VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The younger fighters are already near the entrance when Ryoma finishes speaking to the journalists. For now, they remain silent until Ryoma walks past them without saying anything about what just happened.

But once Ryoma’s far way enough…

“We should do something too,” someone says.

“Do what?” another replies.

“We buy tickets,” a third suggests. “We go to Yoyogi and support our senpai.”

“That’s obvious,” another counters. “That’s the minimum.”

A taller boy near the bench raises his hand slightly. “I have an idea.”

The others instinctively gather closer, forming a loose circle.

“We create buzz at school,” he says. “We talk about the fight. We talk about how Ryoma-senpai beat Jade McConnel. We talk about the purse for this title match. We make it sound big.”

“That could work,” someone replies. “But maybe we don’t start with Yoyogi. We raise interest in boxing first. If they get curious, then we invite them.”

“Hey… I can post in my group chat tonight,” another says quickly. “Some of my classmates recently started watching combat sports.”

“Do it,” the taller boy answers. “Invite them. No matter how insignificant, at least we’re doing something.”

Across the mat, Satoru finishes unwrapping his hands while listening to their conversation. He glances toward Ryoma, and something tightens in his chest.

After wiping his face with a towel, he walks toward.

“Senpai. I’ll head out now.”

Ryoma nods once. “Recover properly.”

Satoru bows slightly and turns away. The moment he reaches the street, he pulls out his phone and opens his group chat on LINE. His thumb hovers for a second before he begins typing.

[You guys know Ryoma? The OPBF title fight at Yoyogi on August 24. It’s going to be huge.]

Replies appear within seconds.

[Boxing again?]

[Is that the guy who beat that Australian champ?]

[Yo, Satoru! How much are tickets?]

Satoru types back quickly.

[Lowest tier is around ¥8,000. It’s worth it.]

One of his friends responds almost immediately.

[Eight thousand yen just to watch boxing? I can’t afford that right now.]

Satoru hesitates for only a moment, and then sends a private text to that specific guy.

[I’ll cover your ticket. Just come with me.]

[Are you serious?]

[Yeah. Just show up.]

Meanwhile, in the group chat on LINE, a few more friends have shown reactions with interest, asking about the venue and the opponent.

The conversation begins to build its own rhythm. It’s small, but alive.

***

Inside the gym’s managerial office, Kurogane still sits alone in front of his laptop, scanning partnership clauses while occasionally switching to the ticket dashboard.

He refreshes the page out of habit. For a while now, there’s almost no change. But then, after a few more attempts, the number suddenly jumps.

+184 tickets sold.

Kurogane straightens in his chair and refreshes again after a minute.

+27 more.

He narrows his eyes and checks the breakdown. All of them are from the lowest price tier.

“So you finally moved, huh?” he mutters quietly.

Matsuda have just initiated the first phase of today’s purchase, likely the planned one hundred seats. The total now reaches 447 tickets sold. The number is not explosive, and the VIP column remains unchanged.

But the early trend is visible. Kurogane leans back slightly and allows himself a small smile.

“It’s starting,” he says to no one.

Just out of habits, or maybe half-expectant, he refreshes the page several more times over the next ten minutes. But no significant changes follow.

***

The next morning, Kurogane arrives at the office earlier than usual and drops his bag beside the desk before turning on his laptop.

The small managerial room still carries the faint smell of coffee from the day before. Nakahara is already there, seated by the window with his arms folded.

Kurogane glances at him and smirks. “Did you charge the electric bike this time, Coach? Or are we pushing it uphill again today?”

Nakahara does not react to the teasing. His face remains stiff. “There is still no email from Kowa,” he says flatly. “No update. No new sponsor inquiry.”

Kurogane simply takes a sip of his morning coffee. “I said it, you cannot expect corporations to move overnight.”

Nakahara exhales through his nose but says nothing more. Meanwhile, Kurogane is already occupied with his browser, logging into the ticket dashboard more out of routine than expectation.

