VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 604: The Machinary of Boxing

Chapter 604: The Machinary of Boxing

The post-fight press conference takes place in the media hall behind the arena. A modest stage has been arranged with a long table beneath a backdrop filled with sponsor logos and event banners.

Rows of reporters fill the seats in front, cameras already raised and microphones extended toward the stage.

The fighters from Nakahara Gym sit together behind the table. At the center are the two senior figures of the group.

Coach Nakahara sits slightly to the left of center. Beside him sits President Hirotaka Fujimoto, composed in his dark suit.

Flanking them on both sides are the gym’s two champions.

On Nakahara’s side sits Ryohei, the JBC Super Lightweight Champion, his title belt placed neatly on the table before him.

On Fujimoto’s side sits Ryoma, the OPBF champion, his own belt resting beside the microphone.

With the two champions flanking the center like that, the lineup presents an imposing image. Several cameras quickly adjust their angles to capture the moment.

“That’s a strong frame,” one journalist murmurs to a colleague. “Two belts, sponsor in the middle… they planned this well.”

The rest of the fighters, Kenta, Okabe, and Aramaki, extend outward along the table, forming a single united row.

Behind them, the coaching staff occupies a second row of stools: Sera, Hiroshi, Coach Murakami too, and team manager Kurogane.

Low conversations ripple through the room as reporters exchange early impressions of the fights, until the moderator finally taps the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending tonight’s post-fight press conference. Before we begin with questions from the media, the organizing committee would like to invite President Hirotaka Fujimoto to share a few words.”

A faint ripple moves through the reporters. Everyone knows what this moment usually means. It’s a sponsor speech, brand promotion, campaign messaging.

Fujimoto picks the microphone, and adjusts it slightly. For a brief moment, his gaze moves across the room; over the reporters, the cameras, and the fighters seated beside him.

“Thank you,” he begins. “As the title sponsor of tonight’s event, Aqualis Labs is of course honored to be part of such an extraordinary evening of boxing.”

A few reporters begin preparing their notes, expecting the usual corporate remarks. But Fujimoto’s tone shifts.

“However,” he continues, “I would prefer not to speak about our company tonight.”

The room grows slightly quieter. Fujimoto then gestures lightly toward the fighters seated beside him.

“I would like to speak about them. These athletes dedicate years of their lives to a path that demands discipline, sacrifice, and courage. They place their bodies, and often their futures, on the line every time they step into the ring.”

His voice remains calm, but steady. “Yet too often in professional sports, athletes are treated simply as assets. Valuable only as long as they produce results.”

He shakes his head slightly. “That is not a philosophy I can accept.”

A murmur passes through the reporters, some pausing their notes as they struggle to remember a sponsor speaking like this after a fight.

“At Aqualis Labs, we believe something very simple.” Fujimoto continues. “Athletes are human beings first. Their health matters. Their dignity matters. Their future matters.”

He glances briefly toward Ryoma, then toward Ryohei and the other fighters along the table.

“And the responsibility to protect those things does not belong only to trainers and referees. It belongs to everyone who benefits from the sport.”

The room has become completely silent, everyone aware that boxing’s business rarely lives up to ideals of fairness and protection.

“Fairness and sportsmanship are not just rules written in a book,” Fujimoto continues. “They are the foundation that allows this entire industry to exist.”

He nods once. “When the sport is fair, the athletes can compete with honor. The fans can believe in what they are watching. And companies like ours can benefit from it in a healthy way.”

He finishes simply. “So tonight, while many people may remember the excitement, the drama, or the victories… I hope we also remember something else.”

His voice softens slightly. “That sport must always remain human.”

For a moment, the room remains silent. Then camera shutters erupt across the hall. As Fujimoto sets the microphone down, the reporters offer a brief, respectful applause.

Then the moderator returns to the podium. “Thank you, President Fujimoto. We will now open the floor for questions.”

