VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 555: Who Owns the Fighter

Chapter 555: Who Owns the Fighter

The footage of Arman Sargsyan ducking past microphones loops endlessly across Tokyo’s sports channels by morning. No statements, no open workout announcement. There’s only silence, and in boxing, silence breeds invention.

By noon, the speculation fractures into competing headlines. Some claim Arman’s camp agreed to “unusual arrival terms.” Others whisper that Nakahara deliberately limits accommodation to five days to deny proper acclimatization.

August 20th, the morning papers arrive heavier than usual.

“Did Nakahara Limit Sargsyan’s Stay?”

“Five Days in Tokyo: Coincidence or Strategy?”

Television panels dissect currency charts beside fighter profiles. A retired commentator gestures at a digital map of flight routes.

“Professional camps usually arrive ten to fourteen days early,” he says. “Acclimatization matters.”

Another analyst counters, clipped and sharp, “If accommodation was capped at five days, that’s not illegal. But ethically? It’s uncomfortable.”

By evening, opinion hardens into insinuation. And slowly, inevitably, every arrow points in the same direction: Kenji Nakahara, framed as the shady promoter.

And Nakahara remains unaware of all this, too busy and too focused on preparing his fighters’ conditioning to pay attention to the noise outside.

August 21st, by mid-morning, the narrow street outside Nakahara Gym is jammed with camera crews and freelance bloggers angling for position.

Microphones stretch toward the shuttered entrance as if proximity alone might force a statement.

“Coach Nakahara, please! Just five minutes!”

“Is it true you limited Arman’s stay to five days?”

“Do you deny manipulating the schedule?”

The knocking starts polite. But it doesn’t stay that way.

Inside, the sound bleeds faintly through the walls, but the gym keeps its rhythm. Gloves crack against pads. Rope snaps against canvas. Hiroshi counts out intervals, voice steady. Dr. Mizuno stands near the corner post, observing Ryoma’s breathing pattern with clinical focus.

Sera, looking unease by the commotion outside, finally comes to Nakahara in his office.

“Sir… they’re asking you to step outside. They want an interview.”

Nakahara exhales once, irritation finally surfacing. He steps out of his office and walks toward the side window, toward the narrow glass panel tilted open for air.

Immediately, microphones push toward the gap.

“Nakahara-san! Did you intentionally…”

“I have nothing to say,” Nakahara cuts in sharply. “Get away from my gym.”

“Sir, the public deserves clarification about Arman Sar…”

“I said leave.” Nakahara’s voice hardens. “My fighters are training. Move back and let them work.”

Another reporter leans closer to the opening. “Are you aware that critics are calling this unethical pro…”

But the sentence snaps in half as Nakahara slides the window shut with a firm shove. And the outside noise collapses into a muffled, distorted hum. For a moment, only the thud of leather and the rhythm of controlled breathing remain.

***

During the water break, the tension finally leaks into voices. Okabe pulls his towel over his head, wiping sweat from his jaw.

“What’s wrong with them?” he mutters. “For a week this place was peaceful. And now suddenly it’s like we committed a crime.”

Ryohei snorts, stretching his shoulders. “Hear my conspiracy theory,” he says lightly. “They hate seeing us move forward. Three days before fight night, and magically today is the perfect day to ’seek clarity.’”

He leans closer to Okabe, lowering his voice. “Timing’s too clean. They are trying to ruin our preparation.”

Across the room, Ryoma doesn’t react. He sits on the ring apron, sweat dripping steadily onto the canvas.

August heat presses down on him like a second opponent. His cheeks are hollowed from the weight cut, lips slightly dry. But his eyes remain fixed on nothing in particular, steady and distant, conserving energy even in stillness.

Leaning to Okabe, Ryohei tilts his chin toward Ryoma. “Look at the kid. Not even blinking.”

Okabe clicks his tongue, half admiring, half bitter. “If I had that kind of focus, maybe my career would’ve gone somewhere better.”

Near the mirrors, Aramaki moves through light shadowboxing, shoulders rolling as he imagines angles against Rikiya’s precision. His fists slice through air, but his gaze keeps drifting.

When he pauses, he notices Kenta sitting alone on the bench, phone in hand, posture unusually stiff.

Curious, Aramaki decides to approach him. “You look nervous,” he says with a crooked grin. “Not your style.”

Kenta exhales through his nose. “Maybe I am.”

He then turns the phone slightly, gesturing at the video he’s currently watching. Aramaki sits beside him, and sees on the screen Arman advancing behind a tight, compact guard.

It’s a textbook Eastern European fundamentals; heavy jab, sharp cross, and clinical pressure. Arman looks so dominant there, and his opponent folds under systematic punishment.

Kenta and Aramaki don’t tell any jokes now. They are just captivated by the high level of Arman’s boxing and how he moves with suffocating economy.

