VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma does not close the door immediately. He studies the man’s face again, and this time, recognition begins to surface as fragments of memory align inside his mind.

>

The arena lights flash across Ryoma’s memory with sudden clarity. He remembers Ryohei standing bloodied but victorious, and he remembers this man leaning forward between rounds, whispering something toward Kimitada Umemoto’s corner team.

“Ah,” Ryoma says quietly. “Now I remember seeing you at EDION Arena Osaka.”

Kurogane’s posture remains upright, but a subtle stiffness creeps into his shoulders. His confident smile stays in place, though it no longer looks effortless.

“I attended many events,” Kurogane replies. “Big fights attract people in my profession.”

Ryoma lowers his gaze to the business card and reads the title once more: Independent Boxing Manager. The pieces connect quickly, and his deduction forms without hesitation.

“So tell me,” Ryoma says calmly. “Did you have a fight with Umemoto or something?”

Kurogane’s eyebrows lift slightly, though his tone stays measured. “Umemoto?” he repeats. “You mean Kimitada Umemoto? Why would you assume I had a fight with him?”

Ryoma leans lightly against the doorframe, keeping his expression neutral but attentive. “Because you were seated close to his corner that night,” he explains. “Either you were trying to approach him, or you were already working with him. And if you were working with him, then you are not anymore.”

He lets the silence stretch before continuing. “After losing his title to Ryohei, maybe things became tense, and he looked for someone to blame. And now you are here, without a champion, looking for another.”

Ryoma studies the man carefully, observing the slight tightening in his jaw.

“You lost your client,” Ryoma says calmly. “You lost your leverage. And now you are trying to secure a new one before your name loses relevance.”

His gaze sharpens. “That sounds desperate to me.”

Kurogane’s forced smile lingers a second too long, as if time hesitates around it. Finally, he drops the act, and stops looking for an excuse.

“Desperate?” he repeats lightly, looking surrendered now. “Do I truly look that way to you?”

“Yes,” Ryoma answers without hesitation.

The word lands without aggression, but without mercy either.

“You brought up the Muhammad Ali Boxing Reform Act to suggest I might lose my belt,” Ryoma continues. “You framed it as education, but it was intimidation first. Then you offered your services as the solution.”

He folds his arms slowly. “That feels less like guidance and more like desperate marketing.”

For a brief second, Kurogane’s expression freezes. The smoothness drains from his posture, and something more human flickers beneath the professional mask.

“So,” Kurogane says carefully, “you actually know about the Muhammad Ali Boxing Reform Act?”

“I do,” Ryoma replies evenly. “I said I didn’t, because I wanted to see what you were building toward. I wanted to see how far you would go with the assumption that I was just a clueless twenty-one-year-old you could exploit.”

Silence settles heavily between them. The power has shifted, but the tension has not eased.

Then Ryoma exhales once and steps back slightly. “I think this conversation is over. I have things to prepare.”

He begins to push the door inward. But Kurogane reacts immediately and places his palm against the edge before it can close.

“Wait,” Kurogane says quickly. “Please, just listen for one more minute.”

Ryoma’s expression hardens. “I am not interested. You should look for someone else.”

Kurogane keeps his hand on the door, though he does not push forward aggressively. His voice lowers, and the smooth salesman tone disappears.

“You are right,” he admits. “I lost Umemoto after the defeat. Sponsors pulled back. His team needed a scapegoat, and I was the easiest one to remove.”

He swallows once before continuing. “Yes, I need a client. And yes, I am desperate to work. But I am not here to exploit you.”

Ryoma watches him without sympathy. “You misjudged your approach, and I can’t accept that.”

Kurogane nods stiffly. “You are correct. I opened with pressure because that is what fighters respond to most. I assumed you would react to risk more than opportunity.”

He straightens slightly, forcing steadiness back into his voice. “But I am good at what I do. I negotiate fair purse splits without damaging promoter relationships. I secure sponsorship clauses that protect long-term earnings. I prevent mandatory traps that corner champions at the wrong time.”

Ryoma remains silent, allowing the man to continue speaking without interruption. He watches carefully, waiting, half-expecting another calculated exaggeration to slip through.

“I analyze sanctioning body patterns,” Kurogane adds. “I anticipate ranking shifts before they become public. I build negotiation leverage months in advance, not weeks.”

His grip on the door loosens, though he does not remove his hand. “I do not take control from fighters. I create buffers so they can focus entirely on training. I absorb political friction so they do not have to.”

Ryoma’s gaze remains unreadable. Kurogane then exhales sharply, deciding to be honest now.

“I lost a champion,” he admits. “But I do not intend to lose my career with him.”

The hallway grows quiet again. And inside Ryoma’s mind, the system whispers.

>

>

***

Ryoma keeps his eyes on the man in front of him, measuring not the words, but the weight behind them.

He remains silent for several seconds as he studies Kurogane’s face. He does not see manipulation anymore, but he does not see purity either.

“Fine,” Ryoma says at last. “You get five minutes.”

He steps aside and gestures inward. Kurogane blinks once in surprise before stepping into the apartment. He removes his shoes neatly and lowers his head.

“I apologize for my earlier approach,” he mutters. “I misjudged you.”

Ryoma closes the door behind him without comment. He walks toward the living area and gestures toward the sofa.

“Sit.”

Kurogane obeys without hesitation. The older professional lowers himself carefully onto the seat, keeping his posture straight and hands resting neatly on his knees.

The irony does not escape the room: a seasoned manager now sitting upright like a student, awaiting judgment from a twenty-one-year-old boxer.

Ryoma remains standing. He picks up the television remote and resumes the paused footage of Okabe’s fight.

The screen lights up with another reckless exchange. Leather thuds echo through the speakers. And Kurogane leans forward slightly.

“Oh,” he says. “You are studying Okabe’s fights.”

He watches another wild overextension on the screen.

“Don’t tell me you are trying to fix his flaws.”

Ryoma does not respond, and his silence stretches deliberately between them. Kurogane lets out a quiet chuckle, adjusting his tone with subtle calculation as he shifts into familiar flattery.

“So the rumors are true,” he says smoothly. “You were the one behind the sudden evolution inside Nakahara Gym.”

But Ryoma ignores the flattery completely. “If I ever need a manager, I will need someone who understands boxing. Not just contracts.”

He pauses the footage mid-exchange, and then finally turns his head toward Kurogane. “Now assume you are Okabe’s manager. Now watch this fight… then tell me what you would do to improve his career.”

***

Silence fills the room as the screen resumes playback. On screen, Okabe charges forward after absorbing a jab, swinging wide with exposed chin and planted feet.

Kurogane watches without speaking for nearly half a minute. His eyes track foot placement, shoulder tension, breathing rhythm, and recovery after exchanges.

He does not rush his answer. “First,” Kurogane says slowly, “I would stop trying to turn him into something he is not.”

Ryoma says nothing, but his brow rises slightly, showing a glimpse of interest. He finally lowers himself onto the sofa, leaning back with measured composure.

He rests one arm along the backrest and keeps his gaze fixed forward, signaling that he is ready to hear the rest.

“Okabe is not a technician,” Kurogane continues. “His value lies in controlled chaos. But right now, his chaos is uncontrolled.”

The footage shows Okabe biting on a feint and committing too heavily.

“He reacts emotionally to contact,” Kurogane observes. “He treats every exchange as a challenge to pride rather than a tactical sequence.”

He leans forward slightly. “If I were his manager, I would not sell him as a future world technician. I would market him as a pressure disruptor with measurable improvement.”

Ryoma’s eyes narrow slightly as he processes the phrasing rather than the confidence behind it. He finds the reasoning grounded and unexpectedly practical, echoing a conclusion he had already begun forming before the doorbell interrupted his thoughts.

The overlap does not go unnoticed, and it forces him to acknowledge that Kurogane’s assessment aligns with his own earlier analysis.

For the first time since the door opened, he acknowledges that the man in front of him possess real boxing insight and a measured understanding of how to shape imperfect talent without breaking it.

“I would match him carefully,” Kurogane continues. “I would build his record against volume punchers who fold under sustained pressure.”

He gestures toward the screen. “And internally, I would demand one improvement only. Not elegance, just discipline after first contact. If he throws first, he must exit at an angle every single time. That is the beginning. Nothing more.”

The system murmurs again.

>

Ryoma keeps his expression unreadable. And Kurogane does not smile this time.

“I do not need him to become refined,” he says quietly. “I need him to become reliable.”