VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

In business, the ideal environment rarely exists on its own. More often than not, it has to be built—piece by piece, through compromise, risk, and a willingness to let others stand on the same ground you’re trying to claim.

The room falls quiet again, but this time the silence feels different. Nakahara exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair, eyes still fixed on Ryoma.

“…You’re thinking long-term,” he mutters.

Ryoma doesn’t answer.

Then Nakahara clicks his tongue. “Fine… We try it your way.”

Ryoma gives a small nod, then reaches for the phone again, already moving to make the call. But Kurogane’s voice cuts in, stopping him mid-motion.

“Hold on. If we’re already stepping in to cover part of the undercard, then we might as well go all the way. Might as well bring everyone into the WBO circuit.”

The idea lands. Ryoma considers it for a second, then nods slowly.

“Yeah, that makes sense.” His eyes shift toward Nakahara. “One more undercard fight won’t stretch us too far. What do you think? Okabe… or Aramaki?”

Nakahara doesn’t answer immediately. He leans forward slightly, one hand resting against his chin as he thinks it through.

“…Too early for Okabe,” he murmurs. “Asia-Pacific level is still a step too high for him.”

He exhales, then continues. “Aramaki’s ready. More than ready. He’s ranked second right now. Meanwhile, after Serrano took the title from Rikiya, he’ll have to defend it against the number one contender. Sonoda Eizan. Tachibana Gym.”

He pauses briefly, connecting the pieces. “If that happens, Aramaki moves up to rank one. And once he’s there, we don’t take risks with him until he gets his title shot next year.”

Then he gives a short glance toward Ryoma. “But we can’t leave him inactive either.”

Kurogane is already moving. Without a word, he pulls the laptop closer, fingers tapping across the keyboard with quiet efficiency. The screen lights up with compiled rankings, names, records, data layered neatly.

“I’ve got options,” he says. turning the screen slightly so both of them can see. “WBO Asia-Pacific Super Featherweight. Rank ten to five.”

He scrolls once, then reads two names:

“These two, Nicola Cortez and Pueblo Clayton, both based in the Philippines. If we’re aligning with Alvarez… it makes sense to pick from his backyard.”

Ryoma nods once, then reaches for the phone again. This time, no one stops him.

He dials, and the line connects after a few seconds.

“Mr. Alvarez,” Ryoma says, calm and direct. “Thanks for waiting.”

[I was expecting your call. Have you reached a decision?]

Ryoma leans back slightly in his chair, one hand resting against the armrest.

“I have a proposal,” he says. “I’m willing to lower my purse. One hundred twenty thousand.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end.

[That helps. But it doesn’t solve everything.]

“I’m not finished,” Ryoma continues. “You host the event in Manila.”

[…Alright. Go on.]

“I’ll help cover the undercard,” Ryoma adds. “Two fights. Kenta Moriyama, and another one of my fighters, Tatsuki Aramaki. I’ll take care of their purses. You proceed with Dela Cruz under the adjusted structure. And for the second undercard, you secure a contract with either Nicola Cortez or Pueblo Clayton.”

There’s a longer pause this time. And when Alvarez speaks again, there’s a noticeable shift in his tone.

[You’re… willing to go that far?]

“I am,” Ryoma answers simply. “But I want something in return.”

The line stays quiet for a second, as if Alvarez is recalculating everything from the ground up.

[…Alright. Name your conditions?]

Ryoma doesn’t hesitate. “Fifty percent of ticket sales. One hundred percent of broadcasting rights from Japan. And fifty percent of international broadcasting rights. You can have everything else.”

[…Fifty percent of ticket sales?]

“I’m taking on a significant portion of the risk here,” Ryoma says, his tone steady but firm. “I’m paying for two additional purses. That’s not a small number.”

He leans forward slightly now. “And I believe I can help sell this event. Not just locally. From Japan as well. This isn’t me taking from you. It’s me making sure this works… for both sides.”

The silence stretches longer this time.

Then finally…

[ Alright, we have a deal.]

Ryoma doesn’t react outwardly, but his gaze steadies.

[Before we draft the contracts, I’ll go back to Dela Cruz’s camp. I’ll finalize his side, and I’ll secure an opponent for your other fighter…]

[What was his name again?]

