VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma is only a few steps from the entrance when his pace suddenly slows. At almost the same moment, Sergei Volkov is trying to work his way forward.

”Ryoma, wait.”

His voice is calm but quickly swallowed by the overlapping questions from dozens of reporters.

Sergei raises one hand, briefly resting it against the shoulder of a security guard as he leans forward, trying to make himself heard.

”Ryoma.”

For a second, he assumes the young man never heard him. Instead, Ryoma turns to him, with one hand lifted toward Hayakawa.

”Hayakawa... wait a moment.”

Hayakawa glances toward Sergei before giving a brief nod to one of his security officers. The guard immediately steps aside, allowing Sergei through.

Sergei approaches without hesitation and instinctively extends his hand.

”It’s good to see…”

Before he can finish, Ryoma bows politely.

”Nice to see you again, Mr. Volkov.”

Sergei freezes with his hand still hanging awkwardly in the air. After the briefest hesitation, he gives an equally polite bow in return, but Ryoma actually straightens and extends his own hand.

Sergei blinks, and Ryoma blinks. For a second, neither of them moves. Then they both let out an awkward laugh before finally shaking hands.

”How’s Elliot?” Ryoma asks.

”Forget Elliot for a moment,” Sergei replies, lowering his voice. ”There’s something I’d like to discuss with you before the purse bid begins.”

Ryoma’s expression grows more attentive. ”You’re here for the purse bid?”

Sergei shakes his head. ”No. Elliot’s title fight is only weeks away. I have enough on my plate already.”

Then his eyes drift briefly toward the entrance, where promoters continue disappearing into the building one after another.

”If you don’t mind... I’d like to go in with your group and observe what’s happening inside.”

Ryoma studies him for a moment before nodding without hesitation.

”Of course.”

He glances toward Hayakawa.

”He’ll be with us.”

Hayakawa’s eyes move to Sergei for only a moment before giving a short nod.

”Understood.”

Ryoma gestures toward the entrance.

”Let’s go, Mr. Volkov.”

Walking side by side, they rejoin the security formation as Hayakawa quietly signals his men to move again, the corridor through the crowd slowly opening once more toward the entrance of WBO headquarters.

***

The group makes its way through the lobby toward the conference floor. The noise from outside gradually fades, replaced by the quieter atmosphere inside WBO headquarters.

Ryoma glances toward Sergei. ”I heard you managed to bring Elliot’s fight to London. I thought it would end up in a purse bid.”

Sergei gives a faint nod. ”So did I.”

He slips one hand into his coat pocket as they continue walking.

”Malik Okoye’s camp made the negotiations easier than I expected. Not easy, mind you... but easier. And that’s precisely why I wanted to observe today’s purse bid.”

Ryoma looks at him. ”Why?”

Sergei is silent for a moment before answering. ”I assumed it would be extremely difficult to stage Elliot’s title fight in London. I believed certain people would want Celeb Mercer to have the best possible chance of reclaiming the WBC belt.”

Ryoma doesn’t need long to understand where the conversation is heading. ”…And you think Dominic Bowman would’ve tried to sabotage that?”

Sergei glances at him. ”You’re beginning to understand how they operate.”

Ryoma shrugs. ”With no disrespect to Malik Okoye, he isn’t the kind of contender everyone afraid of.”

Sergei nods. ”For years they’ve surrounded Mercer with opponents who posed little long-term threat to his position. But Elliot was different. They never wanted to create an opening for him because they saw too much risk.”

”If I were Bowman,” Ryoma says, ”I’d rather let Okoye win the title. Mercer would have a much easier time taking the belt from him than from Elliot.”

”Exactly,” Sergei says, his voice remains calm. ”Which is why I found it strange. Okoye’s camp accepted our proposal. No purse bid. No political games. That’s when I began wondering if their attention had shifted somewhere else.”

Ryoma lets out a skeptical smile. ”You think they’d take their eyes off the WBC title just to stop me?”

”It’s only a suspicion,” Sergei answers honestly.

He looks toward the conference room at the end of the corridor.

”That’s why I’m here. To find out whether I was right.”

***

At the moment, the conference room is already more than half full.

At the front stands a raised platform prepared for the WBO officials, with a long table and several microphones arranged neatly beneath the organization’s crest.

Facing it are rows of rectangular tables, each reserved for the participating camps. Most are already occupied by promoters, managers, legal advisers, and financial representatives quietly reviewing documents or exchanging last-minute conversations before the proceedings begin.

Kurogane and Sera step through the doorway first. But they take only a few paces before they turn behind, realizing Ryoma has stopped behind them.

Ryoma is still standing at the entrance. His eyes sweep across the room, taking in one table after another.

Cabello is already seated near the far side of the conference room with Jorge Rivera and the rest of his management team. A short distance away sits Dominic Bowman, surrounded by several associates, quietly talking among themselves.

Further to the right, Jackson Rhodes is lounging comfortably in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest. He notices Ryoma almost immediately and responds with nothing more than an easy smile and a casual lift of his hand.

Ryoma barely acknowledges any of them. Instead, his gaze settles on another table; most of the men seated there are unmistakably Russian.

Among them sits one face he recognizes immediately.

”...That man.”

”What is it?” Sergei asks.

Ryoma gestures subtly with his chin. ”The Frenchman. He was the one who kidnapped me back in Tokyo.”

Sergei follows his line of sight, and his expression hardens.

”That’s Jordan Girardot.”

His gaze then shifts toward the man seated beside the Frenchman.

”And the one with the white hair in the center... that’s Dmitri Erzhanov.”

Ryoma studies him in silence. Erzhanov appears to be in his early sixties, with neatly combed silver hair and the composed bearing of someone long accustomed to authority.

He isn’t particularly imposing in stature, yet the quiet confidence with which the people around him defer to him makes his position unmistakable.

Ryoma had heard Sergei speak of Erzhanov during his visit to the gym before, but this is the first time he has seen the man in person.

Around the Russian table, the conversation continues as though nothing unusual has happened. Several seconds pass before one of the men at the Russian table casually looks up from the conversation.

His eyes meet Ryoma’s for a brief moment, then he turns slightly to his right, leaning toward Erzhanov to say something in a low voice. As he shifts in his seat, the left side of his face comes into view; a narrow scar runs through the cheekbone.

Ryoma’s entire body stiffens at the sight.

”That’s…”

For an instant, the conference room around him seems to fade into the background as a memory he has never been able to forget surges back with unsettling clarity.

He remembers the sharp crack of gunfire and the unbearable pain that erupted through his chest. More than anything else, he remembers the two unfamiliar men who had taken his life.

Their faces had always been blurred in his memory, leaving behind only scattered fragments that returned to him through the same recurring nightmare.

But one detail had always remained unmistakable.

”That scar...”

Ryoma stares at the man without blinking, scarcely able to believe what he is seeing.

After all this time, one of the two men who shot him in his previous life is sitting quietly inside the conference room, less than twenty meters away, as though they had never crossed paths before.