VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 557: The Money Between Us

Chapter 557: The Money Between Us

August 23rd — Early Afternoon

OPBF Title Weigh-In

The weigh-in takes place in a different ballroom from the earlier sessions, larger and arranged with far greater ceremony. This space is clearly reserved for the main event.

A wide elevated stage commands the front of the hall, framed by sponsor backdrops and sharp white lighting. Logos are arranged in deliberate hierarchy, but one name dominates both size and placement: Aqualis Labs.

Above the stage hangs the official event banner, the bout title printed in bold metallic lettering. Beneath it, in smaller but unmistakable type:

Clash of Iron: OPBF Championship — Sponsored by Aqualis Labs

It is not subtle, and it does not need to be.

Smaller corporate insignias flank the central branding in neat symmetry, reinforcing who stands at the financial center of this event.

Representatives in tailored suits occupy the front row. Camera crews line the aisle. Unlike the undercard session, this is spectacle.

As Nakahara steps through the side entrance with Ryoma and the team, he immediately notices Hirotaka Fujimoto already standing near the edge of the stage. Shizue is beside him, reviewing something on a tablet, while Kaito scans the room with quiet vigilance.

Nakahara inclines his head politely as he approaches. “Fujimoto-san.”

Fujimoto returns the greeting, but his smile is restrained. “Nakahara-san. A word.”

It is subtle, but deliberate. Nakahara gives a nod, and they then step slightly aside, just far enough from the cameras.

Fujimoto lowers his voice this time. “I’ve been following the rumor circulating in the last few days,” he says carefully. “About the OPBF’s number-two welterweight contender arriving late.”

He does not mention Arman’s name. But it’s enough, and Nakahara doesn’t really need the detail.

“There’s speculation,” Fujimoto continues, “that this was a deliberate strategy. That you restricted accommodation to weaken the opponent.”

Nakahara’s expression tightens. “That is not true.”

“I want to believe you,” Fujimoto replies. His tone remains calm. “But you must control this narrative before it damages our image.”

Nakahara exhales slowly. “I only became aware of the specifics this morning. And I can’t recklessly disclose contractual clauses to silence speculation. I have to be cautious with what I say.”

Fujimoto studies him for a moment, before giving a solemn nod. “I understand discretion. But I worry about what happens if this grows without direction. Silence creates its own version of truth.”

Before Nakahara can respond further, stage staff signal that the weigh-in is about to begin. Eventually, the moment dissolves into protocol, and Fujimoto returns quietly to his seat.

Ryoma and Thanid Kouthai ascend the platform from opposite sides, meeting beneath the hard wash of stage lights.

At first glance, they appear almost symmetrical, both standing 174 centimeters tall, both carved down precisely to meet the limit.

But the resemblance fades on closer look. Thanid’s frame carries a darker tone and a thicker density through the chest and forearms, his muscles compact and tightly coiled. There is something unvarnished about him, a quiet ferocity in the way he sets his shoulders and plants his feet, as though his balance begins from the bone outward.

After the scale confirms his weight, Thanid steps down deliberately instead of returning to his corner. He positions himself directly in front of Ryoma, closing the distance with quiet intention. The movement draws attention even before the cameras fully adjust.

He lifts his chin slightly, and then strikes his own chest with a firm, resonant tap. His voice, when he speaks, is low but unmistakably deliberate.

“Let’s see whose bones break first.”

Ryoma says nothing, yet his eyes sharpen. He understands the message, and the target.

<< You know what he’s really saying, don’t you? >>

<< Let me make it plain for you. >>

<< You’re fragile. You can throw everything you have at me. In the end, you’ll be the one who breaks first. >>

Ryoma doesn’t need the system’s voice to interpret the message. Still, the irritating clarity of its tone is enough to make his brow twitch ever so slightly.

Those who followed his title run remember the violence it demanded, and the price it exacted. In claiming the belt, he fractured his own punching hand.

However, none of that history appears on the scale, only the digital numbers settling at the contracted limit: 61.2 kilograms.

“Ryoma Takeda, clear!”

For a fraction of a second, relief passes through him, not visible to the audience, but real. The cut has been exact, the final obstacle cleared without complication.

Whatever awaits tomorrow night, at least his body has answered this first demand.

***

Once the weigh-in concludes, Ryoma and Thanid take their seats at opposite ends of the long table, with OPBF officials and the moderator positioned between them.

Nakahara sits with measured posture, hands folded, while across from him Kiet Anurak leans back in composed stillness, observing the room as if measuring its temperature.

