Chapter 541: Claiming the Ringside

Okabe is still on the canvas when Hiroshi climbs through the ropes, his movements quick but controlled. Sera follows a second later, stepping forward with a referee’s instinct that has not yet faded from the sparring round.

Okabe is back to a seated position, wiping at the blood beneath his nose with the back of his glove.

“Can you stand?” Hiroshi asks, crouching in front of him.

“I can stand,” Okabe replies, though his voice is rough. He tests his ribs with a shallow breath and winces despite himself.

Sera kneels slightly to one side, studying the way Okabe’s shoulders rise and fall.

“Any sharp pain? Dizzy?”

“My head’s fine,” Okabe mutters. “Body’s just… sore.”

Nakahara approaches the ring without hurrying. He rests one hand on the apron and looks up at his fighter, reading the stiffness in Okabe’s posture more clearly than the words he offers.

“That’s enough for today,” he says evenly. “Go home.”

Okabe’s head snaps toward him. “I’ve already missed two days, old man. You can’t tell me to go home again.”

Nakahara exhales through his nose, patience thinning but not breaking. “There’s no way you’re training in that condition. You won’t gain anything from it.”

Okabe clenches his jaw as if preparing another protest, but the look in Nakahara’s eyes makes him hesitate.

“Hiroshi,” Nakahara continues, “check his ribs properly. Ice them. After that, take him to the doctor.”

Okabe lowers his gaze, frustration simmering, yet he does not argue again.

Nakahara heads toward the office, intending to grab the van keys. But reaching the desk, he pauses when he notices the faint glow of the desktop screen. Almost out of habit, he opens his inbox, scanning for any new message from Kowa Sports Marketing. But there is nothing.

Then he turns to Kurogane, who is seated nearby with the event dashboard open on his tablet.

“Any change with the ticket sales?” Nakahara asks.

Kurogane refreshes the page once, then again, his expression neutral. “Nothing significant.”

Nakahara grunts under his breath. He takes the van keys from the desk and walks back toward the door. Without stepping fully inside, he tosses the keys in a short arc toward Hiroshi.

“Take him to the doctor,” he says. “Make sure they check the ribs. It would be a disaster if he actually broke his ribs.”

Okabe’s expression tightens in quiet objection, pride still resisting the decision. But the sharp ache beneath his ribs makes it impossible to argue any further.

Nakahara is about to leave the office. But then he hears Kurogane mutter behind him, almost to himself.

“…Wait. This is strange.”

The tone makes Nakahara stop. He turns and walks back into the office.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Sixteen seats just sold,” Kurogane replies, his voice sharpening with mild disbelief. “All Ringside Premium.”

Nakahara straightens almost imperceptibly. “Sixteen?”

“Every single one is front row. Ringside Premium, adjacent.”

The quiet in the room thickens. A faint crease appears between Nakahara’s brows as another thought strikes him. “We didn’t forget to allocate Aqualis and the partner companies, did we?”

Kurogane shakes his head at once and turns the screen so Nakahara can see the seating map. “Their allocation is secured. North side, close to the red corner. Two rows are blocked; 20 seats Ringside Premium, and 25 VIP Gold.”

Nakahara studies the digital layout, tracing the highlighted block near the red corner with his eyes. The placement is deliberate. Support should be visible, especially near Ryoma’s corner.

“So these sixteen…” he says quietly.

“They are external buyers,” Kurogane finishes. “And it’s unusual. It feels coordinated.”

Nakahara does not respond immediately. The idea that someone might be trying to occupy visual territory near the ring is not far-fetched.

In boxing, proximity is power. Where you sit can say as much as what you say.

***

Neither of them fully grasps yet that the shift begins elsewhere. Not in the seating chart, but in the words spoken the previous afternoon.

Ryoma’s interview spreads faster than anyone anticipates.

At first, it appears as a modest feature in local sports pages, framed as a striking quote from a reigning champion speaking with unusual bluntness. But once excerpts are clipped and reposted online, the tone shifts.

Headlines begin appearing across major outlets:

“OPBF Champion Ryoma Declares Himself Fighter and Promoter Ahead of Yoyogi.”

“Confidence or Provocation? Titleholder Challenges Japan’s Boxing Establishment.”

“Nakahara’s OPBF Champion Steps Beyond the Ring.”

Clips circulate on social media, trimmed to the sharpest lines, especially the lines where analysts state that Ryoma does not intend to fight only boxers, but to confront the structure that governs them.

Comment sections grow heated. Some accuse him of arrogance unbecoming of a champion. Others praise the boldness.

