VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Miguel Cabello’s team storms into the ring, raising both arms toward the crowd as if the result has already become official.

And Miguel himself allows a cocky grin to appear across his exhausted face while leaning against the ropes.

“Well, that reaction tells you exactly what they think about this fight!”

“They are absolutely convinced Miguel Cabello just became world champion tonight!”

“And honestly, it’s hard to disagree with them after what we watched!”

Liam O’Connel slowly returns toward his own corner without saying much. The damage alone already looks brutal enough; swelling around both cheekbones, blood still visible beneath the nose, redness spread across his face.

But more than the physical damage, the expression itself says enough. The exhaustion, the frustration, the quiet emptiness in his eyes while staring at the canvas beneath him.

The ring announcer finally steps toward center ring with the scorecards held carefully inside both hands while the arena continues roaring beneath the bright lights.

“Ladies and gentlemen… after twelve rounds of action, we go to the judges’ scorecards.”

“Judge Carlos Mendez scores the bout 116 to 112.”

“Judge Matteo Belini scores the bout 117 to 111.”

That one already tells the entire story. Miguel’s corner explodes before the final card even arrives. Cornermen shouts wildly while grabbing Cabello from every direction as the Cuban finally throws both gloves into the air with a huge grin spreading across his battered face.

Across the ring, Liam slowly turns back toward his own corner while repeatedly shaking his head, the frustration in his face carrying less anger toward the decision itself and more disappointment over his own failure to take the belt tonight.

The final scorecard barely matters anymore. “Judge Allen Brooks scores the bout 116 to 112. For your winner by unanimous decision… and NEW WBO WORLD CHAMPION…”

The crowd erupts completely, shaking the entire arena beneath deafening cheers, whistles, chants, and camera flashes.

“MIGUEL… ‘CANDELA’… ‘EL TRUCO’… ‘LA RUMBA’… CABEEEEEELLOOOOOO!”

Miguel immediately climbs onto the ropes while screaming toward his supporters and pounding his chest beneath the flashing cameras.

The WBO belt is eventually wrapped around his waist while his team celebrates around him like men who had expected this exact ending long before the final bell.

An official soon guides Miguel back toward center ring before handing him a microphone for the post-fight interview.

At first, Cabello still carries that same arrogant grin. But once the microphone reaches his hand, the expression slowly fades into something colder, answering to the interviewer’s question.

“Well, I can fight much better than this,” he says calmly while adjusting the belt around his waist. “Tonight, I only fought the fight I needed to win.”

Liam’s jaw tightens visibly from across the ring, while several members of his corner exchange irritated looks before the chief second gestures for them to leave the ring.

Miguel does not even spare them another glance. Instead, he slowly walks closer toward the nearest camera until his face nearly fills the screen itself.

“Hey, Ryoma Takeda,” he says directly into the camera, “I got your message. And just like you said… I snatched the belt exactly how it should be.”

A noticeable stir immediately spreads across the arena the moment Ryoma’s name leaves his mouth, the crowd reacting with growing intrigue as confused murmurs quickly mix together with louder anticipation.

Then Cabello’s eyes sharpen completely. “Well… now I got it. So stop hiding in Japan. Come take it from me.”

The arena noise continues roaring around him while he lightly taps the gold plate resting against his waist.

The commentators immediately begin talking over each other as the arena noise keeps rising around them.

“He said it!”

“Miguel Cabello is officially calling out Ryoma Takeda!”

“Less than two weeks ago, Ryoma openly challenged him right after unifying the OPBF and WBO Asia Pacific titles, and now we’re getting Cabello’s answer live inside the ring as the new WBO world champion!”

“And what a fight that would be stylistically. Two highly adaptive fighters, two elite movement specialists, but with completely different rhythms and philosophies inside the ring.”

The camera briefly catches sections of the audience reacting excitedly to the possibility already, phones raised high while the noise inside the arena continues building with growing anticipation.

“Ladies and gentlemen… if this fight happens next…”

“One of the most technical world title fights in recent years might already be on the table.”

The excitement inside the arena only grows louder afterward. Fans begin standing from their seats while camera flashes scatter across the crowd like sparks.

But amidst all the noise and celebration, a few faces inside Miguel Cabello’s own camp stand out for completely different reasons.

His chief second, Jorge Rivera, remains still near the corner with visible tension hardening his face instead of excitement. And not far below the apron, promoter Hugo Ramirez abruptly leaves his seat with an expression dark enough to immediately attract attention from several nearby executives and managers.

The contrast becomes almost strange. While the arena buzzes with anticipation, Rivera and Ramirez look like two men watching a problem explode in front of them instead of a successful title victory.

