VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Sadly, the fan meet-up in Tokyo ended with a bitter irony. Designed to ignite a stagnant ticket market, the event feels more like a local reunion. Most of those queuing are die-hard fans who had secured their seats months ago.

While selling nearly 200 tickets in a single afternoon is still a leap from the crawling sales in the last week, it remains a drop in the ocean for a mega-event at Yoyogi. To the promoters, it is a modest win. To the keen observer, it smells of desperation.

The next morning, President Fujimoto’s luxury sedan glides through the city. He is en route to a high-stakes meeting with a business partner, his mind preoccupied with corporate strategy.

In the front seat, his personal assistant, Shizue Haruyama, scrolls through her tablet. “President, look at this,” she chirps, turning slightly. “The social media engagement is skyrocketing. Ryoma was spotted with Aqualis Hydralyte Pro during the fan meet. The public is losing it. They’ve noticed it’s not the usual Surge Blue.”

She giggles, showing him a flurry of comments. Speculations are rife that Aqualis has a ’secret formula’ reserved only for elite pros. One comment reads: Checked three convenience stores, but it’s nowhere to be found!

“Maybe we should just release it to the mass market?” Shizue jokes. “Ryoma’s influence is doing the marketing for us.”

Fujimoto’s brow twitches. “A fan meet?” he mutters.

“Yes, yesterday at Sunshine City in Ikebukuro. To promote the Yoyogi fight,” Shizue explains, returning to her screen.

She then lingers on a viral video for a moment, before her smile fading into a pensive frown. “Oh… he looks a bit thinner, doesn’t he?”

The words strike a chord of alarm in Fujimoto. “Shizue, give me that,” he demands.

“Of course! Just look at his eyes, President. He’s so focused, like a true predator!” Shizue chirps, handing over the device with a proud, oblivious grin.

Fujimoto receives the device and stares at the screen. And there he finds that the Ryoma in the video is a stark contrast to the Ryoma he stood beside during the April Purse Bid.

Back then, at a robust 68 kg, Ryoma’s face was full, his presence commanding and vital. In that fan meet-up, he’s already below 66 Kg after a grueling camp. His jawline is razor-sharp, his frame stripped of its protective layer.

To Fujimoto, he doesn’t look like a champion; he looks like a man being consumed by his own ambition, or worse, by a promoter’s greed.

“Turn the car around,” Fujimoto commands as he hands the device back to Shizue.

Shizue turns around, blinking in surprise. “Did you forget something at the office, sir?”

“Not the office,” Fujimoto says. “Take me to Nakahara’s Gym.”

“You’re that excited to see Ryoma?” Shizue smiles, trying to lighten the mood. “But what about the meeting with Uchiyama-san?”

“Reschedule it for tomorrow,” Fujimoto says, his eyes cold and fixed on the window.

The sheer gravity in Fujimoto’s tone silences the car. Shizue swallows her unease and nods to the driver.

“You heard him. Nakahara’s Gym. You know the way?”

The driver nods. “Understood,” he says, spinning the wheel.

On the next junction, the car veers away from the corporate district, heading toward the grit of the boxing world.

***

Meanwhile, a different kind of tension blankets the management office at the far end of Nakahara’s Gym. The air is thick with regret as Nakahara stares down at Kurogane’s laptop, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

“Two hundred tickets, Kurogane,” the old man grunts. “We disrupted his recovery cycle and risked his focus for a mere two hundred tickets.”

Kurogane, the young manager, looks down at his cluttered desk, his face flushed with a mixture of guilt and defensiveness. “I know the numbers are underwhelming, Sir. I didn’t mean to push him this hard… but Ryoma was the one who insisted. He said if it helps the event, he’d do it.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Nakahara snaps, turning around with a sharp glare. “He’s a fighter; he’ll say yes to any challenge. It’s our job to say no for him. We gambled with his conditioning, and for what? A minor spike in a stagnant market?”

At that moment, the gym entrance door swings open as the gym’s six pro fighters, including Ryoma and Ryohei, filter in from their morning roadwork. Their breathe are heavy, skin glistening with sweat in the humid air.

Near the ring, Dr. Mizuno, the meticulous nutritionist sent by Aqualis, is deep in conversation with Hiroshi. They stand near the ropes, oblivious to the office drama behind them, focused entirely on the clipboard in Mizuno’s hand.

