anwhile, the lobby is already boiling since the ti the first Thai promoters stepped through the doors. The air fills with overlapping calls, English and Thai cutting across each other in sharp bursts.
"Sir, one mont please!"
"Was the bidding more aggressive than expected?"
"Did sothing unexpected happen inside?"
"Can you comnt on how intense the room was?"
A representative from kong Warrior Promotions tries to push through at first, jaw tight, eyes forward. But the press closes in faster than his team can form a barrier.
And his patience snaps. "This is absurd," he says, turning sharply, the word carrying farther than he intends. "Half a million dollars. For a regional title fight. They are so desperate."
The microphones surge closer.
"Are you saying the winning bid was five hundred thousand dollars?"
"Who submitted it?"
"Was it the champion’s camp?"
He exhales through his nose, anger unfiltered now. "They burned that much money just to keep their champion from leaving ho. It clearly shows how a coward he is."
A reporter presses harder. "So Nakahara Boxing Gym won the bid?"
The promoter’s lips thin, now realizing he’s let slipped sothing that shouldn’t be leaked at this stage before the commissioner’s public statent.
"I... I didn’t say that," he answers, but the damage is already done. He shakes his head, bitterness plain on his face. "Whatever it is... let’s see if they can even salvage an event after bleeding that much."
The crowd buzzes. Phones are already lighting up. ssages fly faster than corrections ever could.
The number was never ant to leave that room. Everyone knows that. But it doesn’t matter now. The dia has its scent, and it doesn’t need confirmation, only implication.
The pressure in the lobby spikes again when the doors open a second ti. Ryoma steps out alongside Fujimoto, Kaito half a step behind.
"Ryoma...!"
"It’s Ryoma Takeda and Aqualis’ Fujimoto."
"Takeda-san, this way!"
"Is it true your camp bid five hundred thousand dollars?"
Fujimoto’s bodyguards move imdiately, wide and imposing, trying to carve a path through the chaos, but the journalists surge anyway, voices stacking over one another.
"Ryoma, did you know the number beforehand?"
"Is this the highest purse in OPBF history?"
"Are you worried the event can live up to that cost?"
Flashes explode in his face. Ryoma’s jaw tightens, but he keeps moving, eyes forward, shoulders squared.
"Fujimoto-san. Did Aqualis fund the entire bid?"
"Is this about keeping the fight in Japan?"
Neither Ryoma nor Fujimoto answers. They continue forward in silence, ignoring the questions piling at their backs, until the lobby thins near the exit and the crowd closes in, cutting off the path entirely.
A journalist leans in closer, voice sharper than the rest. "Is it true the bid forced the fight to stay in Japan?"
Another voice cuts in. "Were you afraid of taking the fight overseas again?"
Then one reporter raises his voice deliberately, quoting soone else. "A Thai promoter just said this was cowardice. That the champion spent obscene money because he was afraid to fight on foreign soil."
The words hang long enough to draw breath. The lobby tightens, and Ryoma finally stops.
But before he can speak, Fujimoto raises a hand. The gesture is small, but it carries authority.
The bodyguards halt. The noise does not vanish, but it thins.
"You want a statent," Fujimoto says calmly. "Then listen carefully."
The reporters fall quiet, pens already poised.
"Ryoma Takeda fought in lbourne under conditions that would have ended most careers," Fujimoto continues. "He entered that ring with compromised preparation, limited recovery ti, and an injury that should have postponed the bout."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Pens start scratching.
"And despite that," Fujimoto says, his voice steady, "he won decisively. Not narrowly. Not controversially. Convincingly."
He looks directly at the journalist who raised the accusation.
"That victory deserved respect," he says. "Instead, it was followed by pressure. By forced tilines. By promoters who knew his condition, knew the dical extension granted by the OPBF, and still pushed for a June 25th just to corner him."
A cara shutter snaps, sharp and intrusive, followed by another.
OPBF officials erge at the edge of the lobby, drawn by the noise, just in ti to witness the chaos, and hear Fujimoto’s words land.
"They called him a coward for protecting his body," Fujimoto continues. "They frad caution as fear. They tried to bully a small gym into sacrificing its fighter’s future for convenience."
His tone hardens, though his volu does not rise. "This purse bid was never about a belt," he says. "It was about preventing that from happening again."
