VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The announcement comes, echoing through the arena with none of the weight it is supposed to carry. The words settle over the crowd, but they don’t land. They hang there, disconnected from what everyone just saw.

And there is no celebration from Della Cruz. One of his cornermen reaches for his arm, trying to lift it, to present him as the winner. But he pulls it down immediately, like the gesture itself offends him.

He doesn’t even look at the belt when Hermosa holds it out. He just steps through the ropes and drops to the floor outside, already moving.

“Hey, Arvin…”

Hermosa hesitates for a fraction of a second, the belt still in his hands, before he follows after him. The rest of the team trails behind, their movements lacking the usual structure that comes with victory.

“And that tells you everything,” the lead commentator says. “That is not a man celebrating a win.”

“No, not at all,” the second adds, watching closely. “He’s walking out like someone who just lost something important… even though his name was just announced as the winner.”

“There’s no pride in that corner right now.”

“And honestly, you can feel it across the entire arena. Nobody’s accepting this result. Not the crowd, not the challenger… and not even the champion himself.”

From the stands, the noise continues, loud and relentless. The boos roll down in waves, heavy and sustained.

“That’s a robbery!”

“What kind of stoppage is that?!”

“The doctor ruined it!”

“Fix! That’s a fix!”

“Shame on this decision!”

Della Cruz keeps his head low as he walks. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. The sound presses in on him from every direction.

And even if it isn’t meant for him, even if it’s actually aimed at the terrible officials, it settles on his shoulders all the same.

His pace quickens. There’s a tightness in his jaw, something held in place as he moves, as if the only thing keeping him together is the need to get out of sight.

On the opposite side, Kenta is still near his corner, surrounded now by people who weren’t there before. Neutral supporters lean in, voices overlapping, trying to reach him.

“That was your fight!”

“You had him!”

“The belt should’ve been yours, man!”

“Don’t let this get to you. You’ll get it next time.”

“What’s yours will come to you!”

Their words are sincere, filled with energy and belief. Kenta hears them, and even if he can’t follow every word clearly, he understands the intent behind it, the way they’re trying to comfort him.

But still, none of it settles. There’s no reaction in his face. The space inside him feels hollow, and the noise around him doesn’t fill it.

***

Meanwhile, away from the immediate chaos near the ring, Velasco watches it all unfold without moving. Beside him, Holland shifts slightly, eyes still tracking the ring doctor.

“That was off,” Holland says, his voice low enough to stay between them. “First, you don’t usually see a ringside doctor jump in like that without being called. Not like this.”

Velasco doesn’t answer right away. His gaze remains fixed, following the same path Holland had just traced.

“And the stoppage itself…” Holland continues, quieter now, more deliberate. “It doesn’t sit right. That cut wasn’t in a position to justify it. Not at this stage.”

Velasco’s eyes narrow just slightly. “You’re telling me…”

“It’s possible,” Holland replies. “Highly possible he’s been bought.”

For a few seconds, neither of them speaks. The arena noise continues around them, but it feels distant from where they stand.

Velasco catches the movement as the ring doctor’s eyes flick briefly toward Hugo Ramirez. The glance is gone almost as soon as it appears, as if even he realizes it shouldn’t linger. But the unease behind it is enough for Velasco to register it clearly.

“…We might need to add him to the list,” Velasco says quietly.

Holland turns slightly. “You want to bring him in after this?”

Velasco shakes his head once. “Tell someone to follow him. If we’re lucky, he leads us where we need to go.”

His gaze drifts again, this time landing directly on Ramirez, watching him with a stillness that blends into the crowd.

“This isn’t about exposing a rigged fight,” he adds, voice calm and measured. “We’re not here for that. We’re looking for something bigger. And if we move too early… the real target disappears before we ever get close.”

Holland nods, understanding settling in without needing more explanation.

***

Back in the locker room, the space feels suffocating in a way that has nothing to do with its size. The air is heavy, thick with something no one quite knows how to break.

