VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, in a quieter corner of Kanagawa, inside the worn yet sturdy hall of Okada Kogen Boxing Gym, preparation continues without the slightest trace of doubt.

The building carries no mountain retreat prestige, no overseas isolation camp glamour. But for Rikiya Miyamoto, this place is more than enough.

The sound of his gloves crashing against a sparring partner’s headgear echoes sharply, forming a steady, threatening rhythm. Each combination lands with deliberate weight. Since losing his title months ago, something in his expression has hardened.

Around the ring, several neighboring gyms have sent their best fighters to help. They wait patiently outside the ropes, rotating in and out. Support here may not look luxurious. But it is loyal, immediate, and grounded in respect.

A small cluster of journalists stands near the corner, restless. Camera lenses follow every bead of sweat rolling down Rikiya’s temple, every flash of intensity in his narrowed eyes.

They are not here merely to document his conditioning. They are here to confirm the rumor surrounding what many are calling an “unreasonable match.”

When the final sparring round ends, Rikiya steps down from the ring. Araki Okada drapes a towel over his fighter’s shoulders before the journalists surge forward, recorders extended like weapons.

“Miyamoto-san! Your preparation looks exceptional, even without a luxury camp. Does this reflect high confidence against Tatsuki Aramaki?” a senior reporter asks.

Rikiya drinks from his bottle, gaze flat, showing absolutely no interest in the topic.

“Aramaki is ranked fifth in the JBC,” another journalist continues. “There is speculation that you accepted this risk purely because of the purse, considering the scale of the Yoyogi event. Is he simply a paycheck to you?”

Rikiya wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t see him as a serious threat,” he replies coolly. “But he belongs to the same generation as Serrano, the man who defeated me. And don’t forget, Aramaki has only one loss, and that was to the prodigy, Ryoma Takeda. The same Ryoma who handed Serrano his only defeat.”

He pauses, eyes steady. “You can’t underestimate this generation. At the very least, I can test something here before I reclaim my belt from Serrano.”

Araki Okada raises a hand before another question lands.

“The accusation that we accepted this for money is insulting,” he says, voice heavy with restrained anger. “If you knew the amount offered, you wouldn’t dare use that word in front of us. The purse does not reflect Rikiya’s status as a former champion who carried this country’s boxing for years.”

A younger journalist interjects boldly. “Can you disclose the figure, Okada-san?”

Araki narrows his eyes. “I cannot reveal the number out of contractual respect. But let me be clear: the offer was low. It was disrespectful. Nakahara approached us with very little regard.”

“Then why accept it?” the reporter presses, turning back to Rikiya.

Rikiya meets his gaze directly. “To teach them a lesson,” he says quietly. “And to reclaim the dignity they tried to purchase cheaply.”

“Kenji Nakahara has grown arrogant,” Araki’s tone sharpens. “Just because Ryoma holds the OPBF title and Ryohei captured a belt with that lucky win, he believes he can dominate the industry. He arranges one grand night, stacks all his fighters onto a single card, and challenges names built through years of dedication. As if instant momentum can erase decades of legacy.”

He gestures toward his fighter. “Yoyogi will not be their celebration. It will be where reality hits them in the face.”

After this interview, the headlines ignite almost instantly. Clips of Araki’s anger circulate across social media. Headlines amplify the insult narrative. Comment sections fracture into camps.

Some frame it as a disgraced former champion defending his pride. Others paint Nakahara as an ambitious disruptor trampling on legacy.

The story takes on a life of its own; a betrayed veteran versus an arrogant rising force. It is perfect marketing fuel.

Debate turns into visibility. And visibility turns into demand. By late June, ticket sales for the Yoyogi event surpass 9,000.

It’s momentum feels unstoppable. Until, just as suddenly, it isn’t.

A few days later, the graph begins to fracture. In the following forty-eight hours, fewer than one hundred tickets move.

***

Back in Shonan, the atmosphere inside Nakahara’s training lodge contrasts sharply with the noise outside.

In the living room, Kurogane, the meticulous young manager, stares at his laptop, brow furrowed.

The door opens with heavy footsteps approaching. Nakahara enters carrying two steaming cups of coffee. He sets one beside Kurogane.

“I’ve been watching you stare at that screen all morning,” Nakahara says, sitting opposite him. “At first I doubted this event myself. But after the sales surge, I believe we are safe now.”