“So he’s at 65.4 kg this morning,” Mizuno says quietly, tapping a pen against the chart. “We’ve had a solid camp, but we need a controlled descent in these last four weeks.”

“What’s the plan?” Hiroshi asks.

“For the first week, I want a steady drop to 64.8 kg,” Mizuno says. “Just minor adjustments to his caloric density. Week two, we hit 64.2 kg. That’s where the mental fatigue usually kicks in, so watch his power output during pads.”

Hiroshi nods, scribbling notes in the margin. “And the final push before the cut?”

“By the end of week three, he must sit at 63.5 kg,” Mizuno confirms. “That gives us exactly 2.3 kg to flush out via sweat draining in the final five days. No sudden drops, Hiroshi. I want a smooth curve, or his kidneys and his explosiveness will pay the price.”

Then suddenly, their technical briefing is cut short by a sudden heavy silence that ripples through the gym like a cold wave.

All eyes turn toward the entrance as President Fujimoto stands there, his perfectly tailored suit a jarring contrast to the grimy, sweat-soaked atmosphere of the gym.

The old man’s cold piercing gaze is locked directly on Ryoma, who stands frozen with a towel draped over his shoulder. To Fujimoto’s eyes, the ’predator’ Shizue described looks like a man being carved away to nothing.

***

Albeit tired, Ryoma pushes himself up from the bench, a genuine smile breaking across his weary face as he moves to greet his benefactor.

“Fujimoto-san…”

But before he can take a step, Fujimoto raises a sharp dismissive hand.

“Stay where you are, Ryoma-kun,” Fujimoto says, his voice flat. “You look exhausted from your training. Focus on your recovery.”

Dr. Mizuno quickly approaches, adjusting his glasses in surprise. “President Fujimoto? This is unexpected. Please don’t tell me you’re here for a sudden performance review of my nutritional program.”

Fujimoto shakes his head slightly, his eyes never leaving the gym’s interior. “No, Mizuno. I came here to see Nakahara? I need to speak with him.”

Hiroshi steps forward and gestures toward the far end of the gym. “Coach Nakahara is in the management office, sir. Please, follow me.”

Fujimoto glances back at Shizue, a silent command for her to stay put. “Wait here, Shizue. This isn’t a social call,” he says, his voice like ice.

She nods quickly, her usual cheerfulness replaced by a growing sense of dread. “Yes, President. I’ll… I’ll wait here,” she whispers, her smile completely vanished.

Fujimoto then follows Hiroshi toward the glass-partitioned office, with Dr. Mizuno trailing cautiously behind.

***

At the office door, Hiroshi enters for a brief second, his face pale. Nakahara looks up from a stack of documents, his brow furrowed.

“Coach, President Fujimoto is here,” Hiroshi whispers, the urgency in his voice unmistakable.

Nakahara’s eyes widen, his hands freezing over the papers. “Fujimoto? Now? He didn’t say a word about coming today.”

He stands up instinctively, smoothing his track jacket, his gaze darting toward the doorway. Hiroshi steps back out, holding the door open for the President to enter.

“Fujimoto-san. Please…”

After Fujimoto steps in, Hiroshi quickly retreats to the main floor. Mizuno himself stops at the threshold, choosing to stay outside in the hallway. They both start to walk away, intending to resume their discussion on weight targets.

But then, they are frozen by a voice that slices through the gym’s humidity. It isn’t a shout, but the cold accusatory edge in Fujimoto’s tone is far more lethal than any scream.

“What exactly is the meaning of this, Nakahara-san?” Fujimoto asks. “I put up half a million dollars to ensure Ryoma steps into that ring in his absolute best condition. I did it to prevent the Melbourne disaster from ever repeating itself. And yet, you are exploiting him for your own business interests.”

Inside the office, Nakahara stands motionless, his face a mask of shock. “Exploiting him?”

“I thought we shared the same principles,” Fujimoto continues, his voice vibrating with controlled fury. “That we treat these athletes not just as business assets, but as human beings with lives and futures to protect.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. The tension radiates from the office like a physical weight, crushing the usual energy of the gym. Hiroshi and Mizuno, caught just a few feet from the door, stand like statues, unable to move or look away.