VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Umemoto stares at him. Ishimaru stares at him. Even Kurogane turns toward him with an expression that suggests the negotiations have just taken a remarkably stupid turn.

Truth be told, the sound had come from nothing but a pop-up advertisement that had appeared on Ryoma’s smartphone while he was browsing the news. It was an advertisement for a mobile game, and whoever had designed it had apparently decided that the best way to attract players was to have a woman make breathy, suggestive noises over the promotional footage.

Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been nothing more than an obnoxious advertisement. Coming from the world champion’s phone in the middle of a tense negotiation, however, it had landed with almost supernatural precision.

The problem is that Ryoma had caused a stir with a controversial statement to the media in which he had described himself as a sex addict.

So when that particular sound had suddenly come from Ryoma’s phone, nobody in the room had been given much reason to interpret it generously.

Umemoto slowly leans back against the sofa, a faint smile spreading across his face. ”So this is what the leader of Ronin does when he’s under pressure?” he says. ”Forces his endorphins into production by watching porn? What a pathetic pervert.”

Ryoma, however, gives no reaction at all. His face remains completely flat as he continues looking at his smartphone as though nothing unusual has happened, as though the last few seconds have not just turned his office into one of the strangest negotiation rooms in Japan.

Kurogane can only stare at him with a deadpan gaze, a faintly disappointed expression settling across his face as if he has just witnessed his employer make an exceptionally poor decision in front of guests.

”Is this how you run a business here, Kurogane?” Ishimaru suddenly asks. ”You let me into your boss’s office, and we’ve been sitting in front of you this entire time while your boss is still busy staring at his phone, watching God knows what?”

Kurogane turns back to Umemoto, giving him a relaxed smile. ”Don’t worry about it. Whatever you came here to discuss, you can discuss it with me.”

Ishimaru’s face tightens, as if Kurogane has just announced that World War III has broken out and Tokyo is expected to handle the evacuation before lunch.

”With you?” he asks.

”Of course.” Kurogane settles comfortably into the sofa, looking completely at ease. ”That’s what they pay me for. Quite well, too. Trainers train, fighters fight, and I deal with the boring little details that come after everyone else has finished throwing punches. So if you came here to discuss business, Ishimaru-san, you’re talking to the right man.”

Kurogane hasn’t changed his tone at all; he sounds as relaxed as a man discussing the weather. To Ishimaru, however, there is something deeply irritating about the way he says it.

”Now…” Kurogane says, his face turning cold, ”why don’t we put an end to this little ceremony and get to the business that brought you here? Put the best offer you’re prepared to place on this table, Ishimaru-san. Let us see whether it is worth anyone’s time.”

Ishimaru gives a bitter scoff and casually undoes the buttons of his suit jacket.

”You’ve certainly learned how to talk big, huh?”

He leans back, slipping comfortably into his old villain persona.

”Since the champion himself issued the challenge, I’ll bring the fight to Osaka. And I won’t play games with the offer. Fixed purse of USD 2.5 million for the champion, thirty percent net gate share, thirty percent international broadcasting revenue, plus a fixed domestic broadcasting bonus of USD 750,000.”

His head sways slightly with each figure, like a drug lord announcing terms nobody could possibly refuse.

For a moment, Kurogane doesn’t say a word. And somehow, his silence seems to make Ishimaru even more pleased with himself.

But then, a short chuckle escapes. And soon, Kurogane’s face twitches, his composure slowly collapsing into something almost absurd.

Then suddenly…

”Brahahahahaa!”

The laughter bursts out of him so freely.

”Are you serious, Ishimaru-san? You presented that offer like a messiah handing out paradise. What you brought me is barely an Easter parcel. Come on. Stop playing around. That offer is ridiculous.”

He tilts his head, the cold smile returning. ”Or did Umemoto’s last fight with Liam O’Connel leave you a little short on cash?”

Ishimaru’s jaw tightens, his smile vanishing. Beside him, Umemoto’s eyes narrow, his expression hardening.

Kamiya, who has remained quiet throughout the exchange, shifts slightly in his seat. The amusement on Kurogane’s face seems to be getting under his skin, particularly because there is no easy way to dismiss it.

The figures he has presented are not insignificant by Japanese boxing standards, and he knows that. He had prepared the offer carefully, believing it was strong enough to make Ronin take the proposal seriously.

Yet Kurogane had laughed at it. Not argued with it. Not negotiated against it. But he had laughed, deliberately making it out loud.

Kamiya clears his throat and adjusts his posture before speaking. ”There is another provision. If Ryoma loses the WBO title to Umemoto, we are prepared to give Ronin priority to host the rematch here in Tokyo. You would have the opportunity to stage the event yourselves, and bring Umemoto to Tokyo under the same financial terms.”

Kurogane actually looks taken aback, but it lasts only a second.

His forehead wrinkles, his eyebrows climb, and his mouth twists to one side as he stares at Kamiya as though the man has just offered him an umbrella in the middle of a typhoon.

”You think that’s an offer?” he asks. ”You think I’m going to consider that? As if there’s even the slightest doubt in my mind that Ryoma won’t be able to beat Umemoto?”

His expression gradually settles, but the disbelief remains. ”Hey, do you even realize where you are right now? This is Ronin Fight Management. You didn’t walk into some tiny gym where everyone is supposed to be grateful because you brought a few million dollars and a rematch clause.”

Kurogane slowly looks at them one by one. His eyes move from Kamiya to Umemoto, then finally settle on Ishimaru.

”This isn’t an offer,” he says, his face turning deadly serious. ”It’s an insult.”

Ishimaru slowly shakes his head, a look of mild disappointment settling across his face.

”Still the same, I see,” he says. ”You’ve managed a world champion. You’ve put on events that draw attention from all over the world. And yet, when it comes to business, you still think like a man who’s spent too long working in a local boxing gym.”

Kurogane raises an eyebrow. ”Oh? It seems His Highness Ishimaru has decided to enlighten me.”

”I’m simply pointing out the obvious,” Ishimaru says. ”A priority rematch clause is hardly an unusual request when you’re dealing with a defending champion. Getting offended by it only shows how little you understand the business.”

Kurogane lets out a quiet laugh. ”Talking big as usual, huh? Then allow me to remind you what the business looks like outside your little pond. When Ryoma defended his title in London, his purse was seven and a half million dollars. We put that number on the table, and the other side accepted it without making us sit through a negotiation.”

Kamiya blinks. Umemoto goes still. Even Ishimaru’s face loses its smugness for a moment, as if someone had changed currencies.

But Ishimaru still has the audacity to give a dismissive scoff. ”Seven and a half million? For a fighter who hasn’t even reached twenty professional fights? That’s hardly a figure anyone should take seriously.”

”Of course it isn’t standard,” Kurogane says. ”And that’s the point. Ryoma Takeda is no longer a fighter you can measure by your standards. You should already know how we brought Miguel Cabello to Tokyo with a fifteen-million-dollar purse bid. That event at Tokyo Dome had also generated more than two hundred million dollars in revenue.”

He pauses just long enough for the number to sink in, a figure so absurdly large that Ishimaru seems to need a moment just to picture what that kind of money even looks like.

”And now you come into this office,” Kurogane adds, ”offer two and a half million dollars, then expect me to be impressed? It seems you came here without taking the time to learn what kind of man you’d be dealing with.”