When Kenta walks in, that weight seems to settle even deeper. No one greets him or throws out the usual words that follow a fight. They all just look at him, and then away, unsure of where to place themselves in a moment like this.

Ryohei is the only one who finds the nerve to step forward. “Kenta…” he says carefully, his voice quieter than usual. “I’m sorry. That fight… it was taken from you.”

But Kenta gives no sign that he hears him. He keeps walking, and then lowers himself onto the bench without a word.

A doctor approaches not long after, already pulling on gloves as he positions himself in front of Kenta. He begins his work with quiet efficiency, tilting Kenta’s head slightly to inspect the cut above his brow, dabbing away the remaining blood with gauze.

“Not much blood,” the doctor mutters as he works, his tone clinical but casual. “The cut isn’t deep. And it’s high… nowhere near the eye.”

He studies it for another moment, then adds, almost as an afterthought, “Honestly, this isn’t something that should’ve stopped a fight.”

Kenta doesn’t react. Whether he understands the language or not, it doesn’t matter. He just sits there, present only in body, while something else continues to churn inside him, untouched by the voices around him.

The doctor continues his examination, pressing lightly along Kenta’s ribs, checking for deeper damage. “You’ll have some bruising here, and here. It’ll hurt tomorrow, but nothing serious. You’re fine.”

After finishing the treatment, the doctor begins packing his tools back into his case, offering a few more routine instructions about rest and recovery. After a brief pause, he simply nods to himself and leaves, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

For a few long seconds, nothing happens, the silence stretching as no one dares to move.

Then Kenta’s hand moves, reaching to the kit box next to him, and throws it across the room with sudden force.

BRAKK!!!

It crashes hard against the wall, the sound sharp and jarring.

The impact cuts through the silence and draws a startled reaction from everyone in the room, because this is not something they’ve ever seen from him.

Kenta remains seated, his breathing heavier now. The tension in his body is visible, contained, but barely.

Nakahara approaches him slowly, choosing his steps carefully, his voice steady when he finally speaks.

“I’m not going to give you empty words,” he says. “You earned that fight. Everyone saw it.”

He pauses, letting the statement sit, then continues, “I’ll get you another title shot. And next time, it will be yours.”

For a moment, Kenta’s breathing begins to slow, the rise and fall of his chest becoming less sharp, as if something inside him is settling, even if only slightly.

But then his gaze shifts toward Ryoma, just for a fraction of a second before snapping away almost immediately. It’s quick, but Ryoma sees it. And the tightening of Kenta’s jaw that follows tells him everything he needs to know.

No words are exchanged, but the meaning is clear. There is blame there, quiet but undeniable, and Ryoma understands exactly where it comes from.

The thought of apologizing crosses his mind, but the words never make it out. Instead, something else begins to creep in, familiar and unwelcome.

>

>

>

>

Ryoma turns his head slightly, as if the movement alone might silence it, but it doesn’t stop.

>

>

Ryoma blinks, the thought settling into something more tangible, something that demands action rather than denial.

He turns to Kurogane, his expression sharpening as he speaks. “Can we do something about this?”

Kurogane exhales, already understanding the weight behind the question. “At this stage? No. The decision’s official. It’s done.”

Ryoma shakes his head. “Not that,” he says. “I don’t want that doctor anywhere near my fight. Go to Alvarez. Tell him to push the commission. OPBF, WBO Asia, whoever’s in charge. I want that doctor replaced.”

Kurogane watches him for a brief moment, then nods. There is no hesitation from him after that. He turns immediately and heads for the door, moving with purpose.

“Wait,” Dr. Mizuno calls out, already stepping forward. “Can I go with you?”

Kurogane doesn’t stop, only glances back briefly as he opens the door. “Sure.”

Mizuno follows him out without another word, and the door closes behind them, leaving the silence to settle once more around Kenta, heavier than before.