VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Kirizume’s smirk fades into something more controlled, less openly amused and more carefully measured, as the memory of that 2015 meeting settles back into place.

He does not deny what Ryoma has become; it is visible enough that pretending otherwise would be pointless. What bothers him is the ease with which Ryoma now speaks from that position, and the manners in it.

“So a mere year of success in this business,” Kirizume says at last, his tone dry but edged, “and you think you can already humiliate me? Even going so far as to tell me how I should manage my champion?”

Those words pull a memory back into Ryoma’s mind, the day he asked Nakahara to do exactly that, suggesting Kirizume push his champion, Leonardo Serrano, toward relinquishing the belt.

It had come from genuine intent at the time, but he lets it pass now with a small shrug, brushing it aside as he refocuses on the unresolved tension between them from the past.

“I’m not here to humiliate you, Kirizume-san,” Ryoma says calmly. “Don’t misunderstand. I still respect you. What you said that night was the first real challenge I took in my career. As someone from the next generation, I felt I had to answer that challenge properly. That’s all.”

Kirizume exhales through his nose, faint amusement returning, but without warmth. “Yes, I suppose I did sound like I was challenging you back then. Let me correct you on one thing, though. This business is not about how quickly you reach a position. It’s about how long you can stay in it. Compared to what I’ve done for this country, you haven’t proven anything yet.”

The words settle between them for a moment, more absorbed than resisted. Ryoma can’t deny the truth in Kirizume’s last statement, and that is part of why he still respects him.

Not only for what Kirizume has done for Japanese boxing, but also for everything he has done for Coach Nakahara over the decades.

Fujimoto, seated beside Ryoma, has been listening quietly. At first it was simple interest, the kind that comes from hearing two strong personalities collide at close range.

Now it is something else. The exchange clearly carries history, not just disagreement, and he recognizes the shape of it even if he does not yet know its full outline.

During the pause, Fujimoto leans slightly toward Ryoma.

“So, Kirizume,” he asks, voice polite and curious, “you really tried to acquire Ryoma from Nakahara’s gym back in 2015? That means you already saw his potential that early?”

Kirizume blinks once, briefly thrown off not by the question itself, but by how directly it reframes something he would rather keep contained in a setting like this, especially in front of someone like Fujimoto.

For someone in his position as a promoter, image is not a secondary concern but the foundation of everything he negotiates; trust, partnerships, sponsorships, even future leverage in the industry. A single implication, if left unshaped, can quietly shift how people like Fujimoto perceive his judgment and reliability.

Kirizume’s eyes shift between Ryoma and Fujimoto, then back toward the ring, as he weighs how much of the past is worth exposing without weakening the version of himself he is expected to present here.

“I did,” he says carefully. “I saw something in him. I’ve worked with Nakahara for a long time, so I understood the situation. I thought it would be better for him to develop under a more structured management system. Of course, it was all done with Nakahara’s understanding.”

“Ah, is that so?” Ryoma cuts in immediately, still looking toward the ring, his tone carrying a faint, almost exaggerated bafflement rather than agreement. “That’s not really how it went, I believe. I actually told Nakahara about it afterward, and he was surprised. More than that, he looked like he was worried I might actually leave.

He continues without pause, voice steady but clearly correcting the framing. “Not that he really try to hold me back. He just asked me for a year. If I still wanted to leave after that, he wouldn’t stop me.”

Then he shakes his head. “Truth is, Kirizume-san, you are not the only one who tried to buy out my contract from Nakahara. Logan Rhodes tried the same back in 2016. But he actually came to our gym back then, doing it like a real gentlemen.”

Kirizume feels a mix of irritation, recalibration, and quiet damage to pride, all happening at once, but none of it he can openly show in a setting like this.

On the surface, Ryoma’s words are calm and even respectful. But that’s what makes it worse, because Kirizume is not being insulted directly. He’s being contextually outclassed.

First, the irritation, not at the mention of Logan Rhodes, but at the implication that Ryoma treats these negotiations like a recurring pattern, quietly demoting Kirizume’s attempt into something less special.

Second, professional recalibration. Kirizume is forced to mentally update Ryoma’s market position. This is no longer just “a talented boxer I once scouted,” but someone international promoters have already actively pursued and failed to secure.

Third, and most important, pride friction. Kirizume doesn’t like the implied comparison: Logan Rhodes did it properly, as a gentleman.

That line lands indirectly as a contrast, an indirect insult to his approach, or at least not the one what would gain anyone’s respect.

And the worst of it all is that Kirizume can’t say anything back now. He knows he’s already been stripped naked, and retaliation would only make him an even more humiliating spectacle.

And after that, neither of them speaks for a while. They both turn their attention back toward the ring, as if the exchange between them has already been filed away and replaced by the ongoing fight in front of them.

On the surface, it looks natural, two men watching boxing, two professionals following the action. But the tension does not actually leave.

It simply stops moving. It stays there, compressed into silence, sitting between them like something neither of them is interested in acknowledging anymore.

Then, after a moment, Fujimoto clears his throat softly and leans slightly toward Ryoma, shifting the conversation away from the ring entirely.

“Son… actually, I’ve been meaning to talk with you about your contract.”

Ryoma responds immediately, a small smile forming as he gives a light nod, as if he had been expecting it. “Ah, that’s right. The contract should’ve ended last month, shouldn’t it?”

“I was informed how busy you’ve been lately,” Fujimoto continues. “Kaito has been keeping me updated since December about arranging a contract extension, but I thought the timing was never quite right.”

“And I’m afraid you’ve lost interest in me, old man,” Ryoma replies lightly, teasing rather than serious.

“No, no…” Fujimoto says, waving his hand once in quiet dismissal. “We would like to discuss it properly. This time, I hope you will consider a long-term contract. When will you have time?”

“I can just come to your office tomorrow,” Ryoma says without much hesitation.

Fujimoto nods once, calm and satisfied. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Just like that, the matter is settled. Ryoma’s position as Aqualis’ main ambassador is confirmed in what feels less like negotiation and more like a casual family exchange.

Meanwhile, Kirizume maintains his expression toward the ring, but he’s been following the exchange. And he clearly doesn’t like how it went.

Fujimoto is someone he has been trying to reach for sponsorship discussions for just one-time event. And it always involves long meetings, carefully prepared proposals, all filtered through layers of scheduling and hesitation.

And yet here, in the middle of a fight night, it is resolved in a few lines of conversation. That contrast sits heavily in his mind, though he does not allow it to show on his face.