

. Venue: Bangkok.”

Then the third envelope follows.

“Submission from Rajadamnern Global Sports,” the official continues. “Proposed purse: USD155.000. Bout date: June 25th. Venue: Bangkok.”

The pattern is unmistakable now. Ryoma leans back slightly in his chair, his jaw tightens. Three bids, all clustered tightly, June twenty-fifth, even from the third parties. That signals intent, a bad one.

The official sets those documents aside and lifts the next envelope, his posture straightening almost unconsciously.

“Submission from Golden Naga Fight Consortium.”

The seal breaks. And the official’s eyebrows lift before he can stop them.

“Proposed purse: USD 200.000,” he reads aloud. “Bout date: June 25th. Venue: Bangkok.”

This time, the murmur does not try to hide itself.

“Two hundred thousand… just for a regional title?” someone whispers.

“That’s insane,” says another one beside him, before turning his attention to Victor Pongchai.

Victor turns his head just enough to catch Anurak’s eye, his smile open and confident, as if to say this is where the real bidding begins.

Anurak does not return the smile. His hands remain folded, his face composed, but the tension sits visibly in his jaw.

The official reaches for the next envelope, and opens it. “Submission from Chao Phraya Elite Boxing Promotion. Proposed purse: USD 300.000. ”

The reaction is immediate. Chairs scrape against the floor, conversations die mid-breath. Two hundred thousand dollars is already insane for a regional title. Three hundred, that’s something else.

“Bout date: June 25th,” the official continues. “Venue: Bangkok.”

Victor’s smile collapses. He turns fully now, staring at Anurak in disbelief.

“Old man… Are you serious?” he mutters under his breath.

Anurak himself does not look pleased. If anything, he looks resigned.

He then glances toward Jackson, his eyes sharp with open contempt. This was never the plan he wanted. This was the plan he was forced into.

On the far side of the room, Nakahara’s shoulders sink, already thinking how to plan Ryoma’s conditioning for June 25th.

Sera leans in, voice barely audible. “Our number is just two hundred,” he says.

Nakahara nods grimly. They both know it. That envelope, the one they came with, cannot win this room anymore. Not against numbers like these.

His jaw tightens. Even with the new one Fujimoto gave, he still doubts about the result. He remembers the meeting with Aqualis. Fujimoto sitting calmly across the table, and the number he had suggested was three hundred. And it was Ryoma himself who refused it.

Now the envelope Fujimoto slipped into Nakahara’s hand feels impossibly heavy. If the number inside matches what Fujimoto once proposed, it would tie Anurak’s bid.

And Nakahara has no idea what happens when a purse bid ends in deadlock. One thing is certain: as champion, Ryoma would earn an unprecedented purse. And the weight that comes with it presses down just as hard.

Finally, the official lifts the last envelope. “Submission from Nakahara Boxing Gym.”

He opens the envelope, but then he stops. His eyes move across the page once, and then again.

Then he swallows, hard. And the room stills completely, waiting.

The official glances sideways toward the chairman, blinking once, as if silently asking whether he is reading this correctly.

The chairman does not respond, only inclines his head slightly. Then the official clears his throat.

“Proposed purse,” he says carefully, “USD 500.000.”

The room erupts, not in noise, but in shock, as disbelief ripples from seat to seat. Even Jackson freeze mid-breath, his confident smile collapsing under the realization of how far beyond reason that number is.

“Bout date: August 24th,” the official continues. “Venue: Tokyo, Japan.”

Silence crashes down afterward, dense and absolute.

Jackson’s chair creaks as he leans forward, the last trace of satisfaction draining from his expression.

For the first time since the bidding began, no one in the room is calculating numbers anymore. Every promoter is recalibrating, forced to confront what they believe is the emergence of a new powerhouse in the industry.

But the faces at Nakahara’s table do not match that conclusion. There is no triumph there, no quiet confidence earned by preparation. Instead, tension tightens their shoulders, and surprise lingers too openly in their eyes.

Nakahara turns first, breath caught halfway in his chest. Sera follows, the strain impossible to hide. Ryoma looks last, the number echoing through him with a pressure that has nothing to do with victory.

But Fujimoto does not look back. His gaze stays forward, posture unchanged, expression flat and perfectly controlled, as though the figure that just stunned the room is nothing more than a number he already accepted long ago.