Hands immediately rise among the reporters. Despite the respectful atmosphere created by Fujimoto’s speech, there are always journalists who thrive on controversy, the ones who see calm moments as opportunities to stir the waters.

One of them speaks the moment he is recognized. “Nakahara-san, I’d like to ask about the situation involving Arman Sargsyan earlier tonight.”

The name alone causes several reporters to glance up from their notes.

“As everyone saw, he left the ring immediately after the bell. Some people believe this may have been related to problems with his preparation. There are reports that his team only secured accommodation for five days before the fight. Can you comment on that?”

A few cameras shift toward Nakahara, and the old man exhales quietly. He had expected this question. The issue had already spread far enough that ignoring it would only make matters worse.

“As a small gym,” Nakahara begins, “we often challenge opponents while standing in the underdog position. Because of that, we must secure our contracts carefully. To bring international fighters here, we frequently agree to fixed payments, often higher than what is normally offered.”

Nakahara reaches down beside his chair and places a document on the table. Immediately, a subtle murmur spreads through the reporters.

Several reporters begin scribbling quickly. Nakahara then lifts the document slightly so the front row can see it.

“This is the contract agreement regarding Arman Sarsgyan,” he says, gesturing on the paper. “According to the terms requested by his management, we agreed to pay a fixed total of thirty thousand US dollars. Ten for the fighter’s purse, twenty for their accommodation and stay in Japan, which their management told us would last three weeks.”

A few reporters blink. Then the murmurs become louder. But Nakahara’s voice remains steady.

“However, before leaving tonight, Arman himself spoke to me briefly in the corridor.” He pauses for a moment before continuing. “And according to him, his management told him his purse would only be four thousand dollars. And that their accommodation budget only covered five days.”

A ripple of disbelief passes through the room. For a second, the press room seems frozen.

Then the reaction erupts. Camera shutters explode across the hall. Reporters lean toward one another, whispering rapidly while others raise their hands at once.

At the table, the fighters remain silent, watching the reaction unfold. Then Nakahara raises a hand slightly, continuing before the room can spiral completely out of control.

“From the beginning,” he says, “our priority has always been the fighters. We place ourselves under tremendous pressure to make sure they are treated fairly, even when it costs our gym more than we can comfortably afford.”

He glances briefly toward the reporters. “Honestly… I would rather see my fighter lose in a fair match than watch someone walk away with money after damaging an event we have invested everything into.”

The room quiets again, though the tension remains thick. Then another reporter raises his hand and is quickly recognized.

“Nakahara-san, if what you’re saying is accurate, what actions will you take regarding this situation?”

Nakahara folds his hands together on the table. “We are currently considering our options. But the first step will be to report the matter formally to the commission.”

For a moment, the reporters remain quiet, absorbing the implication behind his words. Then a subtle movement begins near the front row.

One of the OPBF representatives rises from his seat. And the shift does not go unnoticed. Several journalists turn their heads immediately, and the line of cameras pivots as the official walks toward the stage with measured steps.

Reaching the edge of the stage, the official gives a polite nod to Nakahara before gesturing toward the document resting in front of him.

“May I examine the contract?” he asks in English.

Nakahara turns to Fujimoto first, and Fujimoto leans, helping him with the translation. After that, without hesitation, Nakahara slides the paper across the table.

“Of course,” he says.

The representative picks it up and studies it carefully. His eyes move across the printed figures and signatures while the entire press room watches in attentive silence.

Reporters lean forward in their seats, some raising their cameras to capture the moment while others pause their writing to follow the official’s reaction.

A few glance toward their phones, already composing messages to their editors. They had come prepared to pressure Nakahara for controversy, only to discover a far larger story waiting in front of them.

The quiet concentration in the room grows heavier as seconds pass. It has clearly grown far beyond the unusual exit of a single fighter.

Somewhere behind it lies deception, greed, and the quiet machinery that breaks fighters long before the ring ever can.