VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Thanid’s camp isn’t the only one having a bitter night. Across the VIP section, several faces remain cold and unmoved. Local promoters sit stiffly in their seats, their applause polite at best.

Among them are the Thai promoters who lost the purse bid back in April to Nakahara. Their expressions carry open disdain.

The arena may be sold out. The night may have been filled with chaos and controversy. But none of it has hurt Nakahara’s camp. All five of his fighters won.

And judging by the electric reaction still rolling through the crowd, it’s becoming clear that this so-called “Oriental Vegas” has surpassed the expectations of even its harshest critics.

Tonight hasn’t just been about victories. It has announced the arrival of a new player in the game. Not only Nakahara, but also the young champion who now stands at the center of it all.

Ryoma Takeda, a fighter, and increasingly a co-promoter, who is beginning to reshape the landscape around him.

In the VIP section, Markovic rises from his seat first, his expression calm but distant as the roar of the arena continues around him.

“It’s time to leave,” he says flatly.

Volkov stands as well, though his brow creases with annoyance.

“Why so rushed?” he asks.

Markovic adjusts his coat and begins moving toward the aisle. “We’ve seen enough,” he replies. “Better to leave now before the media surround us again.”

Volkov follows, still clearly irritated. After a moment, Markovic exhales, his disappointment surfacing in a low grunt.

“I came all the way here thinking we’d see a promising prospect,” he mutters. “A popular kid bringing in crowds. A good business opportunity.”

Then he shakes his head. “But I’m afraid there won’t be a fight between you and him.”

Volkov stops mid-step, “What?”

Markovic continues walking. “He’s no longer just an uprising youngster with no risk attached,” he says. “He’s the kind of fighter you should avoid.”

Volkov’s expression darkens immediately. “You’re afraid of him?” he snaps, rushing toward him. “You think I can’t beat him? You believe there isn’t even a single chance I could win against him?”

His voice rises, sharp with offense. “Since when did you become a coward like this, Markovic?”

Markovic exhales slowly, unfazed by the accusation. “I understand your frustration,” he says calmly. “You want to fight him badly. No matter the odds.”

He glances sideways at Volkov. “And believe me… I’d like to see it too. You and that kid dancing in the ring. Both of you with that swaying pendulum rhythm.”

Volkov narrows his eyes. “Then why?”

Markovic keeps walking. “You know why,” he says. “Erzhanov won’t allow it.”

Volkov scoffs. “If he doesn’t want it, we’ll find another promoter.”

Markovic chuckles under his breath and stops on the steps, glancing back toward the VIP section below.

“You can’t simply abandon Erzhanov,” he says. “And even if you could… no other promoter would let you fight him.”

He gestures subtly toward the rows of powerful figures still seated in the VIP section. Looking puzzled, Volkov follows his gaze, noticing the cluster of promoters and managers deep in quiet conversation.

“They didn’t come here to watch him win,” Markovic continues. “They came to see him fall. But the kid survived.

Another roar from the arena echoes as Ryoma’s name is chanted again. Markovic looks toward the ring one last time.

“And tonight he announced himself as a serious competitor in this business.”

He turns and resumes climbing the stairs, heading toward the upper stands where he can disappear among the departing crowd.

Volkov hurries after him. “Markovic, wait,” he calls. “What were you talking about just now? What do you mean competitor in the business?”

Markovic slows, glancing back. “That kid isn’t like you,” he says. “He isn’t just challenging the world as a boxer.”

His eyes drift briefly toward the roaring arena below. “He’s challenging it as a promoter. As a businessman. As a competitor. The kind of fighter who refuses to be ruled.”

He shakes his head faintly. “Giving him a path to climb is like raising an orca among sharks. Once it grows… the sharks become prey.”

***

Back in the ring, the celebration continues. Ryoma now stands near the center of the canvas, a microphone pushed gently toward him as the arena cameras circle closer.

The cheers have softened into a steady roar of approval, the crowd eager to hear from the champion himself.

The young Japanese woman conducting the interview smiles brightly, clearly accustomed to moments like this.

“Takeda-kun,” she begins, raising her voice just enough to carry across the arena, “first of all, congratulations on successfully defending your OPBF title tonight!”

The crowd answers with another wave of applause. Ryoma nods once in acknowledgment. But his eyes drift briefly beyond the ropes.

Around the ring, clusters of promoters and officials are still gathered in quiet conversations. Their expressions are serious, calculating. The kind of discussions that happen when business is already moving forward.

Among them, Ryoma notices a familiar figure, Celeb Mercer. The infamous WBC champion is already stepping away from the ringside area, speaking intently with his manager as they head toward the aisle. Mercer doesn’t even glance back at the ring.

The interviewer tilts her head slightly. “Ryoma?”