Within a day, the narrative surrounding the event shifts. Until now, the event has been framed as a reckless gamble by an aging promoter from a small gym daring to stage a show at Yoyogi. It was treated as an underdog’s vanity project, ambitious but naive.

But Ryoma’s declaration reframes it entirely. He does not describe himself solely as a boxer defending his OPBF title. He calls himself a fighter and a promoter.

And the industry hears it clearly.

In Thailand, four promoters who lose the April 3rd purse bid read the translated excerpts with growing interest. What they initially dismiss as noise begins to resemble something else: a potential disruption.

None of them issues public comments, yet instructions are quietly given to secure Ringside Premium tickets. They do not announce their intentions; they simply ensure they will be present.

***

Tachibana Boxing Gym, Utsunomiya

Yoshizawa stands by the wide window of his office, phone pressed to his ear as he looks down at the slow movement of traffic below. His reflection stares back at him in the glass while he speaks in a measured, thoughtful tone.

“You’ve seen the interview?” he asks.

Meanwhile in Tokyo, Kirizume leans back in his chair, the faintest hint of amusement touching his voice.

“I have,” he says casually.

“Is it true?” Yoshizawa presses. “You’re close enough to Nakahara to know the truth.”

Kirizume considers the question before answering. “I was surprised myself. But knowing that brat’s temperament, it isn’t hard to understand.”

Yoshizawa waits on the other side, sensing there is more.

“Two years ago, I tried to bring that kid under my umbrella,” Kirizume continues evenly. “He refused. At the time, I thought it was pride. Now I think it was preparation.”

“Preparation for what?” Yoshizawa aks.

“For this,” Kirizume says. “In two years, that boy hasn’t just tried to surpass Japanese fighters. He’s positioning himself against the promoters like us.”

The line goes quiet for a moment before the call ends.

When Kirizume lowers his phone, Renji Kuroiwa lounges on the sofa across the room, watching him with open curiosity.

“Are you going to Yoyogi?” Renji asks casually.

Kirizume waves the idea aside. “I have no interest.”

Renji smiles faintly. “That’s unfortunate. I already bought six Ringside tickets.”

Kirizume’s head snaps toward him. “You what? They’re clearly challenging us. And you support their event by buying their VIP seats?”

Renji remains relaxed, his tone calm but firm. “Six tickets won’t determine whether their event succeeds. But we should be there. If they fail, we witness it ourselves. If they succeed, we need to understand why.”

Kirizume studies him in silence, irritation flickering across his expression before it settles into something more thoughtful.

The thing is, Renji is not alone in that reasoning.

Yoshizawa, despite his measured demeanor, has quietly secured five Ringside seats of his own.

***

Two days later, the story crosses language barriers and finds its way into English-language media. Elliot Graves reads it in silence, the newspaper spread across his table, Ryoma’s photograph printed beneath a headline that now feels less like provocation and more like warning.

Less than a month since he beat WBC ranked 3rd Bobbie Gibbs, with a decisive victory that reshaped the standings. The win pushed Elliot up to 4th, tightening his proximity to the top of the division.

But now, a young OPBF champion who’s never had any fight under the WBC banner has stolen his attention.

Elliot reads the piece with narrowed eyes before dialing a familiar number.

“Celeb… You going to Tokyo in August?” he asks.

On the other end, Celeb Mercer exhales. “I was planning to watch from home. But Bowman already bought tickets. Not just the Ringside seats. He’s booked flights and hotel too.”

Elliot chuckles softly. “Then I guess you’re going.”

“It seems that way.”

The call ends with a faint click. Elliot lowers the phone slowly, an amused smile lingering at the corner of his mouth before he places it on the table beside him.

The newspaper remains spread open across his lap, the headline about Yoyogi printed boldly above Ryoma’s photograph.

He studies the image for a moment longer, before muttering under his breath.

“I really can’t read this kid anymore…”

Ryoma’s decisions no longer follow a predictable arc of ambition. They jump tracks without warning, shifting from calculated restraint to open provocation.

Elliot has faced aggressive fighters, disciplined tacticians, even reckless prodigies. But unpredictability of this kind unsettles him in a different way.

He leans back slightly, eyes still fixed on the photograph, tracing the calm expression printed beneath the headline. A faint crease forms between his brows, not in doubt, but in intrigue.

“What rhythm are you setting this time, Ryoma?” he murmurs softly.

After a moment, he reaches for the guitar resting against the chair beside him.

He settles it on his lap and begins to fingerstyle absentmindedly, letting a deliberate pattern unfold, measured and exploratory.

It’s like he is trying to hear the shape of an answer before the fight itself reveals it.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep