VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The office door remains half open after Ryoma steps out. From inside, the steady rhythm of jumping ropes fills the air, ropes snapping lightly against the mat in uneven harmony.

The gym is alive, loud, and grounded in routine, as if nothing significant has just shifted inside the small office.

Nakahara rests both palms on the edge of his desk and looks at Kurogane across from him.

“As I mentioned,” he says calmly, “we will need to prepare formal contract papers. I have to speak with our lawyer first to structure the agreement properly. It should be ready by tomorrow.”

Kurogane bows his head slightly. “Of course. That is only proper.”

For a moment, neither speaks. The sound of ropes striking the floor continues in the background, steady and relentless.

Then Kurogane lifts his eyes again. “If I may ask, since the formal signing will be tomorrow, would it be acceptable for me to begin reviewing materials today? Even as an observer. I would rather not lose a day if there is work to be done.”

Sera studies him from the side of the desk, measuring the tone more than the words. There is no impatience in Kurogane’s voice, only quiet intent.

Nakahara considers this, then reaches toward a small stack of documents that had been set aside earlier.

“Kowa Sports Marketing has already begun preliminary outreach,” he says, sliding several printed proposals across the desk. “A few brands have expressed interest. You can start by looking at these.”

Kurogane’s expression shifts subtly as he takes the papers. “You already have inquiries?”

“They contacted Kowa directly,” Nakahara replies. “Nothing finalized yet.”

Kurogane scans the first proposal, then the second. A mid-sized electronics company seeking logo placement near the ring apron. A regional logistics firm requesting LED board exposure and mention during fighter walkouts. A beverage distributor proposing co-branded promotional booths inside the arena.

The numbers are not small. Nor are they extraordinary.

“I did not expect the pipeline to move this quickly,” Kurogane admits quietly.

Sera smiles faintly. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” Kurogane answers honestly. “That is not a criticism.” He sets the proposals down neatly and looks back up. “May I see the full sponsorship structure? The tier system Kowa intends to use.”

Nakahara opens a separate folder and hands it over. “This is still a draft. They presented it last week. I have not approved it yet.”

Kurogane flips through the pages, reading more carefully this time. Aqualis positioned as exclusive title sponsor. Then there are three upper-tier sponsors beneath it, six mid-level partners, and a series of smaller placements distributed across ring canvas, corner pads, press backdrops, and digital assets.

At the bottom of the page, a projected total revenue figure hovers around ¥ 30.000.000.

His eyes linger there, too long, like he doesn’t like those numbers at all.

“You are not satisfied,” Sera asks.

Kurogane closes the folder gently. “Before I answer that, may I ask what your total projected expenditure for this event will be?”

Nakahara leans back slightly in his chair. “We have only paid down payments so far. The rest will be settled after the event concludes.”

“A projection is sufficient,” Kurogane says.

The ropes outside continue snapping in steady rhythm as Nakahara begins listing the figures without hesitation, his tone measured and factual.

“Production, NSN, ¥ 30.000.000. Yoyogi Arena, four days, ¥ 22.000.000. Kowa retainer fee, ¥ 10.000.000. East Gate, ¥ 23.000.000. Main event purse bid, U.S.$ 500.000. About ¥ 55.000.000 at current rate.”

Kurogane lowers his gaze and begins writing as each number lands on the page.

Nakahara continues. “Co-main, roughly 6.5 million combined. Kenta’s bout, about 2.2 million. Aramaki’s fight, around 1.5 million. Okabe’s bout, 1.8 million. Undercards, estimate 2-3 million total. Sanctioning fees, insurance, and logistics for eight million, possibly more.”

Kurogane writes quickly beneath the first column. He calculates in silence for nearly half a minute, the scratching of his pen briefly louder than the ropes outside.

“Even conservatively,” he says at last, turning the paper slightly toward Nakahara, “your total expenditure will land somewhere between 160 to 170 million yen.”

Nakahara does not dispute the figure. And Sera simply exhales through his nose, raising an eyebrow, already acknowledging how crazy that amount is.

“With this structure,” Kurogane continues, tapping the sponsorship projection, “and Kowa is only targeting approximately 30 million yen in sponsorship?”

“That is what they consider realistic,” Nakahara replies.

Kurogane shakes his head with an uneasy face. “If broadcasting rights secure another 30 to 35 million,” he goes on, “your commercial revenue reaches perhaps 65 million yen. The rest must come from ticket sales.”

“That was always part of the plan,” Sera says evenly.

“Yes,” Kurogane agrees. “But the margin is thinner than it appears.”

He writes again. “Even if you sell 9.000 seats at an average price of 10.000 yen, that will yield 90 million yen in ticket revenue. Combined with 65 million in commercial revenue, you arrive at only 155 million. That is below your projected expense.”

Sera’s expression tightens slightly. “We are aiming for ten thousand seats, not nine thousand.”

“At ten thousand, you survive,” Kurogane replies. “At eleven thousand, you breathe. But you are structuring sponsorship as though ten thousand seats are guaranteed.”

Nakahara folds his hands together. “We cannot inflate pricing beyond what the market will bear.”

“You have already positioned this event beyond regional scale,” Kurogane says, his voice still controlled. “You secured a $500.000 purse bid. You hired NSN for Vegas-level production. You booked Yoyogi for four days. Those are not cautious decisions. Yet your sponsorship target remains cautious.”

Sera crosses his arms. “So what do you propose?”

Kurogane does not hesitate. “Raise the target to sixty million. Tell Kowa to hunt sponsors to meet that value.”

Nakahara shakes his head almost immediately. “That is unrealistic.”

“Then fifty-five,” Kurogane says.

“Still too aggressive.” Nakahara leans forward slightly now, his tone firm but not defensive. “If we overprice inventory and brands withdraw, we risk losing confirmed commitments.”

Kurogane considers this for a moment before speaking again. “Fifty, then.”

“That is still above Kowa’s projection,” Nakahara says, still thinking pragmatic.

Kurogane studies the calculations once more, then lifts his gaze. “Forty-five million. It requires Kowa to sell prestige, not just placement. It preserves high-value slots for late entrants who may come once ticket momentum builds. It creates cushion if attendance falls short of expectation.”

Nakahara remains silent for several seconds, weighing risk against pride, ambition against prudence.

“You really believe thirty million will not be enough?” he asks for the last time.

“I believe,” Kurogane answers carefully, “that at nine thousand seats and thirty million sponsorship, you are exposed. At forty-five million, you are protected. You are already risking one hundred seventy million yen. If you choose to spend at that level, you must aim accordingly.”

After a long breath, Nakahara nods once. “Alright, we will push Kowa to restructure toward forty-five million.”

Kurogane inclines his head. He then studies the sponsorship proposals again, the brands that are already expressing interest, with their preliminary figures neatly printed at the bottom of each page.

“These,” he says calmly, tapping the stack, “must be put on hold.”

Sera’s eyes narrow slightly. “They’re real offers.”

“Yes,” Kurogane agrees. “But they are early offers.”

He straightens the papers and slides them back across the desk. “If you begin selling slots now under the current structure, you destroy your own leverage. Once inventory is gone, it is gone. And when larger brands arrive… because they will arrive, you will have nothing left to offer them at premium value.”

Nakahara watches him carefully. “You are certain larger brands will come?”

Kurogane does not answer immediately. The ropes outside continue their steady rhythm, the sound almost mechanical now.

“The story has already spread beyond Tokyo, beyond Japan. Do you think regional sponsors are the ceiling?” he asks rhetorically.

Then he shakes his head. “No. They are the floor.”

Sera leans back against the desk. “And if we reject them and nothing bigger appears?”

“Then we reopen discussion later,” Kurogane replies evenly. “But if we sell now, we cannot reverse it. Scarcity is power. The moment you fill your premium placements cheaply, you signal your own limits.”

He pauses, letting the logic settle. “A sponsor is not only buying visibility. They are buying position over competitors. If we give that position away too early, we lose the ability to price dominance.”

Nakahara’s fingers rest lightly against the edge of the desk, thoughtful. “You would ignore all of them?” he asks.

“For now,” Kurogane answers. “Acknowledge interest. Do not finalize. Let the market feel that space is limited and undecided.”

He meets Nakahara’s gaze directly. “I believe larger sponsors are watching. The kind that do not move first. The kind that wait to see whether this really becomes a serious event.”

Silence settles in the office as Nakahara and Sera exchange a glance, finally recognizing that the young man is the real deal.

Kurogane adds, almost quietly, “We have already committed to scale. Now we must price it as if we mean it.”