VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma keeps his arms moving against the pull-off resistance. But his eyes drift, just for a fraction of a second, toward Nakahara’s office. Reika stands there, half-turned, hesitating before the door.

He knows the look too well, the way her attention clings to him. Reika’s infatuation is not subtle. And Ryoma would be lying if he said the idea of dating her has never crossed his mind.

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Yes. The first time Aki mentioned that she was the daughter of NSN’s owner, Ryoma had considered using her as leverage.

But that’s where the problem lies. She is Logan Rhodes’s daughter. Any involvement with her carries the risk of dragging Logan back into his orbit.

And beyond that, she is selfish in exhausting ways. She is narcissistic, possessive without apology, and needy in a manner that demands to be indulged.

Ryoma has seen enough of that world to know where it leads. He buries the thought every time it surfaces, presses it down beneath discipline and routine.

Reika finally steps into the office, and the door closes behind her.

Only then does Ryoma’s gaze return forward. He resumes the pull-off motion, focus snapping back into place as if nothing ever wavered.

But that small moment does not go unnoticed. Across the gym floor, Ryohei catches it. And Okabe sees it too. Their eyes meet.

A grin spreads across Ryohei’s face, slow and malicious. He flicks his eyes toward Ryoma, then makes a small gesture with his fingers; an invitation, silent and conspiratorial.

Okabe bites his lip to hold back a laugh and nods. They stroll forward with theatrical confidence, already suppressing a snicker, and then stop in front of Ryoma.

Ryohei plants his feet and, without a shred of shame, peels his shirts off in one smooth motion. His torso is sculpted, muscular, every line earned through years of punishment and repetition.

And Okabe gasps. “Oh my,” he says, pitching his voice high and breathy as he clasps his hands together. “Ryoma-sama, is it even legal for someone to look like this?”

Ryohei lifts his chin, eyes sparkling with false nobility. “My fair princess,” he says, voice deep and dramatic, “this body was forged not for glory… but to protect your smile.”

Okabe staggers forward as if overwhelmed. “Protect it? With those arms?” He fans himself. “I fear I may simply faint.”

Ryohei places a hand over his heart. “Fear not. If you fall, I shall catch you. If the world is cruel, I shall stand between you and despair.”

Okabe lets out an exaggerated whimper and presses his forehead against Ryohei’s chest. “Such strength. Such devotion.”

The cables on Ryoma’s machine creak as his grip tightens. His brows twitch with irritation.

Nearby, Kenta pauses mid–bench press as Okabe’s voice carries across the gym. He racks the bar with a clang, sits up, and turns just in time to see Okabe draped over Ryohei like a lovesick opera heroine.

For a beat, he stares. Then he bursts out laughing.

“What the hell am I looking at?”

On the far bench, Aramaki wipes his face with a towel, shoulders shaking as he laughs quietly to himself.

Ryoma exhales sharply through his nose. He keeps pulling the strings, but the irritation creeps up his spine like static.

Okabe continues undeterred. “Ryoma-sama, your chest is like a fortress. I feel so safe.”

Ryohei flexes again, impossibly smug. “Lean on me, my princess. I exist for this moment.”

Eventually, Ryoma releases the handles, and the machine snaps back into rest. Without a word, he steps away, grabs his towel, and walks toward the locker room, shoulders rigid, expression unreadable.

Behind him, both Okabe and Ryohei break. They laugh, loud and unrestrained, completely satisfied as Ryoma disappears from view.

***

Meanwhile, the atmosphere inside Nakahara’s office bears no resemblance to what is happening out on the gym floor.

Nakahara leans back in his chair, fingers loosely interlaced, his gaze fixed on Maria with a coolness that still carries the residue of mistrust.

He listens without interruption as she lays out her proposal, studies the glossy documentation spread across his desk. His expression barely changes, until the number is spoken.

“Forty million yen?” Nakahara repeats. “Just for the production segment? Maria, you must be joking.”

Maria does not flinch. “That includes our technical crew from the United States, Nakahara-san. We bring the same broadcast standards you see in Las Vegas to Tokyo.”

“Listen,” Nakahara says as he leans forward. “Hoshino Event Solutions offered a full production package at thirty-three million. Yesterday morning, Summit Broadcast sent a proposal for high-definition coverage at twenty-nine million. And even that…” his finger taps the desk once, “is too high for simply placing lights and cameras inside Yoyogi.”