The jab isn’t flashy, yet it lands with a dull authority that pushes his opponent backward inch by inch.

Aramaki narrows his eyes. “It’s not the Soviet textbook we drill, is it?”

Kenta shakes his head slowly. “No… the base is there. High guard. Straight lines. But look at his rhythm.”

“He doesn’t bounce,” Aramaki murmurs. “We’re taught controlled mobility. But he’s… rooted.”

“Rooted, but not stuck,” Kenta replies. “See how he transfers weight? It’s heavier. Almost like he’s digging into the floor before every punch.”

Another clip rolls. Arman absorbs a hook on the glove, barely giving ground, and then answers with a short right to the body that folds his opponent’s posture.

“He’s comfortable taking space instead of giving it,” Aramaki says. “Our drills emphasize repositioning after impact. He stays and punishes.”

***

Miles away from the noise surrounding Nakahara Gym, the cracks inside Arman’s camp begin to show.

The rented facility sits on the edge of a quiet suburb nearly an hour from central Tokyo. The building smells faintly of mildew, and the ring ropes sag at the corners. The heavy bag in the corner has stitching that looks one good combination away from surrender.

Arman stands in the middle of it, jaw tight. “This is what we came to Japan for?” he asks, turning to Yohannes. “This gym wouldn’t even pass in Jakarta.”

Yohannes rubs the back of his neck, avoiding direct eye contact. “It’s what we could secure on short notice. Tokyo is packed. Summer Sonic, tourists everywhere. Prices are insane right now.”

“And that bastard Sugiarto keeps saying everything’s under control,” Arman mutters, voice thick with contempt. “Under control my ass.”

“At least here we’re away from the media,” Yohannes adds.

“I didn’t come here for peace and quiet,” Arman replies coldly. “I came here to win.”

Frustration boils over. He steps to the heavy bag and unloads; jab, cross, and a left hook to the body. The bag swings violently, seams stretching wider with every impact.

“Arman, easy…” Yohannes warns.

But it’s too late. A final right hand splits the weakened stitching. The result? Sand spills onto the worn canvas floor.

Arman stares at the torn bag, chest heaving, and then turns away without another word.

“I had enough of this…”

He grabs his jacket and walks out into the humid afternoon air, needing distance more than instruction.

Meanwhile, two temporary assistants, Dedi and Wahyu, watch the door close.

“Can’t blame him,” Dedi mutters. “He deserves better than this.”

Wahyu nods. “Where’s that bastard Sugiarto anyway?”

“Heard he went to Tokyo,” Dedi shrugs. “Said he wanted to check the arena.”

Wahyu snorts. “Yeah? Or maybe he just wants to sightsee.”

***

In Yoyogi, Sugiarto does make an appearance at the arena, briefly.

He walks along the lower seating bowl with a self-satisfied smile, accompanied by his old friend Bima, who has nothing to do with boxing but everything to do with indulgence.

“Big stage,” Bima says, looking around.

Sugiarto checks his watch. “But we didn’t come to Japan for this. Let’s go. It’s time to hunt chicks.”

Fifteen minutes later, they are nowhere near the arena. They lounge comfortably in a discreet massage parlor tucked into a quiet side street, far from camera flashes and boxing politics.

Soft music plays beneath warm lighting, the air scented with eucalyptus oil. Sugiarto reclines with visible satisfaction, a cold drink sweating in his hand. He laughs easily at Bima’s jokes, tension nowhere on his face, as if the only fight that matters is the one between indulgence and restraint.

Sugiarto then boasts in a low smug tone. “The kid thinks the purse is four thousand,” he says with a grin. “I even handed him cash myself. Makes it look clean.”

Bima laughs. “Too easy.”

“He doesn’t ask questions.” Sugiarto chuckles amusedly. “Fighters in desperation like him never do. They just want the envelope.”

Later that night, Sugiarto sinks into the mineral water with a satisfied sigh, shoulders finally loose, a small cup of sake resting on the tile beside him.

Across from him, Bima listens with growing admiration as Sugiarto recounts every detail; how he shaved the purse down, how he redirected the accommodation funds, how easily Arman accepted the cash without pressing further.

He tells it like a smart negotiation, a masterclass in leverage, not betrayal. And Bima lets out a low whistle, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You have to invite me more often. If there’s another trip like this, don’t forget me.”

Sugiarto leans back, eyes half-lidded, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Trust me,” he says smoothly. “There’s always another fighter.”

And back at the cheap inn, the air is thick and unmoving. Arman sits on the edge of the futon, using a folded newspaper to fan his damp clothes.

“That damn Sugiarto,” he grunts, sweat sliding down his spine. “He can’t even book a place with proper air conditioning.”

Dedi forces a small smile. “At least it’s still better than back home.”

“Yeah…” Wahyu nods. “Remember that place near the construction site?”

But Arman doesn’t say anything.

The room stays hot, and so does his frustration.