“Tatsuki Aramaki,” Ryoma replies. “Ranked number two in JBC.”

“Right. Tatsuki Aramaki,” Alvarez repeats. “I’ll take care of it.”

A brief silence follows, both sides already moving to the next steps in their heads.

[I’ll contact you once I have confirmation.]

“I’ll be waiting,” Ryoma replies.

The line cuts. And just like that, the room falls quiet again.

***

The call ends, but the energy it leaves behind carries across the sea.

In Manila, inside Golden Fist Boxing Gym, the atmosphere feels tighter than usual.

The gym floor outside is alive with movement; gloves thudding against pads, ropes snapping against canvas, but inside the small office overlooking it, the noise is dulled into a distant rhythm.

The room itself is modest but functional: a wide wooden desk cluttered with paperwork, a whiteboard filled with fight schedules and projected matchups, and a glass window that looks directly onto the ring below.

Alvarez stands near the desk, phone still in hand. Seated across from him is his team manager, Rafael ’Rafa’ Ibanez, already leaning forward, his expression sharp with disbelief.

Beside the window stands Mendoza, the head coach, arms crossed tightly over his chest. And off to the side, near the wall, Dante Villanueva sits by leaning against a locker, one hand idly adjusting the wrap around his wrist, listening to their conversation.

Rafa is the first to break. “…That’s insane,” he says flatly. “Fifty percent of ticket sales? And a whole sales of broadcasting rights from Japan?”

He leans back, shaking his head. “That’s not a partnership. That’s him putting a hand around our throat and asking us to smile while he squeezes.”

Alvarez doesn’t respond yet, still thinking about the implication after that phone call he had with Ryoma, and the motive behind it all.

“And don’t tell me this is goodwill,” Rafa continues, his tone sharpening. “He’s not doing this out of generosity. He’s calculating. Covering two undercard purses, for his own fighters, no less… and in return he takes a massive cut from the most reliable revenue streams?”

He lets out a short, humorless breath. “I don’t trust it.”

Mendoza shifts his weight, then steps in. “I’m with him,” he says, nodding once toward Rafa. “How do you agree to something like that?”

His gaze fixes on Alvarez. “If he came in as a co-promoter, that’s one thing. We split responsibilities, split the work, split the risk properly. But this? He’s not taking on the event. He’s just covering two purses, and positioning himself to take a big share if this thing succeeds.”

His jaw tightens. “And if it does succeed, you think he stops there? He’ll come back asking for more next time.”

Silence settles for a second. And then, Dante Villanueva pushes himself off the wall, raises, and steps forward slightly.

“You’re both looking at it too narrowly,” Dante Villanueva says, rolling his shoulders once as he speaks. “We’ve got a couple of venues that make this proposal look a lot more promising.”

He leans forward, eyes bright with calculation. “There’s Smart Araneta Coliseum, that’s around 15.000 seats. Then the SM Mall of Asia Arena, also about 15.000 but with more modern facilities. For something a bit smaller and reliable, PhilSports Arena holds about 10.000. Even Cuneta Astrodome could work for a mid‑card crowd if needed. With half capacity sold, and all local broadcast rights on top of that…”

He trails off, letting the math do the talking.

“Even if we give up fifty percent of ticket sales… we’re still pulling solid numbers.”

Rafa frowns, but doesn’t interrupt. Mendoza’s expression doesn’t soften, but he doesn’t cut in either.

“Of course.” Alvarez finally speaks. “I’m not that careless. I know exactly what he’s doing. The kid has thought this through. He’s building something that benefits him, but he’s also making sure it works for us.”

He looks at Rafa, then at Mendoza. “This isn’t charity. It’s alignment. And he needs us, just as much as we need what he brings. For me, this could be the start of something bigger. A working relationship with a strong promoter. That matters long-term.”

Silence follows again, but it’s different this time, less resistance, more consideration.

Dante exhales lightly, then rolls his shoulders once more, loosening up.

“I told you. The kid’s not as bad as people make him out to be.”

A faint grin tugs at the corner of his mouth He starts toward the door, already shifting back into his rhythm.

“Fighting him…” he adds, “that’s going to be the best experience of my career. And the fans are going to love it.”

He pushes the door open, the sound of the gym rushing back in as he steps out.

“I’m sure of it,” he finishes before closing the door behind him.