VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 485: The Theater of Money

Chapter 485: The Theater of Money

April 3rd, 2017.

By early morning, the lower floors of the Tokyo Dome Hotel are already crowded with cameras, and reporters packed shoulder to shoulder. The purse bid has become a story of its own, and everyone wants a face to attach to it.

An hour later, black sedans and oversized SUVs begin pulling up in sequence, their doors opening to release promoters in tailored suits, flanked by lawyers and assistants.

Some move quickly through the hotel entrance without acknowledging the noise. Others don’t bother looking in the journalists’ direction at all.

“Khun Prasert, are you entering the bid today?”

“Will your promotion push for Bangkok if you secure the rights?”

“Is this event built around Ryoma Takeda?”

Most of the questions go unanswered as the entourage keeps moving.

Only one group slows. Their young lead promoter, Victor Pongchai, steps forward with practiced ease, stopping just long enough for the cameras to find him.

He represents Golden Naga Fight Consortium, a Thai promotion widely known across Southeast Asia for major Muay Thai stadium cards, international kickboxing events, and crossover MMA shows.

Even outside boxing circles, their emblem is instantly recognizable. Even right now, the microphones surge toward him immediately.

“Mr. Daniel, is it true your company is joining the OPBF purse bid today?”

“You’ve never promoted a boxing match before. Why now?”

The man smiles, practiced and unbothered. “We’ve studied Ryoma Takeda’s rise carefully. His popularity has grown beyond Japan. With the current situation surrounding his title defense, the narrative is already there.”

A reporter presses closer. “But boxing isn’t your field.”

“That’s true,” the promoter replies calmly. “But a big event isn’t made by sport alone. It’s made by timing, tension, and attention. This fight has all of it. Frankly, I’m surprised no major Japanese promoters saw the same opportunity.”

The statement ripples through the crowd, scribbled down, recorded, replayed.

And then another vehicle arrives. It’s not a sedan, not an SUV. It’s a minivan, modest and unmistakable, the Aqualis logo stamped cleanly along its side. The contrast is immediate, almost cruel.

Nakahara steps out first, adjusting an old suit that has seen too many gyms and too few boardrooms. Ryoma follows, dressed not for cameras but for training, Aqualis branding stretched across the back of his tracksuit as if he’s stepped out to buy something from a convenience store. Sera exits last, modern and professional, but deliberately plain.

The hesitation ripples through the crowd almost imperceptibly, lenses drifting away from their original targets as murmurs spread and attention begins to realign toward a single arrival that needs no announcement.

The Champion is finally here. But, with a tracksuit.

Compared to the vehicles already parked along the curb, Nakahara Gym looks small. They look underfunded, and that is exactly the point.

They are not here to intimidate anyone. What they need is the opposite: to look ordinary enough, that no one feels the need to push their bid higher than necessary.

The foreign promoter finishes his soundbite with a thin smile, eyes already drifting toward Nakahara’s team as if the outcome has settled itself.

“They have no chance,” he says lightly, almost amused. “You can see it for yourself. This isn’t a serious bid.”

He waits for the laughter, for the microphones to tilt back toward him. Instead, the press surges past, and completely ignores him.

A ripple moves through the crowd, bodies turning, cameras lifting all at once toward Ryoma.

“Takeda-san, are you prepared to let the fight go overseas again?”

“Is this gym actually planning to concede the bid?”

“Are you expecting another Melbourne?”

“Will you defend the belt abroad if you lose the auction?”

The noise stacks, overlapping and urgent. But Ryoma doesn’t answer. Nakahara and Sera don’t either. And they can’t move forward. The entrance clogs with bodies and lenses, a wall of speculation pressing in.

Daniel Pongchai clicks his tongue, irritation flickering across his face.

But then the sound of another engine steals his attention. This time, it’s a long black luxury sedan rolls to a stop at the curb, polished enough to catch the morning light in hard reflections.