Kurogane doesn’t look away. “Something’s wrong. The sales have stalled.”

Nakahara’s relaxed posture disappears. “How many have we sold?”

“9,162,” Kurogane replies shortly.

“That’s strong enough,” Nakahara insists. “We still have over a month. At this rate, we could sell out in three weeks.”

“But in the last two days,” Kurogane replies flatly, “we haven’t even sold one hundred.”

Nakahara blinks. “Where did the momentum go?”

“Possibly saturation,” Kurogane explains. “Our marketing was extremely aggressive early on. We may have hit a ceiling. And now…”

He begins opening several news tabs, scanning through sports portals and social media feeds in an attempt to understand what is unfolding beyond the camp’s walls.

Within moments, the pattern becomes clearer. Without looking up from the screen, he starts reading aloud a series of headlines that have begun circulating widely online.

“Boycott Yoyogi: Is Nakahara Gym Undermining Japanese Boxing Ethics?”

“Voices from Okada Gym: Ambition Versus Rikiya’s Pride.”

Kurogane exhales. “There’s a quiet resistance forming online. Earlier, I said polarization fuels business. But the thing is, it also carries risk. Now some people are beginning to view this as arrogant success.”

Nakahara grows visibly uneasy as the implications settle in.

From a purely business standpoint, selling nine thousand tickets already guarantees a comfortable profit, especially with sponsor packages fully secured and broadcasting rights moving strongly in international markets.

But Yoyogi National Gymnasium holds up to thirteen thousand spectators. For a night marketed as an ’Oriental Vegas,’ nine thousand would feel less like caution and more like failure.

“I used to think nine thousand was more than enough,” Nakahara murmurs, rubbing his temple. “But this event has drawn global attention. Isn’t there anything we can do in this next month? At least push it beyond ten thousand?”

Kurogane hesitates before answering. “We could arrange limited public appearances for Ryoma and Ryohei. Physical ticket promotions, small fan meetings, autograph sessions. That might persuade those who are still undecided.”

At that moment, Ryoma appears at the doorway, his hair still damp from training. He has clearly heard enough of the conversation to understand its direction.

“That sounds reasonable,” he says calmly.

Nakahara reacts immediately. “Have you lost your mind? Your focus is the ring, not a ticket counter. I won’t have you exhausting yourself for publicity.”

“If it’s controlled,” Kurogane interjects gently, “just one or two sessions after the camp concludes, it shouldn’t interfere with preparation. We can limit them to two hours, maximum. After that, they return to full training.”

Nakahara remains unconvinced, his expression tightening at the thought of involving his core fighters in promotional obligations.

“No,” he insists. “We finish this training camp properly. That comes first. Then we’ll see. Let’s just hope the numbers move before we leave.”

***

19 June 2017 – Narita International Airport

The international arrival doors slide open, and Thanid Kouthai steps into the terminal with a calm yet intimidating presence. Beside him, head coach Kiet Anurak and the manager Preecha Lawson walk with their chins slightly raised.

They do not arrive quietly. They’ve intentionally leaked their flight details to the press, ensuring Japan knows the “storm” from Thailand has landed.

Within seconds, journalists surge forward, cameras flashing and microphones thrust ahead like spears. Kiet raises one hand, signaling his team’s security to hold the line, then offers a thin smile, an invitation.

“Anurak-san! You’ve arrived more than a month before the August 24 bout. Is this caution? Or perhaps concern? Many believe Ryoma’s power, especially after ending Jade McConel’s career, makes him a serious threat.”

Kiet lets out a short, dismissive laugh. “If we were afraid, we wouldn’t come at all. Thanid is a world kickboxing champion. He has faced far more dangerous men than a boy who just won an OPBF belt. Ryoma is not a concern.”

Another reporter presses forward. “Perhaps, Nakahara Gym has provided special facilities for your preparation.”

Before Kiet can answer, Lawson steps in with visible irritation. “They offered accommodation for three weeks. The rest, we cover ourselves. We are not beggars.”

He pauses, then adds with a pointed smirk, “As for training facilities, what they proposed was beneath Thanid’s level. Fortunately, Takanobu Narisawa has class. He opened his gym to us.”

As the news broke, the subtext is undeniable: Nakahara’s credibility as a promoter has just been stripped bare and humiliated.