VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 556: Stirring Perceptions

Chapter 556: Stirring Perceptions

August 23rd — Morning Weigh-In (Undercards)

The undercard weigh-in is held in a functional hotel conference room, bright with flat fluorescent light and stripped of spectacle. There are no sponsor backdrops here, no roaring crowd, just the business of making weight.

Okabe steps forward when his name is called. He removes his tracksuit calmly and climbs onto the scale without hesitation. The number settles cleanly on the limit. He gets no problem because this is his natural division. His body carries no trace of strain.

Across the room, Wakabayashi watches with a crooked smile. Slightly taller, longer through the limbs, he looks tighter around the midsection from a visible cut. When his turn comes, he exhales slowly before stepping onto the scale.

The digits flicker for a second before locking in at the contracted weight. He looks dry, lips pale, eyes sharper than usual. But the smirk never leaves.

During the face-off, Wakabayashi tilts his head forward just enough to invade space.

“Two years isn’t much, old man,” he says quietly, a faint curl at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t expect respect just because you were here first. In the ring, age doesn’t matter. Only who’s stronger.”

Okabe holds the stare, unmoving. “We’ll see.”

Officials separate them before it turns physical, but the air between them is already hot.

Aramaki and Rikiya follow with less friction. And both fighters make weight without issue.

Rikiya stands composed, disciplined as ever, yet his trainer, Araki Okada, does not bother hiding his disdainful glance toward Nakahara.

It lingers longer than necessary, a silent accusation about respect and hierarchy rather than this specific bout.

Next, Kenta Moriyama and Arman Sargsyan close the session. Their physiques are nearly mirror-like; compact and dense, ideally built for welterweight.

The scale confirms both without delay. Kenta studies Arman during the staredown, already feeling the pressure. Arman, however, seems distracted, gaze drifting toward Sugiarto near the exit.

Sugiarto leans toward Bima, speaking under his breath while keeping a polite smile fixed on his face.

“We leave as soon as this is done,” he whispers. “Don’t let the media pin us down here. If they start asking questions, it’ll be trouble.”

Bima nods subtly, scanning the room where two reporters are already repositioning themselves closer to the scale.

When Arman steps down, Sugiarto is already gesturing toward the door, ushering him along before any microphone can reach his chest.

And the reporters immediately hunt them for clarification.

“Arman Sargsyan… please a moment.”

“Mr. Sugiarto! Please, why did your camp arrive so late?”

“Was the stay shortened?”

Sugiarto deflects with vague gestures and keeps walking.

But the word finally reaches Nakahara’s ears.

“Late?” the old man murmurs.

He then turns to Sera, brows tightening. “Didn’t they request funding for three weeks of accommodation?”

Sera hesitates, confusion flashing across his face. “That’s what the paperwork said.”

Before they can process it further, a cluster of reporters pivots toward Nakahara.

“Nakahara-san. Please… did you only provide five days?”

“Are you responsible for their short stay?”

Nakahara’s expression hardens, not defensive but irritated. Not fully understanding the situation, he decides to avoid the question.

“Their manager handled their logistics,” he replies evenly. “My responsibility is my fighters and delivering this event. If you have questions about their arrival, ask their manager.”

He steps away before another question lands, leaving the tension suspended in the sterile room.

***

Late Morning

JBC Title Weigh-In: Ryohei Yamada vs Hamakawa Shoji

Unlike the earlier session, this one is held on a small raised platform inside a larger ballroom, complete with a modest sponsor backdrop and a row of chairs set for a short press conference.

Since this is a title fight, the crowd is thicker here, and cameras are closer.

Ryohei steps onto the scale first, and he makes the limit cleanly without theatrics. He steps down with the quiet composure of a man who knows this belt is still new on his waist.

Next, Hamakawa follows. The former long-reigning champion’s physique carries the density of experience rather than youth. The scale settles on the contracted weight without delay.

During the face-off, there is no trash talk, only a long steady stare.

Ryohei is defending the belt for the first time, determined to prove the title was not an accident.

Hamakawa stands with the calm of someone who once owned it for years and intends to take it back.

When they take their seats for the press conference, the questions come quickly.

“Yamada-san,” a reporter begins, “many fans still say your path to the title was fortunate. Do you feel you are a champion by timing rather than superiority?”

The room stills. But Ryohei’s expression doesn’t change.

“I won the Class-A tournament to earn my shot,” he says evenly. “Then I beat the man who held the belt. Timing doesn’t throw punches.”

