VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 381: Stolen Space

Chapter 381: Stolen Space

The locker room is already full, but the pressure keeps building at the door. Staff in black jackets brace themselves inside the frame, trying to keep the doorway from collapsing inward as more bodies push.

“Please, everyone,” Nakahara says, raising his voice just enough to carry. “Ryoma is still undergoing a medical check. We appreciate your understanding.”

Someone near the front scoffs. “Medical? Come on. He walked out on his own.”

Another voice follows, louder. “We know he came out unhurt.”

But a reporter somewhere behind them laughs sharply. “Unhurt? Careful saying that. If Ramos hears it, he might take it as an insult.”

A ripple of low amusement moves through the room.

Ryoma shakes his head. “I didn’t come out unhurt,” he says. “Why don’t you ask him?” He tilts his chin toward the doctor.

The doctor finishes his check, peels off his gloves, and answers before anyone can push a microphone closer.

“Mild facial bruising,” he says. “Some swelling. Small laceration inside the mouth. No concussion, no fractures, no internal issues.”

He glances at Ryoma once, then back to the room. “He took damage. Just not the kind that would keep him in hospital for a night.”

“See?” someone says from the crowd. “He’s good enough for a quick interview.”

A few voices murmur in agreement.

Ryoma shrugs lightly, testing his jaw once. “Sure,” he says.

That’s the opening they’ve been waiting for. The room surges, microphones push forward, cameras rise higher, questions stack on top of each other.

Nakahara exhales, then lifts a hand. “Alright,” he says. “One at a time.”

The pressure eases just enough for more people to slip inside.

Aemi takes that moment. She pulls Kaede with her, shoulders turning sideways as they squeeze through the jammed doorway.

***

The room is packed now. Heat clings to the air. Despite it all, a small circle remains open around Ryoma and his team.

Ryoma sits on the bench, forearms resting on his thighs. Hiroshi stands to his left, Nakahara to his right, both subtly positioned as shields. A little farther off, Sera, Aramaki, and Kenta hover near the lockers, watching quietly.

Against the wall stands Logan Rhodes, arms crossed, his daughter beside him, eyes locked on Ryoma.

Kaede notices them and feels something sink. The way Reika stands there, so close, so at ease, makes Kaede painfully aware of herself. Of how small she feels by comparison.

It makes her distance to Ryoma feel wider. And now, her gaze already drifts, instinctively searching for a way out.

But Aemi’s grip tightens around her arm, unconscious, childlike. Her eyes sparkle as she watches Ryoma being interviewed.

***

They said “quick interview”. But with Ryoma, it’s never really that quick

The first questions are easy and polite. And Ryoma answers simply, nodding, choosing words that don’t invite hooks.

For a while, the room settles into that peaceful rhythm, until a voice, a foreigner from the side, flips it completely.

“You were denied repeatedly back home,” the man says in English. “Japanese boxing pushed you out. Called you disrespectful. You went to the OPBF instead. Now you’ve beaten the number-four contender in your first international fight. Does this mean you’ve abandoned Japanese boxing for good?”

Nakahara leans slightly toward Sera, already expecting a brief translation. Ryoma opens his mouth, but Nakahara steps ahead of him, answering in Japanese.

“Let’s be clear,” he says evenly. “The JBC still has Ryoma’s name on the contender list. Nothing has changed there.”

He pauses, eyes flicking to Sera, waiting his words to be interpreted. Once Sera finishes, Nakahara adds further.

“We will send a challenge to the champion, Sinichi Yanagimoto,” he continues. “Whether they accept it, or run away from us again, that’s up to them.”

A restless murmur spreads immediately among the local reporters. They feel the shift at once.

Nakahara has always been measured, careful with his words. This is the first time he’s said it plainly, the accusation of ’running away’ out in the open.

Ryoma glances up at him, just briefly, but a small satisfied smile touches the corner of his mouth.

A beat later, Sera finishes translating. That’s when the foreign reporters react, voices rising, hands lifting, questions overlapping as the weight of the statement finally lands.

One of them raises his hand higher than the rest. “With the way Ryoma won tonight,” he says, “there’s a strong chance he climbs the rankings quickly, possibly into the top five. Will you be challenging the OPBF champion in the near future?”

Nakahara turns to Sera again, waiting. After the translation, he answers without hesitation.

“That has always been our motivation for moving to the OPBF,” he says. “With all due respect to Paulo Ramos and his camp… we do hope tonight’s result encourages people to start taking my fighters seriously.”

His gaze steadies. “And maybe,” he adds, “to stop treating us like a small, marginal stable.”

