VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Since Renji disappeared from the boxing world, things had never fully stabilized for Kirizume. The momentum that once carried his gym into every major conversation had slowly thinned out.

Serrano had been the obvious answer at first; young, reliable, marketable, a champion who could hold a card together. But even that has never been strong enough to support an entire ecosystem.

Outside of Serrano? There is very little consistent drawing power. Even Kazuya Tojo remains stuck in the same division, top 15 ranker with no real momentum behind him, trapped in the shadow of the champion in his own gym.

The guy himself has already been considering leaving Kirizume’s management recently, increasingly frustrated by remaining in Serrano’s shadow, and by purses that no longer match his expectations.

So if Serrano loses the belt to Aramaki, the problem is not just the absence of another champion, but the loss of what he represents. The gym loses its strongest selling point, because Serrano himself would no longer carry the same weight as a headliner after being broken by another fighter from Nakahara’s gym.

And once that precedent is set, the entire structure of expectation around Kirizume’s promotion begins to shift in a way that no longer guarantees its own dominance in the eyes of sponsors and broadcasters.

Without a champion, the entire promotional weight loses its center. And without that center, even the undercard fighters lose their value. Not because they become weaker, but because the system that gives them visibility stops functioning.

Kirizume’s gaze lowers slightly as the simplicity of the situation becomes uncomfortably clear when viewed from this angle. If things turn worse, he could end up like what Nakahara used to be, an old man with an aging gym, struggling to survive without any certain future ahead.

Finally, Nakahara notices the shift in Kirizume’s expression. But still, the ego doesn’t disappear from him. It lingers underneath, holding the shape of pride that refuses to fully yield.

“I’ve already been there, Kirizume,” Nakahara says quietly. “Somewhere you haven’t had to face yet. Now, I didn’t come here as someone who has succeeded and moved past it. I came as someone who still feels indebted to you, because you were part of the reason I survived when things were at their lowest.”

He pushes himself up from the chair, the movement slow but final, the conversation reaching its end point rather than its conclusion.

For a moment, he simply stands there, looking at Kirizume without challenge, without submission, only recognition. Then he turns slightly toward the exit.

“Just don’t fall into the same pit of ruin,” he says, before walking away. “Vacate the belt, and let people remember Serrano as former Japanese Champion who’s challenging for the world.”

Kirizume remains seated after Nakahara leaves, eyes fixed on the old man’s back.

He now acknowledges the intent behind the words; careful, cautious, almost protective in a way that doesn’t quite belong in their usual language of business and pride. But that understanding doesn’t soften his stance.

To him, Serrano leaving the belt now would not read as foresight, but retreat, an unfinished proof of dominance cut short before Aramaki can be faced.

And no matter how rational the concern sounds, he believes Serrano will still be able to defend his title against Aramaki and come out on top, just as he has done so far.

***

The next morning, Kirizume arrives at the gym office earlier than usual. The corridor is still half-lit, the building not yet fully awake when he steps inside with a presence that immediately changes the tone of the space.

One of the senior managers is already there, reviewing schedules at the desk, surprised to see him walk in so early.

“Kirizume-san… good morning,” the manager says, straightening up. “You’re here early.”

Kirizume doesn’t slow down. He places his coat over the chair without fully sitting, already moving toward the desk as if the decision had been made long before he entered the room.

“Prepare a letter to the JBC commissioner,” he says flatly.

The manager blinks. “A letter?”

Kirizume nods once. “We are offering Tatsuki Aramaki a title fight against Serrano.”

For a brief second, the room goes quiet. The manager hesitates, scanning Kirizume’s expression as if searching for context that should naturally accompany such a decision.

“But… sir, the mandatory defense window hasn’t even reached its due date yet. We still have time. We could schedule a voluntary defense first, something less risky. Build Serrano up again gradually before…”

“No,” Kirizume says simply.

The single word cuts through whatever careful reasoning the manager is trying to build.

He finally stops at the edge of the desk, not to argue, just to end the conversation. He turns slightly, already halfway into the corridor again.

“Send it today.”

The manager takes a small step forward, uncertain. “May I ask why suddenly? We can control the timing. There are safer matchups available. A voluntary defense would protect Serrano’s record, stabilize the promotional cycle, and…”

Kirizume finally looks back. His expression is calm, but firm in a way that leaves no room for further negotiation.