A journalist finally interrupts, voice tense. "Are you confirming that you personally funded the bid?"
Fujimoto does not hesitate. "Yes, I did."
The lobby erupts again, but Fujimoto speaks over it.
"That money is a statent," he says. "It says this fighter will not be rushed. It says his life and career matter more than your narratives."
He turns slightly, gesturing toward Ryoma without touching him.
"He won his title under the worst circumstances," Fujimoto says. "Next ti, he will enter the ring in his best condition. If that makes so people uncomfortable, then perhaps they should examine why."
Most of the journalists drop their eyes to their notebooks imdiately, pens racing, thumbs flying over screens. The weight of Fujimoto’s words sinks in fast.
His bodyguards seize the opening, stepping forward in a practiced wedge, shoulders broad, quietly carving a path toward the exit.
"Mr. Fujimoto, one more comnt...!"
"Is this a declaration against the Thai promotions? Or against the world?"
"Will you attend the press conference?"
But the montum has already shifted. Several reporters notice OPBF officials, faces tight as they take in the scene and the fragnts of what was just said.
Caras pivot instantly. And their questions redirect.
"Chairman... did the OPBF approve this figure?"
"Is this bid unprecedented?"
"Was the extension period a factor in today’s result?"
The chairman raises a hand, firm, authoritative. "This is no longer the place for speculation," he says. "An official press conference will be held this afternoon at JBC headquarters. All questions regarding the purse bid, bout terms, and scheduling will be addressed there. For now, please clear the lobby."
***
Outside, Fujimoto and Kaito slip into their waiting car as the bodyguards hold the line. After that, the bodyguards guide Ryoma through, shielding him until he reaches his van, where Kenta is already waiting inside.
One of the guards gives a short nod to his team. They don’t break formation right away. Instead, they fan out along the curb, forming a solid barrier between Fujimoto’s car, Ryoma’s van, and the chaos beyond, holding the line as they wait for Nakahara and Sera to erge from the building.
anwhile, an Arican reporter is already live nearby the van, a red Global Sports Network mic flag visible beneath his chin as he speaks directly into the cara.
"We’re getting breaking information out of Tokyo right now, and if this holds, it’s going to send shockwaves through the boxing world," he says, voice sharp, almost rushing to keep up with the mont. "Sources inside the OPBF purse bid are indicating a number that is way outside the norm—five hundred thousand dollars for a regional title fight."
He pivots slightly, lifting a hand toward the van idling behind him, the AQUALIS logo unmistakable on its side.
"And take a look at who this is centered around," he continues. "That van right there belongs to the reigning OPBF champion. Sa fighter at the heart of today’s bidding shock, and backed by Aqualis, a na that’s suddenly getting a lot more airti than it probably expected."
He lowers his voice, leaning closer to the cara. "Again, no official confirmation yet. No contracts signed. But when a regional title fight starts pulling numbers like this, when corporate nas start orbiting the champion this closely, the ssage is clear: this isn’t just a fight anymore. It’s positioning."
He glances back once more at the van. "And if this holds, Tokyo isn’t just hosting a bout. It’s hosting the mont this division’s balance shifts."
Kenta’s eyes flick outside. The reporter’s voice bleeds faintly through the half open window, English words tumbling over each other. He doesn’t understand most of it, but Ryoma’s na and Aquali keep cutting through the lines.
"What... was that about?" he asks, turning back to Ryoma. "What happened in there? How did the bid go?"
Ryoma leans back against the seat, exhaling like surrender. "...I don’t even know where to start."
Mont later, the passenger door jerks open, then the other. Nakahara and Sera slide into the van, movents sharp and hurried.
"Go," Nakahara says imdiately, not even buckling in yet. "Get us out of here."
Kenta doesn’t ask twice. He signals, checks the mirror once more, and pulls the van into motion as the noise behind them swells, then slowly fades.
As the van pulls away, a bodyguard gives a brief hand signal. That’s the cue.
Fujimoto’s car eases from the curb at once. As they move, Kaito glances back toward the lone foreign cara crew and murmurs, "Arican press, Sir. Looks like Aqualis just went global."
"That’s exactly what we need," Fujimoto says calmly, without taking a glance back.
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