VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Kenta drives the van smoothly, slow and steady. But his mind is anything but calm. For days now, he’s been waiting for the right moment, waiting to ask Coach Nakahara about his own fight.

He knows the timing has never been ideal. But now the purse bid is done. They’ve secured the right to host the fight. If there is ever a moment, this has to be it.

Still, his nature wins out. Instead, he glances up at the rearview mirror, watching Nakahara’s reflection. The tension on the coach’s face hasn’t fully faded yet, his brow still tight, his posture rigid even in the seat.

Then Nakahara finally leans back, eyes close. A long breath leaves him, heavy, like air released from a sealed chamber.

Kenta hears it clearly. Now, this could be the right moment. But before he can speak, Sera beats him first.

“We need to move fast,” Sera says. “Arena booking should be our top priority.”

Kenta flicks his eyes sideways, his expression flat, irritation barely flickering beneath the surface.

“August is packed,” Sera continues. “Concerts, tournaments, festivals. If we hesitate, everything decent will be gone. We still have Ota’s Gym’s contact. Why not call them?”

Nakahara shakes his head lightly. “Too small.”

Sera frowns. “It’s workable.”

“For a fight with a half-million-dollar purse?” Nakahara replies calmly. “No. That won’t do.”

He opens his eyes, gaze steady now. “I’m thinking at least six thousand seats. Anything smaller won’t satisfy Fujimoto.”

“Six thousand?” Sera scoffs. “That’s insane. What if we can’t fill it? We’ll bleed even more just on venue costs.”

“There’s no choice,” Nakahara says. “Aqualis put their weight behind this. If we don’t match that scale, it reflects on us. We can’t think like a small stable anymore.”

The words settle heavily inside the van.

“That purse bid dragged us to the next level,” Nakahara continues. “Like it or not, we have to evolve with it.”

Silence follows, not the awkward kind, but the heavy one, the kind where every person is staring inward, measuring the size of what they’ve just stepped into.

Yet for Kenta, the pressure sharpens into resolve. If they’re thinking big, if they’re building a card for six thousand people, then now is the time for him asking his own fight.

“If that’s the case,” Kenta says, eyes still on the road, voice controlled, “you’ll need a strong undercard too.”

The others turn toward him.

“Six thousand seats won’t fill themselves,” he continues. “So why don’t you find me an opponent as well? Someone who actually belongs on a card that size.”

Ryoma’s eyes light up instantly. “That’s right.”

Kenta tightens his grip on the wheel.

“Why not send a challenge to Kawamoto Sozen?”

And the name hits Kenta like a punch to the gut. He swallows hard, but keeps his gaze forward, keeping the van glide smoothly down the lane.

“Kawamoto?” he lets out a dry laugh. “You’re joking.”

Ryoma shakes his head. “He holds both the Japanese and OPBF belts. You could challenge for either one. Honestly, I think you’ve got a real chance.”

“That guy’s insane,” Kenta snaps, disbelief bleeding through despite himself. “More dominant than Renji ever was. He just doesn’t chase the spotlight, that’s all.”

Nakahara speaks casually, almost offhand. “I already sent them a challenge last week. They’ve given their answer yesterday.”

The words barely finish leaving his mouth before Kenta slams the brakes. And the van lurches to a sudden stop.

“What the hell…!” Sera barks.

Ryoma pitches forward, barely catching himself before his forehead smacks the seat.

“What are you doing, Kenta? What if I hit my head just now?”

Nakahara opens his eyes sharply. “Watch the road!”

Kenta’s heart is pounding, breath shallow. “S… Sorry,” he mutters, hands tight on the wheel.

For a brief second, the street behind them is mercifully empty.

And then…

HOOOOONK!

A car swerves around them, the driver rolling down his window just long enough to shout a string of curses before speeding off.

Kenta bows his head slightly in apology, both to the driver and to the van full of irritated passengers.

“Sorry,” he says again, softer this time.

He eases his foot back onto the accelerator, the van rolling forward once more, steady, controlled.

But inside him, nothing is steady anymore. “So… what did they say?”

“Their champion is interested in fighting you,” Nakahara says. “He was the one who asked for it. But his management has decided otherwise. They’re relinquishing the Japanese belt.”

Kenta’s brows draw together. “He’s moving up?”

“Yes,” Nakahara replies. “World level.”

“Then challenge him for the OPBF title,” Ryoma says immediately. “If he already wanted the fight, that should be doable.”

Nakahara shakes his head. “They’re negotiating a bout with the current world number two. That changes everything.”