Pens start moving all at once. Pages are scratched raw with hurried notes. Camera shutters fire in sharp bursts, light popping against the lockers, against Ryoma’s face, against Nakahara’s calm expression.

The room leans in again, sensing there’s more to pull loose. Questions come fast, follow-ups, provocations, invitations to say something reckless.

Ryoma shifts slightly on the bench, ready to answer. But Nakahara always steals the moment.

He doesn’t block Ryoma, doesn’t silence him. He simply places himself half a step ahead, presence firm, answering where Ryoma might have spoken sharper, louder, younger.

From there on, every bold word comes from Nakahara himself. It’s a quiet transfer of weight. If anyone’s going to make promises, issue challenges, or throw accusations into the open, it won’t be the kid anymore.

Nakahara takes the role being the annoying person, even starts acting ’cocky’ too. And with it, he’s going to take the responsibility, not Ryoma.

***

But Nakahara doesn’t take all the credit for himself.

“As for tonight,” he says, measured again, “we can’t ignore NSN’s involvement. Their cooperation made this event possible.”

That shift is enough. A foreign reporter pivots immediately, turning his microphone toward the wall.

“Mr. Rhodes,” he says, “we’ve noticed NSN’s continued cooperation with Nakahara Gym for every event they’ve held recently. Can we take that as you acknowledging Ryoma’s potential?”

Logan Rhodes uncrosses his arms. He steps forward just enough to be seen, posture relaxed, expression polished.

When he speaks, his English is smooth, practiced, the kind meant for boardrooms, not locker rooms.

“I’m grateful we recognized Ryoma’s potential early,” he says. “And I have my daughter to thank for that. She’s been close to the gym, close to him, from the beginning.”

He pauses, and a low murmur creeps through the local reporters, speculation blooming fast and careless. A few glances flick toward Reika, and back to Ryoma.

Logan continues, unfazed. “We’re interested in supporting Ryoma as he pursues his ambitions, not just regionally, but on a global stage. That’s how strongly we believe in him.”

The room stirs. Support from someone like Rhodes; capital, influence, reach, changes the math. Nakahara’s gym feels larger already, heavier with possibility.

A local reporter raises his voice. “Could we get a photo?” he asks. “Ryoma with his team. And Mr. Rhodes as well, as tonight’s main sponsor.”

Logan nods easily and steps in.

Ryoma remains seated on the bench. Nakahara and Hiroshi shift around him. Reika moves too, quiet and effortless. She slides into the space beside Ryoma, easing Hiroshi out as if it’s always been hers.

She stands close. Too close.

As she leans slightly, angled toward Ryoma, a few strands of her hair slip free. They brush against his left shoulder, light, and almost intimately.

At the same time, her hand comes to rest on his opposite shoulder, fingers relaxed, familiar, as if it’s the most natural place in the world for it to be.

Ryoma’s jaw tightens for a fraction of a second. However…

<< Control your expression. >>

The system’s voice cuts in immediately, sharp and warning.

<< I know you don’t like her and her father. But your current emotional displays carry future cost. >>

Ryoma smooths his face before the cameras can catch it. He keeps his posture neutral, smile casual, eyes forward, letting the moment pass.

<< You never know how much help you’ll need later. Including hers. >>

For once, he lets it happen.

He doesn’t shift away. He doesn’t tense his shoulder anymore. He allows her into his space, still and compliant, as the cameras erupt in white bursts around them.

Shutters chatter. Someone calls for another angle. And Reika doesn’t pull back. She actually tilts her head closer, just enough that her cheek brushes his hair, soft and unhurried.

Across the room, Aemi sees it clearly, and her mouth tightens. “That girl again,” she mutters under her breath. “She’s been crossing the line for a while now.”

Kaede doesn’t answer. It isn’t jealousy. It’s the small, hollow certainty that Ryoma has slipped beyond her grasp, already claimed by a world she can’t enter.

Without thinking, she’s already stepping back. Then she takes another step, and then she turns, slipping through the edge of the crowd without a word.

Aemi blinks. “Kaede…?”

She twists, spots her retreating.

“Kaede! Wait…”

She rushes after her, calling again as they disappear through the jammed doorway.

The noise swallows the room. But in that brief opening, between flashes, Ryoma hears it anyway.

Aemi’s voice, familiar and urgent, calling Kaede’s name.

Something fractures. His composure slips, not outwardly, not enough for the cameras, but his eyes sharpen, focus snapping away from the lenses.

His gaze cuts through bodies, scanning instinctively, searching the room.

“Kaede…?”

But it’s too late.

They’re already gone.