VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The television cameras pivot almost in unison toward the back-left corner of the conference room. From that angle, the winning table naturally dominates the frame. Yet because of where Ronin Fight Management is seated, the broadcast captures far more than Ryoma alone.

In the same sweeping shot sit Dominic Bowman, Carlos Mendes, Alistair Vaughan, Jackson Rhodes, and the Russian delegation scattered across the neighboring tables.

Bowman leans toward Mendes, the irritation on his face impossible to hide. ”How the hell did he know?”

”How the hell would I know?” Mendes replies curtly.

Across from them, Vaughan keeps his eyes fixed on Ryoma’s table, his jaw set tighter than before.

The three men then exchange brief glances, each seemingly searching the others for an explanation none of them possesses.

Jackson Rhodes, however, remains sprawled comfortably in his chair, looking toward Vaughan with an amused grin.

”Damn, Al. You went all the way up there... and still lost. Hell, if you’d just added another two dollars, you’d be the one shaking hands with everyone right now.”

Vaughan doesn’t even bother looking at him. He refuses to give Jackson so much as a glance, but the frustration on his face is impossible to hide.

After several seconds, he exhales through his nose and mutters, almost to himself, ”Something like this doesn’t happen. Not unless someone among us leaked our number to the other side.”

The remark immediately draws Bowman’s and Mendes’s attention. Both men turn toward Vaughan before their eyes settle almost simultaneously on Jackson.

Without exchanging another word, the three of them arrive at the same suspicion. And of course, Jackson notices it immediately and lets out an amused chuckle.

”Well... would you look at that.” He shakes his head with a grin. ”Ramirez goes to prison, and suddenly this little alliance starts falling apart. Everybody’s looking for someone to blame.”

Then he gestures lazily toward Erzhanov’s table with his chin. ”What? You think I tipped Erzhanov off about your number too?”

Nobody gives him the courtesy of an answer. And Jackson simply shrugs, his smile never fading.

”Or maybe we just got unlucky. Our competitor happened to arrive at exactly the same valuation...”

Then he tilts his head toward Ryoma’s table. ”...and the kid decided to spend one extra dollar just to make sure.”

Their conversation comes to an abrupt end as Miguel Cabello and Jorge Rivera pass in front of their tables, followed closely by the rest of their delegation on the way toward the exit.

Instinctively, Bowman, Mendes, and Vaughan fall silent, waiting until the champion has almost drawn level with them.

Jackson, however, never seems to recognize moments that call for restraint.

He flashes Cabello an easy smile. ”Well... congratulations.”

Cabello slows his pace just enough to glance at him. ”For what?”

”For making over ten million dollars before the opening bell.”

The remark draws a ripple of amused reactions from several nearby promoters who have already pushed back their chairs and are preparing to leave.

A few exchange knowing smiles, while others pause in the aisle just long enough to see how Cabello will respond.

Jackson then tips his head toward Ryoma’s table. ”Not a bad day’s work, if you ask me.”

Cabello snorts softly. ”I still have to earn it.”

”True,” Jackson says with an approving nod. ”Just hope it isn’t the last championship purse you collect.”

Cabello holds Jackson’s gaze for a moment before moving on without another word. Beside him, Jorge Rivera offers Jackson a small, courteous nod of simple professional respect. Jackson returns it just as casually, as though the exchange had been nothing more than friendly banter between acquaintances.

The moment Cabello and his delegation step into the corridor, the waiting media descend on them almost immediately. Microphones rise from every direction, television cameras begin rolling, and questions come one after another before anyone has time to clear a path.

”Champion! Your guaranteed purse now exceeds ten million dollars. Is this the biggest payday of your career?”

”Does today’s result put more pressure on you, knowing the promoter invested a record amount to stage this fight?”

”Some people are already calling you the biggest winner of today’s purse bid. Do you agree with that?”

Cabello slows his stride but never stops walking. ”The biggest winner?” He lets out a faint chuckle before shaking his head. ”People will regret saying that once they realize what today’s result actually means.”

His eyes remain fixed ahead as he continues giving his statement. ”They seem to think someone just bought a title fight.”

Then he pauses just long enough for the cameras to catch his expression. ”What they actually bought... is the opportunity to try taking this belt from me. And I have no intention of giving it up, no matter how much money they spent to earn the chance.”

***

With Cabello’s delegation gone, the conference room gradually settles into a different atmosphere. Except Jackson, however, no one seems particularly eager to follow him into the corridor just yet.

