VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

After spending two rounds being overwhelmed by the Blizzard’s pressure, Mercer finally stops fighting like a man trying to avoid danger altogether.

On the third round, he still moves carefully, still circling lightly in his loose Philly Shell stance, but now he fights with the acceptance that getting touched is unavoidable at this level.

Wssht!

The flicker jab snaps out again from long range.

Wssht!

Then another.

Wssht! Wssht!

He keeps changing angles while pumping the left hand repeatedly, no longer just testing distance, but actively disrupting Roy’s rhythm.

And the moment he notices the subtle shift in Roy’s balance that signals a step-in, the flicker jab immediately chains into a compact straight cross.

The punch land sharply on guard, and then the chest…

Dug! Thud!

…enough to stop Roy’s advance midway through the step.

And the crowd reacts instantly.

“That was fast and clean!” one commentator shouts.

Mercer suddenly jumps into range right after the cross and drives a compact left hook into Roy’s right side.

Thud!

Then he immediately springs back out before Roy can answer.

“And that’s exactly the kind of exchange Mercer wants!” the second commentator says immediately. “Quick entry, clean touch to the body, then straight back out before Roy can turn it into a close-range fight!”

For the first time tonight, Roy doesn’t get to return fire at all. The distance simply isn’t there.

Mercer circles slowly toward his right afterward, then cuts back left again while resetting the rhythm with more flicker jabs.

Wssht!

Wssht!

And this time, he doesn’t even wait for Roy to pressure forward first. He suddenly bursts into close-range again, almost like a short leap rather than a normal step-in, spearing a jab directly into Roy’s midsection.

Thud!

Then he’s jumps out quickly, already gone again before Roy can fully plant his feet.

“Now Mercer’s starting to fight like himself!” the commentator says over the growing noise inside Scotiabank Arena. “Much more assertive here in round three!”

“He’s realizing he can’t survive this fight by only reacting,” his partner adds. “He has to disrupt Roy before the pressure fully settles!”

***

For several exchanges, Roy struggles to establish the same suffocating rhythm from earlier. Every time he tries stepping deeper into range, Mercer’s longer reach intercepts him first.

Another sharp left lands against Roy’s chest again…

Bugh!

…halting his momentum before he can properly begin an assault.

Mercer actually grins afterward while circling away, a small confident smirk from a champion who finally feels the fight returning to his control.

“And there’s the confidence!

“Once Mercer starts finding rhythm and confidence together, he becomes incredibly difficult to pin down!”

But it’s not like Roy lacks an answer for that adjustment. The next time Mercer flicks another jab from distance…

Wssht!

Roy slaps the glove downward while stepping in at the exact same moment, stealing the opening before Mercer can retract cleanly. Then the counter comes; a low left hook toward the body, followed directly by a compact cross.

Mercer catches the body hook against the tight right arm protecting his ribs, then twists his lead shoulder sharply inward, letting the cross glance heavily across the shell instead of landing clean.

Dug! Dug!

He blocks both, twists his shoulder back to throw a cross counter. But Roy catches the cross, and is already inside now.

The Canadian champion immediately places his right hand against Mercer’s shoulder, not fully a clinch, just to hold him in range.

And then the left hand starts working. Short compact hooks hammer repeatedly against Mercer’s right guard.

Dug! Dug! Dug! Dug!

Mercer tries rolling with the impact, trying to create angle for escape, but Roy follows every movement, staying chest-to-chest while continuing to fire.

“You are not going anywhere…”

Three compact punches holding Mercer’s guard in the middle.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

And then the target changes; Roy’s right hand quickly sends a hook upstairs.

Mercer blocks it…

Dugh!

…but Roy holds that right hand there in place, while his left hand starts smashing repeatedly into Mercer’s right side…

Thud! Thud! Thud!

…short ugly body shots thrown without full extension. And the entire arena explodes with noise.

“He’s trapping him now!” one commentator shouts.

“This is Roy’s world right here!” the second commentator yells over the chaos. “Short range! Physical pressure! He’s suffocating Mercer!”

Even while the body shots continue pounding against his ribs, Mercer keeps the shell tight around his head, understanding exactly what Roy is trying to do. The body work is bait. A way to drag the guard downward before the real shot comes upstairs.

Roy keeps hammering away like a machine.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

And Mercer keeps enduring it.

“Ho-hoo… look at that!”

“He looks furious up there!”

Eventually, Mercer finally snakes both arms inward and ties him up in a tight clinch. The crowd inside Scotiabank Arena erupts into roaring applause as the referee steps closer to separate them.

