Chapter 644: Too Experienced to Fear

Alvarez doesn’t respond immediately. He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping once against the armrest before he exhales and pushes himself to his feet.

Without another word, he walks toward the office door and stops there, one hand resting against the frame as he looks out over the gym floor.

The gym feels more crowded than usual, the air thick with movement and noise. Journalists linger near the edges, watching closely, waiting for a moment they can turn into a story.

Inside the ring, Villanueva is already in the middle of a sparring session with Paulo Ramos. The pace is high, the exchange intense.

Ramos presses forward, compact and relentless, his stance steady, almost deceptively relaxed. He doesn’t waste motion. Every step keeps him balanced, centered, allowing him to fire off tight bursts of punches without overreaching.

His gloves move in quick succession; short, controlled flurries that come in waves, each combination flowing into the next without breaking his rhythm.

“Don’t chase too far,” Virgil calls from outside the ring. “Keep your base. Let him move, then close.”

Across from him, Mendoza watches just as closely. “Angle out, Dante. Don’t give him the line.”

Villanueva responds instantly. He gives ground, not in retreat, but with intent. He takes one step back, then a pivot. His torso turns smoothly, shoulders slipping just outside the path of the incoming punches.

Ramos keeps the tempo but his flurry always cuts through space that’s no longer there. Villanueva doesn’t stay still long enough to be trapped. He shifts again, a side step this time, changing the angle just enough to force Ramos to reset his footing if he wants to continue pressing.

Meanwhile, the journalists watch closely, some of them exchanging quiet murmurs, their expressions sharpened with focus.

“That pressure… he’s not wasting anything.”

“Yeah, but he’s not landing clean either. Look at the angles.”

“Villanueva’s controlling the space. Ramos has to reset every time.”

“Still, that output… if even half of those get through in a real fight.”

“He’s testing him. Seeing how long he can keep that movement up.”

“Or breaking his rhythm slowly. That kind of pressure adds up.”

The rhythm builds. Ramos advances with pressure, his output constant, forcing exchanges. Villanueva answers with movement, controlling space, disrupting timing, never letting the aggression settle into a clean pattern.

“Good, keep him turning,” Mendoza calls out.

“Cut the angle,” Virgil responds almost at the same time.

The two styles clash in a steady flow, pressure against control, volume against precision. Neither gives way, both forcing the other to adapt with every second that passes.

Despite throwing fewer punches, Villanueva still manages to keep the exchange balanced. The aggression remains on Ramos’ side, but the control never leaves Villanueva.

From the outside, it doesn’t feel one-sided. If anything, it feels like a quiet stalemate disguised as intensity.

***

By the end of the third round, the bell cuts through the motion, and both of them finally step back.

Their breathing is heavier, but only briefly. It doesn’t take long before the tension eases, replaced by something lighter.

“Still slippery as ever, old man,” Ramos says, rolling his shoulders as he exhales.

“You’re just too lazy,” Villanueva replies, pulling his gloves off slightly. “If someone my age can still give you trouble, then Philippine boxing’s future looks bleak.”

“What are you talking about?” Ramos scoffs as he walks back to his corner. “Don’t act like you’ve beaten me.”

“Of course not,” Villanueva shoots back, turning toward his own corner. “I’ve never taken you seriously.”

Meanwhile, Alvarez still stands by the office doorway, his gaze steady but distant. His attention isn’t fully on the sparring anymore, his thoughts circling back to Ryoma’s situation, weighing options he still hasn’t decided on.

More than a decade in this business, and this is the first time he’s dealing with fighters asking for professional security before a fight. And he has no ready solution. The only thing that comes to his mind is right in front of him, the fighters Mendoza has in this gym.

After a moment, Alvarez finally steps out of the office, stops at the corner of the ring, and leans slightly toward Mendoza.

“We got a problem,” he says, exhaling through his nose.

Villanueva straightens slightly, his expression shifting, while Mendoza turns his head, already reading the weight behind those words.

Alvarez glances once toward Ramos, then toward the journalists still hovering around, before lowering his voice.

“About that kid…” he continues. “Looks like they’ve started making their move to disrupt his preparation.”

Villanueva blinks, confused. “That kid? Whose kid?”

“Ryoma Takeda,” Alvarez answers. “Your opponent.”

Villanueva frowns. “And who’s ’they’ supposed to be?”

Mendoza exhales lightly. “There are things you don’t understand yet about Ryoma Takeda’s situation.”

Before the conversation can go further, he notices Dizon stepping in quietly and stopping just right behind Alvarez.

Mendoza shifts his attention. “Something happened with our guests, Dizon?”

Dizon nods once. “Their first night here didn’t go well. There was a disturbance. They couldn’t sleep at all.”

“Disturbance?”

Mendoza repeats.

Alvarez exhales again, slower this time. “They’re asking for security. And given the situation… I can’t just ignore it.”