Sera exhales. “Of course it does.”

“With that fight on the table,” Nakahara continues, “the domestic picture shifts. The Japanese number one and two will fight for the vacant national belt. His mandatory OPBF defense is scheduled for next year. That means the OPBF number one slot is effectively locked.”

“So we aim for him,” Ryoma says.

“That’s the problem,” Sera cuts in. “If you’re ranked number one, with a guaranteed title shot coming, you don’t risk it against a dangerous challenger. You protect your position.”

“That’s why, once we’re back at the gym, we file a challenge to the OPBF number two,” Nakahara says evenly. “Arman Sargsyan. Armenian. Based in Indonesia. If Kenta beats him, the rankings leave the board with no room to maneuver. It forces an eliminator scenario.”

Sera nods slowly now. “That would make it unavoidable.”

Kenta says nothing, eyes fixed on the road. His path is now clear. A win there doesn’t just move him up the rankings. It drags the title within reach.

Nakahara doesn’t ask if he’s ready, because this is what Kenta asked for.

***

Meanwhile, on the sun-scorched concrete of a construction site on the edge of Bekasi, Arman Sargsyan lifts another sack of cement.

Concrete dust hangs in the air, turning the sunlight the color of old paper. Someone is yelling from somewhere above him. Another voice answers back, sharper, impatient.

A cement bag hits the ground at Arman’s feet and splits along the seam. He crouches, gathers what he can, and lifts. The weight settles against his forearms, familiar and punishing.

“Watch it,” a worker calls out. “Steel coming through.”

Arman shifts a half-step without looking. The beam swings past where his shoulder had been.

The men around him move fast, shouting instructions over the noise. A few glance his way, amused more than annoyed.

A foreigner doing this kind of work always draws attention. One of them grins and taps his own chest, miming a jab.

“Boxer, yeah? So, when will your next fight?”

Arman gives a brief nod and goes back to work. “I have no idea myself,” he says.

Then almost to himself, he mutters, “If I have a fight, I won’t be wasting my time carrying this sack.”

Someone presses a bottle of water into his hand during a short pause, cold, unexpected. He mutters thanks, and instantly, the jokes and laughter start.

They treat him well here, better than the situation deserves. He works hard, keeps quiet, doesn’t act like he’s above the job. And that earns him space.

But then the foreman claps his hands. “That’s it. Break’s over. And boxer, pick more cements from the truck.”

Arman shoulders another sack, fifty kilos. The number repeats itself in his head the way round timers used to.

Back then it was Europe; cold gyms, flickering lights, promoters who spoke in assurances instead of numbers.

Stay patient.

One more fight.

We’re lining something up.

But none of it ever arrived.

Asia had been sold as a solution, activity, rankings, and visibility. The contract was thin, but thin was better than nothing. By the time he realized what kind of management he’d signed with, he was already too far from home to walk away clean.

For now, the only work that pays on time is this, cement sacks, cash at the end of the shift, no promises attached.

***

He only leaves the site as the light fades, boots gray with dust, shirt stiff with sweat.

The alley to his kontrakan is narrow and busy, motorbikes squeezing through, food smoke hanging low.

Upon reaching to his far from cozy den, he stops when he sees someone standing by the door, one hand on the waist.

“Arman,” the man calls. “I’ve been looking for you. I went to the gym, and they said you haven’t trained there in months.”

Arman drops his bag. “You finally came to pay what you owe?”

The manager’s smile doesn’t waver. “You’ve been hard to reach.”

“My number expired,” Arman says. “I couldn’t afford to extend it. That should tell you something.”

The manager’s smile doesn’t disappear, but it changes. “About that money, we’ve talked about it before.”

“You paid not even half,” Arman complaints.

“Because the rest went to important things,” the man says smoothly. “Visa matters. Taxes. Keeping certain people from asking questions about why you’re still here.”

“That was my fight purse.”

“And this is your career,” the manager replies. “You think those things pay for themselves?”

Arman steps closer. His voice stays level. “You don’t touch my money without telling me.”

“I keep you fighting,” the man says. “I keep you legal. You want to do construction forever?”

Arman turns away. “I’m tired. Leave.”

The manager hesitates, then tries again. “There’s an offer.”

Arman turns, his face still flat, but his eyes turn cold.

“From Japan,” the manager adds quickly. “Kenta Moriyama. OPBF ranked fourth.”

“When?”

“Soon. And if you win…”

“Get out,” Arman says. “We’ll talk tomorrow. And when we do, the money comes up front.”