The page loads slowly, and he leans back while waiting. When the numbers appear, he blinks once and then leans forward again.

“Coach,” he says, his tone sharpening. “Come look at this.”

Nakahara does not move from his chair. “What is it?”

“The total just passed eight hundred,” Kurogane says.

That draws a reaction. Nakahara rises and steps behind him, and sees the number sits clearly at 823.

“All lowest-tier,” Kurogane continues. “Still no VIP movement. But this is organic traction. I’m telling, you need to trust your fighters’ reputation more. Especially Ryoma’s pull. This is not artificial demand. This is market response.”

The tightness in Nakahara’s jaw eases slightly. However, the relief does not fully reach his eyes.

“This improvement has nothing to do with you,” he says after a moment. “I was the one who insisted we adjust that tier’s pricing structure.”

Kurogane does not argue the point. He senses the weight behind the words. Nakahara’s gaze shifts from the screen to Kurogane’s face. The look is sharp and evaluative.

“There is still zero sponsor commitment,” Nakahara says quietly. “After all your maneuvering.”

Kurogane understands the implication immediately. The old man is not questioning the numbers. He is questioning his influence.

“It is still too early,” he argues evenly. “Sponsors move after seeing indicators. And ticket traction is one of them.”

He then gestures toward the screen. “When this curve continues upward, they will see proof of demand. Once the event demonstrates momentum, hesitation turns into competition. They will not want to be absent from something that appears inevitable.”

Ryoma appears at the office doorway a second later. He simply steps inside and lets his eyes fall on Kurogane’s laptop screen.

Kurogane turns and grins. “Eight hundred in three days,” he says, unable to hide a trace of satisfaction. “If this trend holds, we could reach ten thousand within a month and a half.”

Ryoma simply raises an eyebrow. He knows that at least three hundred of those tickets are part of Matsuda’s coordinated purchase.

“I’m afraid reality doesn’t always follow arithmetic,” Ryoma says with a faint scoff. “But let’s hope the curve keeps climbing.”

Before anyone can continue the discussion, Ryohei’s familiar voice erupts from the main gym, loud, playful, and unapologetically overconfident.

“Oi! Did you all miss me that much, or did the place just get quieter without a champion around?”

Aramaki laughs immediately. “You talk too much for someone who just came back from getting punched.”

“That’s why I’m champion,” Ryohei replies cheerfully. “I get punched and still look handsome.”

Kenta’s voice joins in. “You look heavier.”

“That’s muscle,” Ryohei shoots back. “Respect the upgrade.”

Even inside the office, the energy shifts.

“He finally came,” Nakahara mutters, heading toward the door with a silly smile.

But when he steps out, he stops mid-stride. Ryohei didn’t come alone. Beside him stands Okabe, the same clown whom Nakahara had tried to reach repeatedly the day before.

Nakahara’s expression changes at once. “Okabe?”

Ryohei notices the shift and scratches the back of his head with a casual smile.

“I figured you were looking for him,” he says lightly. “So I brought him myself. Saves you the trouble, right?”

The air in the gym tightens the moment Okabe steps fully inside. And it sharpens further when Ryoma exits the office.

“So you finally found the nerve to come back,” Ryoma says evenly.

There is no scoff in his voice, but the weight behind the words lands heavily.

“Don’t start it, kid,” Nakahara whispers. “If he bolts again like yesterday, it becomes trouble for all of us.”

Ryoma does not look away from Okabe. “I don’t care about yesterday.”

The entire gym falls silent. Ryoma’s voice does not rise, but it grows firmer with every step he takes.

“I am a co-owner of this gym,” he continues. “I invested my own money into this place. Into the next event. At least for today, I am the boss here.”

He stops a few feet in front of Okabe. “And I expect every contracted fighter to act professionally and respect that contract. If you cannot do that, this will not end with you being removed from the gym.”

A brief pause follows, before he drops the threat. “I could just take it to court for breach of contract.”