He glances at Mendoza, more direct now. “Can I borrow two or three of your guys? Amateur ones. If things get physical, I don’t want any pro licenses getting dragged into it.”

Mendoza’s gaze shifts across the gym floor, already scanning. “Is it that serious? You think a couple of amateurs will be enough?”

“We just need presence,” Dizon answers. “Someone to stay alert at night, make sure they can rest. If things escalate, our guys can call the police.”

Mendoza nods slowly, weighing it, before making his decision. He turns his head and calls out across the gym.

“Douglas! Destin! Get over here.”

Two men look up from across the floor. They make their way over without rushing, but there’s something in the way they carry themselves; loose, unbothered, a little too comfortable in their own space.

Douglas, with a shaved head, moves with a slight swagger, while Destin, his hair unkempt, lifts his chin in greeting instead of nodding.

“Need something, boss?” Destin asks.

Mendoza studies them for a moment before speaking. “You two busy for the next five weeks?”

Douglas snorts. “Busy? That a new word I should learn?”

A faint smile crosses Mendoza’s face before it fades again. “Alvarez has a side job for you. We need at least two people to watch over our guests from Japan. Mostly night duty. Making sure no one disturbs them. Means you’ll have to pause your training for a while.”

Douglas rolls his shoulders once, cracking his knuckles. “There’s pay, right?”

“Of course,” Alvarez answers.

Destin lets out a short breath, a grin forming. “As long as there’s money, I’ll stand wherever you want.”

Alvarez nods, then gestures toward Dizon. “Go with him. He’ll handle everything you need while you’re there.”

His expression tightens slightly. “And remember… they’re honored guests, and also our opponents. Watch your attitude around them. But don’t mention you’re from this gym. I don’t want them thinking we’re sending people to spy on their preparation. Keep it neutral and professional.”

Douglas and Destin nod, then pack their things before heading out with Dizon. And with that, the request for “professional bodyguards” is fulfilled.

***

Meanwhile, Paulo Ramos is already being surrounded by journalists near the ring, questions coming from multiple directions as microphones and recorders push closer.

“So, what do you think about Villanueva’s condition going into the fight?” one of the journalists asks.

Ramos exhales lightly, almost amused. “Honestly? I’m more worried the old man’s going to lose his title this time.”

“But you seemed to struggle a bit just now,” another voice cuts in. “Or are we seeing it wrong?”

Ramos shakes his head. “No, he’s still a difficult opponent. I won’t deny that. But against someone like Ryoma Takeda, just being difficult isn’t enough.”

Before another question can follow, an arm hooks around his shoulder from behind. Villanueva leans in, pulling him slightly as he faces the journalists.

“You should believe what this kid is saying,” he says casually. “He knows exactly what it feels like to lose to Ryoma Takeda.”

Ramos clicks his tongue. “What are you talking about, old man…”

Villanueva chuckles. “Not just him. The whole country knows.”

A few journalists laugh, the memory clearly still fresh enough to sting.

“That was a painful loss,” Villanueva continues. “So it’s only natural. When someone carries that kind of memory, even a nightmare starts to look worse than it really is.”

The laughter spreads wider this time, and Ramos just exhales through his nose, letting it pass without arguing.

It’s not like he can deny it, because that loss didn’t just stay inside the ring. It followed him long after, circulating in ways he never asked for.

In fact, Aqualis Labs had capitalized on it for their Surge Blue campaign, recreating the moment with a dramatized scene of a fallen “monster” slumped at Ryoma’s feet, mirroring exactly how Ramos had gone down that night.

The visual spread fast, turned into jokes, then memes. And for a while, it was everywhere across the Philippines. Ramos doesn’t react to it now, but the way his jaw sets for just a fraction of a second says enough.

“Speaking of your loss against Ryoma,” one of the journalists presses, “are you planning to challenge him again? That’s still your only loss. Don’t you want a rematch?”

“Of course,” Ramos answers. “We’ve sent requests more than once. No response so far. But I get it. After taking the OPBF belt from McConnell, he’s tied up with Thanid Kouthai. And now…”

He glances sideways, “…he’s aiming for this old man’s title.”

“Relax,” Villanueva cuts in. “I’m not letting that kid take my belt. I’ll unify the OPBF and WBO Asia Pacific titles first. After that, you can fight him and fix your reputation.”

“Hey, don’t forget our deal,” Ramos shoots back. “If you pull that off, you give me the shot. Title fight for that OPBF belt.”

Villanueva shrugs. “I don’t mind. Just don’t use that as an excuse to run from your nightmare.”

Ramos scoffs. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, old man. If you keep taking this lightly, that nightmare might end up being yours.”

Villanueva laughs, loud and easy. “I’ve lost enough in my career. No nightmares left for me. Even if I lose the belt.”

He glances at Ramos briefly. “Not that I’m going to let him beat me.”

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