Another microphone turns toward Hamakawa. “You held this title for years. Some believe this is simply a correction… that the belt is returning to its rightful owner.”

Hamakawa allows a faint smile. “Belts don’t remember history. Fighters do. I respect Yamada. But respect doesn’t mean hesitation.”

A third voice pushes further. “Is this about redemption? Or is this about proving that the division has moved on from your era?”

Hamakawa’s eyes sharpen. “We’ll see whose era this is.”

The tension tightens subtly, restrained beneath measured words and controlled expressions.

But then, from the back of the room, a question cuts sideways. “Nakahara-san, before this event continues, can you clarify the situation regarding Arman Sargsyan’s late arrival and alleged accommodation limitation?”

The temperature in the room changes. Pens stop moving, and cameras adjust their angles. What was moments ago a contained sporting rivalry now tilts toward something political.

At the edge of the stage, Narisawa leans back slightly in his chair. A faint, knowing smile touches his lips. This is pressure he didn’t have to create, yet clearly enjoys watching unfold.

Across from him, Nakahara’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before he reaches for the microphone.

“I don’t even understand the issue you’re referring to,” he replies calmly. “This press conference is for Yamada versus Hamakawa. I have no obligation to address matters concerning another camp’s internal arrangements.”

He pauses, letting the words settle. “If you have questions about Arman Sargsyan’s arrival, please direct them to his manager.”

Then he gestures lightly toward the fighters. “Today is about this title.”

Another journalist quickly rises, attempting to press further, but before the question can fully form, a JBC official steps in firmly, reminding the room that the session is strictly for the JBC title bout.

Eventually, microphones are lowered, and the moderator announces the conference concluded, cutting off any further detours.

As the session wraps and the fighters step down from the platform, Nakahara moves instinctively to Ryohei’s side, guiding him toward the exit with the rest of the team close behind.

It is then, just before descending the small staircase, that his eyes meet Narisawa’s. And the smile is still there. It’s not broad, not vulgar, but disturbingly satisfied.

A polite bow follows from across the room, measured and perfectly courteous. Yet something about the timing unsettles Nakahara. It feels less like sportsmanship and more like observation, like a man enjoying the early stages of someone else’s discomfort.

Outside the ballroom, Nakahara exhales quietly. “I don’t understand this,” he says under his breath. “Three weeks’ accommodation was approved. Funds were transferred.”

Hiroshi, walking just behind him, speaks carefully. “There’s been talk for two days now. Online articles. They’re saying Arman only arrived five days before the fight. There’s speculation that we limited their stay to give Kenta and edge.”

Nakahara stops mid-stride. “Five days?” His brow furrows. “That makes no sense.”

For a brief moment, he turns back toward the ballroom doors. Narisawa is still inside, speaking casually with a reporter.

As if sensing the gaze, Narisawa looks up and offers another distant bow. And the disturbing satisfied smile remains.

It leaves Nakahara with an unwelcome thought, like a shadow forming at the edge of something deliberate.

And yet, he cannot justify it. Whatever is happening with Arman’s camp should have nothing to do with Narisawa.

***

Later, in a quiet lounge inside a business hotel not far from Yoyogi, Narisawa sits across from Kiet Anurak.

Thanid Kouthai sits near the window, arms folded, listening. Beside him is Preecha Lawson, the team manager, composed and attentive.

“The situation with Arman is unfortunate,” Narisawa says lightly. “But perception is powerful. Especially before a main event.”

Kiet’s eyes narrow slightly. “You believe there is weakness?”

“I believe,” Narisawa replies, “that questions about ethical preparation are difficult to ignore, particularly if they come from a respected foreign camp.”

Preecha exchanges a glance with Thanid, beginning to understand the reason behind the short-notice meeting.

Narisawa continues, voice smooth. “If you raise concern during this afternoon press conference, not as accusation, but as principle… Nakahara cannot dismiss it so easily. Journalists may be avoided. But a fellow promoter? He can’t simply dodge this.”

Kiet’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly. The corners of his mouth curl, not into a smile, but into something thinner, more calculating.

“So that’s how it is,” he says, tone measured but edged with quiet satisfaction. “It seems that half-million purse bid still hasn’t stopped creating trouble for him.”

His eyes flick briefly toward Thanid, then back to Narisawa.

“Fine,” Kiet continues calmly. “I’ll bring the issue to the media later.”