“I am not interested in protecting him from Aramaki,” he says. “I am interested in proving that he can beat him.”

He continues walking toward his personal office as if the matter is already settled. Behind him, the manager follows while exchanging a brief look with another staff member, both of them still trying to process the abrupt shift in direction.

Then Kirizume pauses at the doorway to his office.

“Also,” he adds. “Call a few major local media outlets. I want this made public.”

The manager hesitates. “Media…?”

Kirizume finally steps into his office and reaches for the chair behind his desk.

“Yes,” he says, lowering himself into it. “I want Aramaki’s camp to hear it directly.”

The manager swallows. “But sir… if we announce it like this, it will be seen as a direct challenge. There’s no going back once the narrative is set.”

Kirizume opens a drawer, pulls out a document, and places it neatly on the desk without looking up.

“That’s fine,” he says. “There is no reason to go back. Send both the letter to the commission and the press call-out today.”

***

The next morning, the announcement already spreads across newspapers and morning television broadcasts.

In Nakahara’s new office, the flat screen TV plays the live sports segment clearly as Sera and Kurogane move through the space, though their pace subtly slows once the headline appears on screen.

A formal studio anchor sits under neutral lighting, a lower-third banner identifying the breaking news.

[Breaking news from Japanese boxing: Kirizume Promotions has officially requested approval from the Japan Boxing Commission for a voluntary title defense between reigning JBC Super Featherweight Champion Leonardo Serrano and top-ranked contender Tatsuki Aramaki.]

The footage cuts to the press conference. Kirizume stands at the small podium, composed, expression steady.

Beside him, Leonardo Serrano stands in silence, the JBC championship belt resting over his shoulder. His face remains calm, eyes fixed forward, absorbing the cameras without reaction.

“We are not waiting for circumstances to dictate the future of this division,” Kirizume says. “We are formally requesting approval for a voluntary title defense: Leonardo Serrano vs Tatsuki Aramaki. This is the most direct way to determine the true strength of this division.”

Flashes erupt from the press line as reporters lean forward. One of the lead interviewers raises his voice clearly into the room.

“Kirizume-san, has Aramaki’s camp even been approached yet before making such an announcement? Is this a coordinated matchup, or a unilateral call-out?”

Kirizume allows a faint pause, just long enough for the question to land in full.

Then he answers, clearly. “Approached? No. This is not something we are negotiating behind closed doors. This is a direct call.”

His gaze lifts slightly toward the press line. “Aramaki’s camp now has the same information as everyone in this room. If they believe their fighter is ready, then they know exactly what is being asked of them.”

The studio anchor returns, resuming the broadcast with a measured, professional tone.

[Attention now turns to Tatsuki Aramaki’s camp, who are expected to respond following Kirizume Promotions’ formal request. If approved by the commission and accepted by both parties, the bout could take place within the next four months, significantly ahead of Serrano’s mandatory defense window.]

On screen, promotional graphics appear, Serrano’s dominant streak contrasted with Aramaki’s rise after defeating a former champion, framed as a collision already set in motion.

Kurogane exhales through his nose, eyes still on the screen. “That’s unusual… Kirizume doesn’t move like this unless something’s already been decided internally.”

Then he glances sideways toward Sera. “We’re not that far from him. He could’ve just come here in person, right?”

Sera tilts his head slightly, still watching the TV. “Well… Nakahara-san did visit the man himself last night.”

His gaze shifts, now landing on Nakahara. “Sir, what exactly did you talk about with him yesterday?”

At that moment, Nakahara notices Ryoma standing at the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, already watching the broadcast as well.

Nakahara meets Ryoma’s gaze for a brief moment. No words are needed between them, just recognition of what this has already become.

Meanwhile, Kurogane quickly turns to the office computer, opening the browser and checking the email inbox. His eyes pause for a second as a new notification appears.

“…There’s a letter from the JBC,” he says.

The room shifts subtly at the confirmation. What had been news on a screen a moment ago now takes a formal irreversible shape on paper.

Nakahara then turns slightly toward Kurogane. “Send them our answer,” he says before walking out of the office. “I’m going to tell Aramaki about his next title fight.”