VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, Villanueva’s locker room is filled with tension. Alvarez is pinned against the wall, Villanueva’s fists twisted tight in his collar, forearm pressing into his chest.

“What did you do?”

His voice is low, but there’s no restraint left in it.

“I didn’t do anything,” Alvarez answers quickly, trying to hold steady under the pressure. “You’re reading it wrong.”

“A doctor walks in and stops a fight like that,” Villanueva snaps, leaning closer. “And I’m supposed to believe that just happens?”

“Hey… calm down,” Mendoza steps in, hand on Villanueva’s arm. “This isn’t helping…”

Villanueva jerks free. “Then let him answer.”

“I am answering,” Alvarez says, sharper now. “I had nothing to do with that fight.”

As the tension spikes, the door suddenly swings open. Kurogane steps in first, Dr. Mizuno just behind him. The shift in presence cuts straight through the room, pulling every eye toward them.

Villanueva’s grip doesn’t release immediately, but his attention breaks just enough. Alvarez sees it and moves fast, straightening slightly, voice rising just enough to reach them.

“I had nothing to do with that stoppage,” he says, firm, almost urgent now. “Whatever you think happened in there, it wasn’t me.”

“I don’t care about that,” Kurogane cuts in, direct. “Right now, I need you to fix something. The ring doctor… I want him replaced. Before the next fight.”

For a brief second, the room resets around that. Villanueva’s grip finally loosens. He blinks once, then turns his head slowly toward Alvarez, the anger shifting direction without losing any of its heat.

“…That’s right,” he says. He releases the collar fully, but doesn’t step back. “Tell them to kick that fucking doctor out of this building. I don’t want him anywhere near my fight. I’m prepare to lose my belt. Not my dignity.”

Alvarez holds their gaze for a brief moment, then gives a short, decisive nod.

“Alright.”

He adjusts his collar once, already moving.

“Come with me,” he says to Kurogane, heading toward the door without hesitation. “If both camps are asking for the same thing, then we have something solid to bring to the commission.”

***

Out in the arena, the atmosphere hangs in an uneasy suspension. The dissatisfaction from the previous fight hasn’t faded; it lingers, heavy, spreading through the crowd in restless murmurs. The main event, the one everyone came for, still hasn’t started.

People shift in their seats, some standing, some turning toward the ring with growing impatience.

“What’s taking so long?”

“Start the next fight already!”

“They’re still dealing with that mess, aren’t they?”

Around the ring, a few officials move with visible urgency, going in and out, exchanging brief words, but none of the key figures are present. No representatives from OPBF. None from WBO Asia Pacific. And the ring doctor, Zhou, is nowhere to be seen.

Because at this moment, all of them are moving a certain office room behind the arena.

The tension is already formed before anyone speaks, shaped not just by the situation but by who stands where.

Kurogane and Alvarez arrive together, with Dr. Mizuno and Medoza trailing behind, and that alone draws attention. They are not supposed to stand on the same side of anything, yet here they are, aligned.

And that alignment carries weight the commission cannot dismiss so easily, especially not with the main event still waiting and the crowd outside growing louder by the minute.

One of the senior officials looks at them, expression firm but attentive.

“So what is this about? Please make it quick.”

Kurogane answers without hesitation. “We have a concern about the ringside physician.”

Alvarez follows, his tone controlled but deliberate. “That stoppage has already damaged the atmosphere out there. You can hear it. If he remains in position for the next fight, you risk making it worse.”

The officials do not respond immediately. They exchange brief glances instead, not because they are unsure what is being said, but because they understand exactly what is at stake.

A complaint from one camp is manageable. But a complaint shared by both sides, especially with the promoter involved, becomes something else entirely. It becomes pressure tied to the credibility of the event itself.

“You’re asking us to remove him?” one of the OPBF representatives asks.

Kurogane meets his gaze. “We’re asking you to make sure the next fight isn’t affected the same way.”

“There’s no confidence left in that decision,” Alvarez adds. “If something even remotely similar happens again, you won’t just have a bad call. You’ll have a collapse in trust. That affects all of us.”

The room quiets for a moment after that, not because the argument is unclear, but because it lands exactly where it needs to.

The commission does not usually take instructions from camps or promoters, but they do weigh risk. And at this moment, the risk is obvious.

The main event is delayed, the crowd is unsettled, and the official responsible for the controversy is still assigned to the next bout.

“Bring him in,” one of the WBO Asia Pacific representatives says.

Moments later, Zhou enters the room, escorted in by a staffer. And the moment he sees who is inside, he understands the situation. There is a flicker of irritation in his expression, quickly masked as he straightens.

“What’s this?” Zhou says, a faint scoff in his tone. “You’re questioning my decision too? I already made the call out there.”

“Don’t frame it like that,” the WBO advisor cuts in, voice calm but edged. “Just tell us why you stopped it.”

Zhou exhales through his nose, irritation creeping in. “The cut was getting worse. I stepped in before it turned into something serious.”

One of the OPBF officials tilts his head slightly. “Before it turned into something serious?”

Zhou nods once, as if that settles it. “Yes.”

A brief silence follows, but it isn’t agreement. It’s the kind that makes the answer feel thinner the longer it hangs.

Then the WBO advisor speaks again, slower this time.

“And you’re standing by that?”

Zhou’s jaw tightens. “I made a judgment call.”

The advisor gives a small nod, almost like he expected that. “A terrible one.”

That lands without raising the volume, but it hits harder than anything louder could. Zhou’s brow twitches, a brief crack in his composure, his anxiety surfacing before he can contain it.

“The whole arena knows it,” the advisor continues, gesturing faintly toward the outside. “You can still hear them. They’re not reacting to a close call. They’re reacting to something that made no sense.”

“And it’s not just the crowd,” another WBO representative adds. “Even Della Cruz knew it. You saw his reaction.”

The room goes quiet again, but now the weight has shifted. This isn’t about justification anymore. It’s about credibility.

Zhou presses his lips together, but there’s nothing clean left for him to say. And with both camps standing there, silent but aligned, the pressure doesn’t need to be repeated.

The advisor exhales once, then finishes it. “We’re not carrying that into the main event.”

The officials exchange a brief look, and the decision settles without resistance.

“You’re relieved from duty for the remainder of the event. Another physician will take over ringside responsibilities.”

There is no room in the tone for negotiation, and more importantly, no one in the room challenges it.

“And another thing before you leave,” the advisor adds. “You will report to the ethics committee tomorrow morning. We’ll be reviewing this decision in full.”

Zhou’s jaw sets, the composure still there but thinner now, stretched at the edges. He gives a small nod, more out of necessity than agreement.

“…Understood.”

“Leave the floor,” the advisor says.

Zhou doesn’t look at anyone as he turns. He walks out with measured steps, holding himself together just enough to keep the room from seeing more than he allows.

But the moment he steps into the hallway, that control begins to slip. His eyes start moving on their own, flicking from one end of the corridor to the other, then toward the exits, then back again, quick and restless, like he’s already searching for a way out.

His thoughts race ahead of him, circling the same question again and again; whether he should stay and face what’s coming, or disappear before anyone gets the chance to stop him.