Bowman remains seated with Mendes and Vaughan, none of them making any attempt to gather their papers. The frustration of the purse bid is still fresh, and the three men appear content to let Cabello absorb the attention from the waiting media while they quietly collect themselves.

Across the room, Dmitri Erzhanov’s table presents a striking contrast. The Russian promoter appears entirely unbothered by the outcome. While members of his delegation quietly organize documents, his manager, legal counsel, and business advisers continue discussing the auction in measured Russian.

Elsewhere, however, the mood has already begun to shift. Several promoters who have no stake in the rivalries quietly make their way toward Ryoma’s table.

Some come out of genuine curiosity. Others recognize an opportunity to introduce themselves to the newest promoter to make a memorable entrance onto the world stage.

One middle-aged promoter reaches him first, extending a hand with an easy smile.

”Congratulations. Quite an entrance.”

Ryoma rises to return the handshake. ”Thank you.”

”I’ve attended more purse bids than I care to remember,” the man continues with a chuckle. ”But I’ve never seen one decided quite like that.”

”I’ll take that as a compliment.”

”You should.”

The man laughs before giving Ryoma a friendly pat on the shoulder.

”I hope today’s success is only the beginning. Boxing always benefits from having new people willing to think differently.”

As he steps away, another promoter immediately takes his place.

”I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Henry James.”

”Ryoma Takeda.”

Henry smiles warmly. ”I’ll be honest. When I heard a new Japanese management company was entering today’s purse bid, I assumed you were here simply to learn how these things worked.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of Ryoma’s mouth. ”I suspect I wasn’t the only one who gave that impression.”

”Not even close,” Henry admits with a quiet laugh. ”Though I doubt anyone in this room will make that mistake again.”

Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, he produces a business card and places it on the table.

”If Ronin ever needs a partner in Europe, give me a call. I have a feeling this won’t be the last time our paths cross.”

One by one, others follow. Some offer nothing more than congratulations and a handshake. Others linger a little longer, asking about Ronin Fight Management’s future plans, speaking warmly of possible cooperation, or casually mentioning that their doors are always open should Ryoma ever look beyond Japan.

Whether the smiles are genuine or simply good business manners is difficult to tell. In boxing, the difference is often smaller than people like to admit.

***

Before the last of the three promoters can excuse themselves, a small group of reporters slip into the conference room, notebooks and microphones already in hand.

The sight of Ryoma still seated is enough to pull them straight toward his table. The three promoters exchange amused glances but make no move to leave, while Ryoma simply stays in his chair.

”Mr. Takeda, congratulations on securing the promotional rights.”

”Thank you.”

”Did you expect today’s purse bid to reach fifteen million dollars?”

”I prepared for the possibility.”

More questions quickly follow. And Ryoma answers each one calmly, never rushing, never revealing more than necessary. Until then, one reporter raises the question that has clearly been lingering in everyone’s mind.

”Mr. Takeda... everyone understands bidding one dollar above another offer is perfectly legal. What they don’t understand is how you knew where to stop.”

Another immediately follows. ”Some people are already suggesting you must have received information from the opposing side.”

The surrounding conversations fade almost at once. Even the three promoters beside the table look back toward Ryoma with renewed curiosity.

Ryoma remains silent for several seconds before finally nodding.

”That’s true. I did receive information.”

The reporters lean forward almost in unison. Ryoma’s expression, however, remains completely serious.

”It came from someone who traveled here from the future. He wanted to make sure my career unfolded the way it was supposed to.”

Silence hangs over the table for a heartbeat. Then laughter erupts from every direction. Several reporters lower their microphones, grinning as they shake their heads.

One photographer can’t help muttering, ”That’s one way to dodge a question.”

”No,” Ryoma says evenly. ”I mean it.”

That only makes the room burst into laughter again.

Even the three promoters standing beside the table shake their heads, smiling, while several reporters lower their microphones for a moment, convinced Ryoma has decided to have a little fun at their expense.

One of them chuckles before trying again. ”All right, Mr. Takeda. Since you’ve apparently spoken to someone from the future... can you at least give us a prediction for your fight with Cabello?”

Ryoma considers the question for a brief moment.

”I can’t.”

”Why not?”

”Because it might alter the world’s causality.”

Another round of laughter sweeps through the conference room.

”But I can tell you one thing,” Ryoma adds. ”It’ll be the most exciting fight of the year.”

The answer earns another wave of smiles, though this time the laughter is noticeably softer. Whether Ryoma is joking or somehow being completely sincere has become impossible to tell.

But none of them realizes they have just heard the first of many truths about the future that the world will mistake for jokes.