VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 617: The Syndicate’s Proposal
Chapter 617: The Syndicate’s Proposal
The system also whistles inside his head, with an exaggerated tone.
<< That’s insane… five million dollars sitting in a briefcase like it’s pocket change. >>
<< What are they doing, just flexing in front of you? >>
<< No… that can’t be right. They’re offering it to you. >>
<< And nobody throws around that kind of money without expecting something big in return. >>
Ryoma’s eyes lift from the money and settle back on the Frenchman. Only then does the Frenchman begin speaking again, his tone now far more direct.
“You seem like someone who doesn’t enjoy unnecessary conversation,” he says. “So I will keep this simple.”
He lightly taps the edge of the briefcase. “In the near future, representatives from Aleksandr Volkov’s camp will approach you to discuss a WBA title fight. Whatever purse they offer you is between you and them. That part does not concern us.”
He leans forward slightly, leaning his elbows on his thighs. “But during that fight… we want you to lose. Round eight.”
He gestures toward the open case. “Five million dollars. You can take it home tonight.”
For a moment, Ryoma says nothing. Then a short chuckle escapes him. After a pause, the chuckle continues, longer this time.
“So you are one of those guardians,” he says. “You’re trying to pay me to keep the king on his throne.”
His eyes rest calmly on the man across the table. “If you’re that afraid of losing, why bother arranging the title fight with me in the first place?”
The Frenchman’s expression tightens slightly. He glances briefly toward one of his men before returning his attention to Ryoma.
“Sorry, but… I’m afraid you misunderstand our position,” he says. “We have nothing to do with Aleksandr Volkov.”
Ryoma tilts his head slightly. “Then what is the point of this money if not to protect him?”
“I don’t care about him,” the Frenchman replies. He gestures lightly with one hand as he continues. “But if that title fight happens, your chances of winning are very high. A lot of people believe the same.”
His eyes narrow slightly as he speaks. “What we want… is for you to dominate the fight. Control the match. Make it convincing. Make it look like the champion is being dismantled.”
He taps the table once. “At least until round eight.”
A faint smile appears again. “But if you can maintain that dominance until round ten without knocking Volkov out, that would be even better. We would consider an additional bonus.”
The smile fades. “But you must lose that fight.”
Ryoma’s eyes narrow. He studies the man carefully now, replaying the words in his mind, trying to trace the logic behind the proposal.
The man is clearly trying to manufacture a shock outcome, something that overturns public expectations at the last possible moment.
And the most obvious explanation forms quickly in Ryoma’s mind; betting manipulation.
As someone who once lived deep in the world of gambling, Ryoma understands this kind of scheme perfectly.
Five million dollars is not a random number. It is bait, large enough to tempt, large enough to silence hesitation.
For many fighters, it would be impossible to refuse. But Ryoma cannot accept it so easily. His pride is far too expensive to be bought.
Losing in front of the world is not something he would ever allow himself to do, despite the five million dollars.
Still, another thought crosses his mind. He is not certain these men will simply let him walk away if he refuses outright.
So instead, he decides to build an excuse. “Honestly,” Ryoma says, glancing once more at the stacks of money, “this is a very attractive offer. Something… very difficult to turn down.”
The Frenchman’s smile begins to return. But Ryoma continues before the man can speak.
“Unfortunately,” he says with a disappointed exhale, “there won’t be any title fight between me and Aleksandr Volkov.”
The words hang in the air for a moment. Confusion spreads across their faces; furrowed brows, exchanged glances, and narrowed eyes questioning Ryoma’s words.
“You came a little too late,” Ryoma adds. “We’ve already signed two fight agreements for the next year.”
The Frenchman does not respond immediately. He watches Ryoma in silence for several seconds, his fingers resting lightly on the edge of the open briefcase.
The earlier confidence in his expression fades just a little, replaced by a thoughtful curiosity, as if he is trying to determine whether Ryoma’s claim is genuine or merely a convenient excuse.
“Two fights already signed,” he repeats slowly.
His gaze drifts briefly toward the men standing around the room before returning to Ryoma.
“Well… boxing schedules are rarely as fixed as people believe.”
He leans back against the sofa and folds one leg over the other, settling into a more relaxed posture.
“Opponents withdraw. Promoters renegotiate. Injuries happen.” His tone remains calm and conversational. “In this business, plans change all the time.”
The Frenchman gestures toward the open briefcase, the stacks of money still neatly arranged inside.
“You see, I think you misunderstand something about what we are proposing. We are not asking you to sabotage a sport. Boxing, at its core, has always been a form of entertainment.”
He spreads his hands slightly, as though presenting a stage. “Two men enter the ring. Millions of people watch them struggle, bleed, and overcome each other. The audience believes they are witnessing something pure, something heroic. But what they are truly consuming is a story.”
The Frenchman tilts his head, studying Ryoma’s reaction. “And stories need drama.”
His voice grows softer, more deliberate now. “Imagine the fight. You enter as the dangerous challenger. The rising star. The young predator everyone is talking about. You dominate the champion. The commentators begin to wonder whether the throne is about to change hands.”
The Frenchman then makes a slow sweeping motion with one hand, as if describing the arc of a performance.
“The crowd feels the tension building. They believe they are watching the birth of a new king.”
His hand stops at one point. Then the Frenchman’s fingers snap.
“And suddenly, everything changes. The momentum breaks. The champion finds something no one expected. The challenger collapses. The arena erupts. The commentators lose their voices trying to describe it.”
A faint smile returns to his lips. “It will be an unforgettable fight.”
He leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. “Volkov keeps his title. The audience receives the drama they paid for. And you…”
His eyes drift toward the briefcase, “You walk away with five million dollars.”
The Frenchman studies Ryoma carefully, gauging every shift in his expression.
“You are a talented fighter,” he continues. “But talent alone does not guarantee a comfortable life. Careers end quickly in your profession. One bad injury, one unlucky night, and everything disappears.”
His fingers tap the edge of the briefcase again.
“This…” he says quietly. “This is certainty.”
The room falls silent for a moment. Then the Frenchman shrugs lightly, as if the entire matter were nothing more than a simple business proposal.
“And besides,” he adds, “it is not as though the audience would ever know the difference. They would leave the arena believing they had witnessed a legendary battle.”
Then he nudges the briefcase forward across the glass table, the stacks of cash shifting slightly inside.
“It’s not as though this closes the door forever,” he continues calmly. “If Volkov beats you once, he won’t hesitate to face you again.”
His gaze returns to Ryoma. “In fact, rematches are often what make this sport even more interesting.”