After the moderator opens the floor, a journalist raises her hand and speaks in English.

“Mr. Anurak, earlier this year your camp pushed for a June 25th mandatory defense despite OPBF granting Takeda-san an extension due to injury. Some critics suggested it was an attempt to force the champion to fight before fully regaining condition. How do you respond?”

“We followed OPBF regulations at every step,” Kiet replies evenly. “A champion has responsibilities. We asked for clarity in scheduling. Nothing more. We respect injuries, but title defenses cannot be delayed indefinitely.”

Another reporter directs a question toward Ryoma. “Takeda-san, did you feel pressured at that time?”

Ryoma answers without hesitation. “My focus was recovery. I entered the ring only when I was ready.”

Kiet inclines his head politely, then continues, “It is important for both sides given equal opportunity to prepare. However, there has been discussion within the boxing press recently regarding a ranked welterweight contender arriving in Japan only five days before his bout. I believe you should address the same issue to our host here.”

The implication settles over the table. Several journalists glance toward Nakahara.

“Nakahara-san, would you like to respond?”

Nakahara turns slightly toward Sera as he quickly translates the question into Japanese. He listens intently, his brow tightening as the meaning becomes clear, and begins answering in a low voice.

After that, Sera lifts the microphone, prepared to interpret Nakahara’s words back into English. But Ryoma reaches for his own microphone and draws it closer.

“Most of you already know that I am also a co-promoter of this event,” Ryoma says, his English steady and controlled. “And I am tired of speculation being framed as accusation, especially when it targets my trainer.”

The room grows attentive in a different way now, less expectant and more evaluative.

“Ragarding Arman Sargsyan’s issue,” Ryoma continues, “accommodation funding was provided for three weeks as agreed. If they chose to arrive late despite full logistical support being available, that decision belongs to that camp.”

Kiet remains outwardly composed, though the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth betrays that this is not the response he anticipated.

Ryoma continues without raising his voice. “Our principle has always been the same. Fighters compete at their best. Every opponent we secure does so under fixed terms, no speculation, no gambling on conditions, no hidden plots. If you have concerns about another camp’s travel decisions, I respectfully suggest you address them directly to that camp’s management.”

A subtle shift passes through the journalists seated in front. The earlier narrative, once leaning heavily toward suspicion, now feels less stable.

Nakahara says nothing further. He simply watches his fighter speak, and when Ryoma finally sets the microphone down, there is the slightest nod of approval in his expression.

Near the sponsor section, Fujimoto’s posture eases, the explanation having restored a measure of control to the event’s image.

Across the table, Kiet adjusts his cufflinks with deliberate calm, though the advantage he had sought no longer rests so comfortably in his hands.

The press conference proceeds, but the current has changed direction, and everyone in the room can feel it.

***

That evening, clips from the press conference spread faster than the weigh-in results. Sports portals run speculative headlines, and television news programs replay a particular segment of Ryoma’s statement.

“The full three-week accommodation funding was transferred in accordance with the contract.”

Arman sits on the edge of his narrow bed, phone in hand, and rewinds the clip. He listens again, jaw tightening.

The wording does not change. Three weeks. Not five days.

Arman lowers the phone slowly and looks at Yohannes, who stands near the small desk, pretending to scroll through his own screen.

“Hey… they said three weeks,” Arman says, his voice controlled but heavy. “Full funding. According to the contract.”

Yohannes looks up, already prepared to dismiss it as media exaggeration, but the certainty in Arman’s tone makes him pause.

“Three weeks?”

Arman turns the phone toward him. Yohannes reads it carefully, his expression shifting from confusion to something tighter.

“That’s not what we were told,” he says slowly.

“We were told five days,” Arman replies. “Limited budget. That’s what you said.”

“That’s what Sugiarto told me,” Yohannes answers, almost automatically.

He keeps staring at the screen as if another line might appear and correct it.

In his mind, the numbers begin rearranging themselves. He had been told the purse was $6.000. They agreed to report $4.000 to Arman, a lie he has kept to himself until now. Even after that, Arman only received $2.800 after management cut.

About the three full weeks of accommodation funding, it had never been mentioned at all.

And if they are only here for five days, then those missing sixteen days has not gone to logistics, travel, or camp expenses.

Which means Sugiarto keeps the rest of the money to himself.

Arman watches him closely. “Coach, don’t tell me Sugiarto lied about the purse money too. How much did you hear for the purse?”

“Six,” Yohannes replies, distracted.

“What?” Arman snaps. “I was told four!”