That reaction does not go unnoticed by everyone present, especially not by the two Interpol agents who came solely to follow Ramirez’s activity.

“Well,” Holland mutters, “they clearly didn’t like that.”

Velasco simply nods, offering no further comment as his attention stays fixed on reading the situation.

Below them, Ramirez argues with Rivera through restrained but visibly heated gestures. Neither man raises his voice publicly, but the frustration between them is obvious enough.

A few moments later, Rivera rushes toward Miguel Cabello and leans to the champion’s ear, speaking in a low restrained whisper.

Cabello’s grin slowly fades. The interview ends far earlier than expected. Rivera places a hand against Cabello’s shoulder and guides him out of the ring almost forcefully.

Even while walking down the aisle, Cabello still waves arrogantly toward the spectators, occasionally raising the belt overhead with theatrical confidence.

But the commentators already caught the tension in Rivera’s gesture.

“Huh… That’s interesting.”

“Rivera didn’t look happy about that challenge at all.”

“Well, to be fair, you don’t usually announce a fight like that without consulting your trainer and promotional team first.”

“And this isn’t some ordinary callout either. Ryoma Takeda is becoming a serious business decision now.”

Back among the crowd, Velasco and Holland watches several men approach Hugo Ramirez on the ringside. One of them is instantly recognizable, Jackson Rhodes.

Ramirez exchanges brief but visibly tense words with Jackson before the surrounding promoters slowly join the discussion themselves.

“They still don’t want that fight happening,” Holland says quietly.

“You think they can still avoid him?” Velasco asks.

“It depends on what happens to the rankings after tonight,” Holland answers. “If Liam drops badly after this loss, Ryoma probably becomes number one contender automatically.”

His eyes remain fixed toward the men below. “But Liam fought well tonight. There’s a good chance he stays at number one while Ryoma only climbed to the second place.”

Velasco finally turns to him. “And if that happens?”

“Cabello’s camp can still avoid Ryoma,” Holland says. “And Ryoma’s only option would be forcing a title eliminator against Liam O’Connel. Only if he wins that fight does he finally get Miguel Cabello.”

Velasco falls silent for several seconds as he shifts his attention back to the ringside. Down there, the discussion near the apron finally breaks apart before Hugo Ramirez abruptly turns and heads toward the corridor with hurried steps. From that body language alone, the situation already looks ugly enough.

“He’s probably going straight toward Cabello’s locker room,” Holland mutters.

Velasco’s expression slowly hardens. “If what happened to Ryoma Takeda in Manila really connects to boxing politics… then there’s a possibility somebody targets him again soon.”

The color in Holland’s face changes immediately, because he’s learned similar situations before.

“We’ve seen this pattern already. Seven years ago in Buenos Aires. Before that, the Moreno case. Kid was one fight away from a title eliminator, then suddenly got arrested for narcotics possession.”

The arena around them continues buzzing loudly while workers begin preparing the ring for post-fight cleanup.

“Every time somebody inconvenient climbs too fast,” Holland continues, “something happens. One prospect lost an eye during a ‘street robbery.’ Another got crippled after a motorcycle accident nobody could properly verify. And somehow, none of those cases ever reach court.”

Velasco slowly nods once. “Just like this place, there’s too much money moving around. And you don’t maintain a city like this completely clean without somebody staining their hands underneath.”

Holland looks genuinely uneasy now. “Should we warn Ryoma Takeda? Or maybe send someone to protect him?”

Velasco does not answer immediately. His attention remains fixed toward the remaining promoters dispersing from ringside while calculations continue turning quietly behind his eyes.

Because if organized crime truly exists behind some of these movements, then boxing itself may only be the visible surface of something much larger; money laundering, underground financing, international betting structures.

To Velasco, there is a real possibility that this is something far larger than the safety of a single rising boxer.

“No,” he finally says. “Don’t warn the kid.”

Holland turns sharply toward him. “But what if they really target him?”

Velasco’s expression stays cold. “That’s exactly why. If they move against him, there’s a chance we catch the people they send. From there, maybe we finally reach the people above them.”

Holland’s face twists immediately. “You want to use him as bait?”

Velasco exhales tiredly without reacting to the accusation. “That kid isn’t stupid. He already understands the risks around him. We don’t need to remind him.”

Then he rises from his seat and straightens the collar of his coat. “Send people to monitor him,” he says while beginning to walk away. “But not too close.”

Holland quickly stands and follows behind him. “Hey… you’re seriously going through with this?”

But Velasco merely heads for the arena exit, already disengaging from the discussion.

“I’m hungry. Find me somewhere decent to eat. Chinese cuisine sounds good.”