VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma’s jaw tightens as he stares at the check on the table. Then he lets out a short scoff.

“…One million dollars?”

Jackson leans back comfortably on the sofa, one arm spread along the backrest as if he already owns the room. “That’s right.”

Ryoma doesn’t even look at Nakahara before answering. “Forget it. Kenta’s not going anywhere with you.”

Reika’s eyes shift slightly toward Nakahara, watching for his reaction. The old man stays quiet for the moment, his gaze still resting on the check.

Jackson only smiles faintly. “You sure you should reject an offer that quickly?”

“I said forget it,” Ryoma replies, sharper this time. “Take your check and leave.”

Nakahara finally speaks. “Kid… you can’t decide something like this selfishly.”

Ryoma’s eyes twitch toward him at once. The irritation already sitting under his skin reacts immediately to that word.

“Selfishly?” he repeats. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means this isn’t only about what you want,” Nakahara says calmly. “This is Kenta’s career.”

But Ryoma barely lets him finish. “Then why are we even sitting here talking to bastards like this?”

His glare cuts straight toward Jackson. “We both know what he did in Manila.”

Jackson raises both hands lazily, almost amused by the accusation. “Hey, hey… what exactly are you trying to accuse me of? I watched your fight in Manila. That’s all I did. Nothing more.”

“Shut up,” Ryoma snaps instantly.

The room sharpens for a moment. Even the lawyer beside Jackson stops moving. Ryoma turns back toward Nakahara, frustration beginning to spill through his voice now.

“This guy doesn’t care about Kenta’s career. You know that. People like him only care about money and business. That’s all this is to them.”

Nakahara looks at him quietly for a few seconds before he speaks, “And what makes us different from them?”

Ryoma falls silent, not long, just enough for the confusion to appear in his face before irritation returns again.

Nakahara continues before he can interrupt. “This isn’t something we decide selfishly without involving Kenta. This is his future.”

The old man’s tone remains calm, but firm enough that even Ryoma stops trying to cut him off.

“If Kenta truly wants to leave,” Nakahara adds, “then we shouldn’t be the ones trapping him here.”

Ryoma stares at him in disbelief. “What’s wrong with you, old man? Did that one million dollars blind you or something?”

Nakahara’s eyes narrow slightly for the first time. “I don’t care about that money. I signed Kenta long before you ever came to this gym. And if someone wants to buy out a fighter’s contract, then paying the release fee is normal.”

He gestures lightly toward the check without even looking at it. “But whether the money exists or not means nothing to me if Kenta truly wants to go.”

Ryoma’s expression hardens, but Nakahara keeps speaking.

“I’m not the only owner of this gym anymore either,” he adds. “You have authority here too. If this deal happens, I don’t mind giving you every dollar of that money.”

That only makes Ryoma look more uncomfortable. Because now the argument is no longer about greed.

“And still,” Nakahara says, “my opinion remains the same. We shouldn’t bind fighters here against their will.”

Silence settles across the office after that. Ryoma can’t answer immediately this time, because the old man has dragged the conversation back toward the exact philosophy they’ve been trying to build all this time.

An idea about building an environment, a gym where fighters aren’t treated like property, a place different from the people they despise. And that is exactly why this situation becomes unbearable.

Ryoma knows what kind of man Jackson Rhodes is. He knows Kenta could end up exploited, overworked, turned into another investment to squeeze dry.

But if he forces Kenta to stay for his own reasons, then the line separating him from those same people starts becoming harder to see.

The frustration stays written all over his face as he finally exhales and walks toward the empty sofa across from Jackson. Then he sits down.

“Fine,” Ryoma says at last, his word directed toward Nakahara, but his eyes never leave Jackson Rhodes. “I’ll hear Kenta’s answer first. So call him.”

Jackson’s smile widens slowly, satisfaction creeping across his face like a man watching a locked door finally begin to open after hours of patient knocking.

***

Meanwhile, across the city, Kenta stands inside his father’s fruit shop, quietly moving apples from a wooden crate onto the display rack beside the entrance.

The work is simple enough that his hands can keep moving even while his thoughts drift somewhere else entirely.

His father never asks him to help. In fact, after hearing Nakahara’s warning about the condition of Kenta’s body after Manila, the old man has been careful not to let him handle anything heavy.

So Kenta only does small things now; arranging fruits, replacing empty trays, carrying light boxes from one shelf to another.

It’s mindless repetition, the kind of work that leaves too much space for thinking. And right now, all he can think about is that conversation from two nights ago.

Jackson Rhodes sitting across from him, leaning back comfortably in his chair while speaking like a man offering salvation instead of a contract.

“You’re twenty-seven. That’s exactly why you can’t waste more time floating around small domestic fights hoping somebody notices you.”

“You’re talented. Strong body. Good fundamentals. Tough mentally too. But talent means nothing without a machine behind it.”

Jackson’s fingers had tapped lightly against the table while speaking.

“NSN can become that machine.”

At the time, the words sounded convincing enough that Kenta couldn’t stop listening.

“You know what the problem with Japanese boxing is? Most fighters spend half their career broke while promoters keep promising them ‘future opportunities.’ By the time the opportunity finally comes, their bodies are already damaged.”

Kenta remembers the faint smile on Jackson’s face after that.

“I don’t like uncertainty. So let’s remove it.”

Then the offer began:

A signing bonus worth US$ 200.000, paid immediately after the contract was finalized.

Guaranteed minimum purses for every fight, never dropping below US$ 75.000.

At least three fights every year as long as he remained medically cleared to compete.

Victory bonuses.

Performance bonuses.

And then the bigger temptation.

“We’ll move you to America properly,” Jackson had said. “Apartment. Car. Full setup. You won’t waste time struggling to survive while trying to train.”

At first glance, it had sounded generous. But then came the structure underneath it; the apartment would be counted as company-assisted housing, and the car too. Both treated as long-term loans to be repaid gradually through purse deductions over five years.

Jackson never hid that part. In fact, he explained it casually, almost proudly, like this was simply how serious business worked.

“It’s security. Stability. We invest in fighters we believe in.”

And somehow, the most dangerous part of the offer came afterward, delivered in the smoothest tone of all.

“I can get you a world title fight within two years.”

Even now, standing in the fruit shop, Kenta still feels the weight of those words. A world title fight, not someday, not maybe, but within two years.

“And if you win that title, your contract automatically extends five more years. Every successful title defense adds another year after that.”

At the time, it sounded almost reassuring, like they were promising to keep building his career for as long as he remained successful.

But after hearing Nakahara’s warning last night, the structure suddenly looks different in Kenta’s head. It’s no longer look like an insurance of his career path. It looks like total control of his future.

As long as he keeps winning, the contract keeps extending. As long as he stays profitable, they keep ownership of him. And as long as his body continues producing money, he remains tied to them.

Kenta slowly adjusts a row of oranges, staring blankly at the display without really seeing it. Despite the temptation, his mind can’t stop questioning now.

What happens if his body starts breaking before the debt is cleared?

What happens if the injuries pile up while all those investments still need repayment?

The answer feels obvious now. They would keep pushing him to fight. Not because they care about his future, but because they need returns on their investment. That’s what Nakahara tried to tell him.

On the surface, everything sounds like security, a stable career, financial safety, a guaranteed future. But underneath it, the structure is designed to keep him productive for them as long as possible.

And yet, even understanding all of that doesn’t make the offer lose its appeal. That is the part Kenta hates most. Because the deal still feels tempting.