Maria lifts her teacup and takes a slow sip, carefully masking her surprise at how thoroughly Nakahara has armed himself with sub–thirty-million offers.

“Nakahara-san,” she says calmly, “what Hoshino or Summit can provide will not be enough for a global-scale event. This is an event following a half-million dollars purse bid. The audience expects HBO-level production. That is what NSN offers at its best. Forty million yen is a cooperative price, considering our history.”

A quiet snort escapes Nakahara, followed by a thin cynical smile. “HBO-level? Do you really think the people filling Yoyogi care how expensive your camera lenses are? They are coming to watch Ryoma win. Hoshino guarantees a clean national broadcast. Summit offers solid digital integration. If I take your deal, I throw eleven million yen into the sea for an ’American’ label.”

He drums his fingers against the desk. “I am in full control of this event. I secured Yoyogi independently. I partnered with Kōwa for sponsorship. I do not need NSN as a savior, Maria. I need a rational partner. If you want to produce this fight, bring that number back to reality. Otherwise, Summit is ready to start laying cables tomorrow morning.”

Maria’s eyes sharpen, but her tone remains composed. “You can choose a cheaper provider, Nakahara-san. But I watch the global market closely. Overseas promoters are already monitoring this fight. With top-tier production, and with Kōwa selling the event with NSN’s production standard, you will be flooded with international broadcast offers within weeks. When you see those contract figures, forty million yen will feel insignificant.”

For a brief moment, Nakahara says nothing. Maria’s words strike close to a pressure point he cannot ignore. Ryoma’s name has begun to circulate beyond domestic hype since the OPBF title win.

Even so, pragmatism reasserts itself quickly.

“That is still speculation,” Nakahara replies coldly. “Look around this gym. Does it seem reasonable to you that I pour another forty million yen into an event after burning twenty-two million just to rent the venue? I built this career on reality, not market forecasts.”

Maria exhales, disappointment surfacing in a professionally restrained way. “Very well. NSN can offer a mid-tier production package for twenty-five million yen. But I must be clear, putting our logo in Yoyogi with middle-class production quality would stain our own standards.

She inclines her head. “Unfortunately, I have to withdraw, and take my leave then.”

Reika, who has remained silent until now, feels her heartbeat surge. She knows how hard Ryoma has fought to reach this point, and she understands how precarious Nakahara’s finances truly are.

For her, this is no longer just business. This is about supporting the man she loves.

“Wait.”

Her voice cuts through the air, sharp enough to make Maria turn in surprise.

“Thirty million yen,” Reika says firmly, though her hands tremble slightly beneath the table. “NSN’s top-tier production. Global standard. No compromises.”

Maria stares at her. “Reika, you cannot set that number unilaterally without…”

“I am responsible for Tokyo operations, Maria,” Reika cuts in. Her voice wavers, but her resolve does not. “Nakahara-san. Thirty million yen. You get NSN’s best production quality. We will make Yoyogi a world-class stage worthy of Ryoma. This is my final offer.”

Silence blankets the room. Nakahara does not seize the offer immediately. He leans back, and studies Reika with an expression that gives nothing away.

From a financial standpoint, this is a decisive victory. Thirty million yen for global-tier production is something neither Hoshino nor Summit could deliver.

Yet alarms ring quietly in Nakahara’s mind. He remembers who stands behind NSN; Logan Rhodes, a corporate predator who views talented fighters as assets to be milked dry.

Nakahara knows that once he accepts an emotionally driven concession like this, he opens the door for NSN to tighten its grip on his gym again.

“It is an attractive offer, Reika. Very attractive,” Nakahara says in a controlled tone. “But I cannot give you an answer today. I need to discuss this with my internal team and with Kōwa Sports Marketing.”

Reika stiffens. She does not expect hesitation after cutting the price so drastically. “But Nakahara-san, that is the lowest we…”

“I know,” Nakahara interrupts. “And that is exactly why I must be careful. In this business, nothing is ever truly free. I respect your intentions, but a decision of this size cannot be made on impulse at this table. I will contact you once a full evaluation is complete.”

Maria, who had nearly lost her composure moments ago, regains her professional calm. She reads Nakahara’s hesitation not as rejection, but as proof that he is not a man easily swayed by cheap victories.

“We understand,” Maria says as she rises. “We will wait for your response. Come, Reika.”