He expects it would be from the challenger’s camp, Chao Phraya Elite Boxing Promotion, his main competitor in Thailand.

But when the door opens, a Japanese man steps out. It’s Kaito Morishima, moving with purpose, circling to the other side to open the back door himself.

Then Hirotaka Fujimoto steps onto the pavement. And the reaction is immediate.

Daniel Pongchai may not recognize him. But local journalists freeze for half a beat, recognition snapping into place. They pivot as one, abandoning Ryoma mid-question.

“Fujimoto-san!”

“President Fujimoto, are you here for the purse bid too?”

“Is Aqualis entering the auction directly?”

“Does this mean full backing for Nakahara Gym?”

Ryoma stares, caught off guard. He never expected this. He thought Kaito would represent the company, quietly, professionally. But now, Fujimoto’s here too, his presence alone has changed the temperature of the street.

More doors open as another car arrives, followed closely by another behind it. Men in dark suits step out and move into position, forming a controlled barrier as Fujimoto begins walking toward the entrance.

The shouted questions strike the wall of bodies and slide away under trained indifference.

Only now does the foreign promoter’s team hesitate, finally recognizing the reaction unfolding around Fujimoto.

“Who is that old man?”

“Is he important?”

Fujimoto steps toward Ryoma, and the bodyguards adjust immediately, spreading into a loose circle that creates space without drawing attention to itself.

Ryoma straightens and offers a shallow bow. “Fujimoto-san.”

Fujimoto looks him over once. “A tracksuit,” he says, unimpressed. “You chose today to dress like you’re going to the convenience store.”

Ryoma’s mouth curves slightly. “I’m still carrying the Aqualis brand,” he replies evenly. “And I’m staying humble for a reason.”

His eyes flick briefly toward the line of black suits and bodyguards. “You came in like this. What if you intimidate our enemies, and scare them into raising their bids?”

“Didn’t I tell you,” Fujimoto says, voice low and flat, “that winning alone is not enough.”

Before Ryoma can answer, another luxury car pulls up, followed closely by a smaller city vehicle. The attention of the press shifts again as doors open in sequence.

From the luxury car, Coach Kiet Anurak steps out first, composed and sharp, followed by Thanid Kouthai. From the city car behind them, Lawson emerges alongside a lawyer, both men already scanning the crowd with professional distance.

The journalists surge, repositioning themselves as cameras pivot and microphones change direction. The brief opening allows Ryoma’s group room to move.

But Ryoma does not take it immediately. His gaze settles on Thanid Kouthai, taking in the tanned skin, the strong jaw set with discipline, and the sharp eyes that do not wander or flinch.

Thanid meets the look without expression, neither welcoming nor challenging, as if acknowledging something inevitable rather than imminent.

The tension holds for a moment longer than comfort allows.

“Kid, let’s move,” Nakahara says quietly.

Ryoma breaks eye contact, turns, and steps forward at last, following Fujimoto and Kaito toward the lobby.

Anurak notices them as he starts walking. Lawson also sees it at the same time.

They don’t need a second look to recognize the pattern. The spacing, the posture, the men in black suits, they are not staff or assistants. They are security.

Kiet and Lawson’s eyes meet briefly, and in that shared glance the verdict is already settled. It’s nothing but a bluff, carefully staged and poorly disguised.

Anurak tilts his head slightly, lips pressing into a line that almost becomes a smile. Lawson lets out a quiet breath through his nose. They move forward together, ignoring the reporters calling their names.

“What the hell is that supposed to be?” Anurak scoffs.

“Intimidation,” Lawson answers. “Or the performance of it.”

Anurak huffs once, amused. “From a small gym like them? Give me a break. If they think suits and spacing change numbers on a bid sheet, they’re desperate.”

Lawson lets out a short chuckle. “Let them play their part. It won’t matter in the room.”

They continue toward the entrance, their laughter fading into the noise behind them, already dismissing what they have decided is nothing more than theater.