“And listen to this place! That is exactly the kind of pressure Jean-Pascal Roy has built his reputation on!”

“Mercer defended most of it well. But that’s the scary part! Roy doesn’t need every punch to land clean. He just keeps forcing you to absorb impact after impact until the fight starts happening at his pace!”

“And you can already see the difference physically! Mercer’s boxing beautifully at range, but every time Roy gets inside, the entire fight suddenly becomes exhausting!”

The moment the clinch breaks, Mercer takes two quick steps backward, reclaiming the long range he has been trying to protect since the opening bell.

Ryoma exhales softly through his nose, almost indifferent. “Here it comes again… the same dull, boring fight.”

***

For the next two rounds, the fight settles heavily into Mercer’s rhythm.

The WBC champion keeps controlling distance with those long flicker jabs, repeatedly disrupting Roy’s advance before occasionally darting inside just long enough to land a quick body shot or a compact lead hook upstairs before immediately escaping back outside again.

Roy still manages to drag the fight into ugly close-range exchanges every now and then. And each time he succeeds, the reaction inside Scotiabank Arena becomes noticeably louder.

“And you can hear the difference in the crowd every time Roy gets inside! People react because those exchanges feel dangerous immediately.”

“Mercer may be winning rounds here, but Roy is still the one making the fight feel physical.”

When Roy closes the distance and starts working inside, the fight turns sharply violent. Mercer never likes it, always looking to escape the exchange. When he fails to get away, Mercer smothers the exchange in a clinch.

Eventually, several anonymous voices shout from different parts of the crowd, clearly look disappointed.

“Stop running! Coward!”

“Fight him properly!”

“World champion my ass! Show your guts, damn it!

Mercer ignores all of it anyway, and keeps the same rhythm, choosing control and scoring over unnecessary exchanges.

And round by round, the fight slowly starts looking exactly the way he wants it to look.

***

But in the sixth round, something about Roy changes. Once the bell rings, he simply settles near the center, raises his guard, subtly rocks his lead foot back and forth against the canvas, and waits.

There’s no longer any effort to force his way inside. No pressure steps. No probing head movement searching for angles. No attempts to set up the Phantom Jab.

He just stands there while Mercer continues flicking long jabs from the outside, calmly blocking and parrying them one after another.

And it continues like that for almost a minute.

Roy barely advances at all, almost looking as though he has suddenly lost interest in chasing the fight.

Of course, Mercer notices the shift immediately.

What’s this now?

Already out of ideas?

Mercer quickly grows comfortable with the change. Without Roy threatening to step in, he begins flicking his jab more freely from long range.

Wssht!

Wssht!

Wssht! Wssht!

Wssht! Wssht! Wssht!

Wssht! Wssht!

Wssht!

But despite the activity, almost none of them land clean anymore. Roy keeps calmly catching, parrying, or subtly shifting just enough to take the sting away from every touch.

Eventually, Mercer decides to force the initiative himself. He dips into a staggered ducking feint, sends another flicker jab, then immediately jumps inside behind a lead hook upstairs.

Roy reads the entire sequence cleanly. He ignores the feint, brushes the jab aside with a short parry, then raises a tight guard over the right side of his head.

Dugh!

The hook crashes against Roy’s glove. And at the exact moment of contact, Roy’s left hand snaps straight forward almost instantly…

Dsh!

…and the cross follows immediately after.

Dhuack!

Both punches land flush on Mercer’s face before he can spring back out of range.

“HE GOT HIM!!!

The crowd erupts in surprise

“Mercer tries to catch him on the way in, but Roy is just too sharp with the response!”

“That’s the timing difference right there!”

Mercer stumbles backward, guard tightening instinctively while bracing for the follow-up.

But nothing comes. Roy simply stays where he is, guard high, lead foot gently rocking back and forth against the canvas, waiting.

His expression remains cold and composed, almost emotionless. The Blizzard has turned back into that quiet freezing breeze from the first round. And somehow, that makes the atmosphere feel even crueler.

Up in the spectator stands, Ryoma’s excitement becomes obvious despite half his face remaining hidden.

“I hope Kenta watches this fight back home,” he mutters quietly, “so he can learn something from this guy.”

Kurogane blinks and then glances sideways. “Huh? You say something?”

“Yeah,” Ryoma replies absently, eyes still fixed on the ring. “He may look calm and patient, but something’s stirring beneath it. If we’re lucky, we might see something rare here.”