Ryoma blinks, pulling his attention back. “Ah… yes.”

She smiles politely, continuing without missing a beat. “That was an intense fight tonight. The ending came by disqualification after a series of fouls from Thanid Kouthai. What was going through your mind when everything started getting chaotic in the ring?”

Ryoma pauses a moment. For a split second his eyes flick again toward the aisle where Mercer is disappearing into the crowd.

Then he answers. “It was… unfortunate,” he says calmly. “I wanted to finish the fight properly.”

The crowd murmurs in agreement, scattered nods and approving claps rising from the stands as spectators react to the champion’s measured response.

“But boxing has rules,” Ryoma continues. “When they’re broken repeatedly, the referee has to make a decision. I respect that.”

The interviewer nods. “Even with all the chaos, you still showed tremendous composure. Was there ever a moment you felt the fight slipping out of control?”

Ryoma opens his mouth to respond, but his attention suddenly shifts. Across the ringside floor, President Fujimoto stands from his seat, speaking briefly with the people around him as his group prepares to leave the VIP section.

Ryoma’s expression changes. He lowers the microphone slightly and turns back to the interviewer.

“Excuse me,” he says politely. “I need to thank someone before they leave.”

The interviewer nods with a professional smile, stepping aside as Ryoma moves toward the ropes.

But before he reaches them…

“Hey! Congratulations!”

The voice comes from the other side of the ring, a British accent, relaxed but clear.

Ryoma stops and turns. Standing near the ropes with both hands in his pockets is Elliot Graves, watching him with a faint grin.

Ryoma hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Thanks for coming all the way from England to watch my fight. I hope it was worth the trip.”

Elliot lets out a short laugh. “Worth the trip? Mate… you built a stage this big and then played half a dozen different songs on it.”

Ryoma blinks. His brows knit together slightly. For a second he wonders if the accent is simply too thick for him to follow.

“Excuse me…?” he asks.

Elliot shrugs. “Forget it,” he says lightly. “It was a great fight. Really.”

He tilts his head, studying Ryoma. “Made me wonder something though.”

Ryoma waits. And Elliot’s grin widens a little.

“When do I get one like that with you?”

His gaze sweeps across the roaring arena.

“Not another sparring session. I mean a proper one. On a stage like this.”

Ryoma raises an eyebrow. “Oh… you want a fight with me? Seriously?”

“You bet.”

Ryoma chuckles softly. “Well, then tell your manager to…”

But he stops as he notices President Fujimoto and his entourage are already moving toward the exit tunnel.

Ryoma glances back at Elliot, clearly torn for a split second. Then he bows his head briefly.

“Sorry,” he says. “We’ll talk another time.”

Without waiting for a reply, he quickly heads for the ropes and exits the ring. Sera notices and immediately moves after him, hurrying to catch up.

“Hey, Ryoma wait!”

Elliot just watches him go. A moment later, his own manager steps beside him.

“That’s enough,” the man mutters. “Time to leave.”

Elliot turns, considering, and gives a nod.

“You shouldn’t be talking about fights like that here,” the manager continues quietly.

Elliot exhales through his nose, eyes still following Ryoma disappearing into the crowd.

“Yeah,” he says.

Then he turns and finally walks away.

***

The brief exchange between Ryoma and Elliot doesn’t go unnoticed.

Along the lower rows near ringside, several local fans immediately recognize the tall British fighter.

“That’s Elliot Graves… isn’t it?”

“The guy who almost beat Renji Kuroiwa.”

Some glance toward the ring again, replaying the moment they just witnessed.

“Did you see that? He was talking to Ryoma.”

“They looked pretty friendly.”

“You think they’re planning a fight?”

The speculation grows quickly, small pockets of conversation popping up among the nearby spectators as the idea begins to circulate.

Not far from them, three familiar journalists sit together among the press section. Aki is the first to react. Her eyes are still fixed on the ring, excitement obvious in her voice.

“Did you see that?” she says quickly. “Elliot Graves talking to Ryoma like that… If they actually fight someday, that would be incredible.”

Sato smiles faintly. “It certainly would be a match worth waiting for. If the interest grows enough, they might even build another event like tonight just for that fight.”

Tanaka, however, simply hums under his breath. “It would be an interesting fight. But I doubt it will ever happen.”

Sato glances at him. “Why do you think so?”

Tanaka shrugs. “Nothing certain,” he replies. “I’m just worried Ryoma might end up receiving the same treatment he already experienced once in this country.”

Aki tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

Tanaka folds his arms loosely. “Being alienated. Isolated by the environment around him.”

Sato blinks at the suggestion. “You think they would do that to him again? Like they’re afraid of him?”

Tanaka shakes his head. “Not exactly afraid. But…”

He pauses before continuing. “Well. I’m just worried. Let’s hope it never happens again.”