VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The opening bell cuts sharply through Scotiabank Arena, and almost at the exact same moment, Ryoma’s Vision Grid activates instinctively.

“And here we go!” one commentator shouts over the roar surrounding the ring. “Years of buildup finally leading to this moment! WBC champion Celeb Mercer against IBF champion Jean-Pascal ‘The Blizzard’ Roy!”

“You are looking at two completely different interpretations of elite boxing,” his partner adds. “Mercer with precision, control, and ring IQ. Roy with pressure, attrition, and relentless physical presence.”

Ryoma’s attention is fixed entirely on Roy, observing the Canadian champion’s movement, balance, spacing, and rhythm from the moment he leaves his corner.

Roy advances calmly toward the center of the ring without showing any urgency. He simply walks forward until he reaches cautious engagement range with Mercer. Only then does he raise his guard.

His right hand stays compact near his chin while the left rests slightly forward in a looser position. His shoulders remain relaxed, knees stable, weight distributed evenly enough that he still looks capable of stepping in any direction without needing adjustment first.

And even before Roy applies any real pressure, Mercer subtly shifts backward and settles into his loose Philly Shell stance as he begins circling slowly to his left, then back to his right. He observes the opponent by changing angle, but clearly unwilling to step any closer.

Ryoma notices the contrast at once. Mercer possesses the longer frame by several centimeters, enough that he should naturally feel more comfortable controlling the edge of engagement distance. But instead of occupying that space confidently, he is already treating Roy’s range with caution.

Finally, he tests the water, flicking a jab from a far…

Wssht!

… his lead shoulder lunges quite further forward.

And Roy doesn’t even react, watching the jab cut short right before his right glove, not touching anything.

Mercer immediately takes a shallow side step afterward, circling lightly before flicking another jab.

Wssht!

This time, he slides his lead foot slightly forward during the release, adjusting the distance based on the first attempt.

The jab travels farther now. But again, Roy barely reacts. He simply lowers his right glove and watches the punch stop just short of his face.

His expression remaining almost completely unchanged, as though he had already measured the exact distance long before the jab was thrown.

“Interesting…” Ryoma mutters quietly.

Mercer tests the range once more, and this time the jab finally touches Roy’s right glove lightly at the end of its extension.

But the instant Mercer retracts the left hand, Roy steps in, sharp and sudden. It’s a short phantom step that steals distance in a blink before he fires his own jab straight down the middle, immediately chained into a cross.

Mercer reacts almost entirely on reflex, bringing up his right glove from the Philly Shell, but…

Dsh!

The jab still slips through enough to clip the edge of his right cheek.

Immediately, Mercer turns his shoulder sharply inward, and the cross smashes across the shell with a heavy thud.

He feints briefly with his right hand, stealing a moment before slipping back out to long range again,

Mercer slowly moves left and right again in the distance, eyes fixed carefully on Roy now.

“Just like they said…”

“His step-in is ridiculously fast.”

Up in the spectator stands, Kurogane’s eyes narrow slightly after seeing that short exchange.

“That move…” he mutters. “It looks similar to the one you used against Dante Villanueva.”

“The Phantom Jab?” Ryoma says quietly. “It’s not just similar. It’s his move. I stole it from him.”

***

Back in the ring, Mercer still circles slowly from long range in his loose Philly Shell stance, changing angles little by little while continuing to test Roy with occasional flicking jabs.

Wssht!

Wssht! Wssht!

But the rhythm has changed. A layer of caution now lingers behind every movement, Mercer’s eyes fixed constantly on Roy’s lead side, wary of that sudden step-in at all times.

Another flicker jab shoots out again.

Wssht!

But this time, the punch is barely even fully committed before Mercer already pulls himself backward again, almost as if he had imagined another Phantom Jab exploding toward him the moment he extended.

In fact, Roy doesn’t do anything. He simply stands there near center ring, guard relaxed, watching Mercer with the same cold expressionless face from earlier. And somehow, that absence of reaction feels more intimidating than any feint.

“And you can already see the respect here from Mercer,” one commentator says over the broadcast. “He’s not giving Roy free entries at all.”

“Because one mistake against a pressure fighter like Roy can change the entire fight,” the second commentator adds. “People think pressure is only about aggression, but sometimes it’s psychological first. Sometimes just standing in front of you is enough to slow your offense down.”

The cautious rhythm continues for more than another minute. Mercer keeps circling from long range, repeatedly testing distance with jab after jab, but almost none of them truly reach their target.

Some stop short intentionally. Others glance harmlessly against Roy’s gloves before immediately retracting.

And through all of it, Roy barely reacts. He simply watches how Mercer refuses to step too deep, watches how every jab comes with an escape route already prepared behind it.

***

As the round enters its final minute, Mercer finally begins adding more variation to his left hand.

Sometimes it becomes nothing more than a probing extension, hovering briefly without commitment.

Sometimes a quick jab snaps out followed immediately by a half-hearted cross that Mercer pulls back almost the instant it leaves his shoulder.

Other times, Mercer leaves the lead hand extended entirely, drawing small circles in the air while shifting angles before suddenly spearing a jab toward Roy’s midsection.

But Roy’s responses remain almost absurdly economical. Even against the body jab, he only needs a small half-step backward before gently parrying the glove aside with his right hand.

Only during the final ten seconds does Mercer finally take a real risk. He steps slightly deeper into range and fires a longer combination, left-right-left, trying to overwhelm Roy’s guard with speed before escaping.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

But the Blizzard of Toronto barely moves from his position, and every punch only lands cleanly against his gloves and forearms.

Then he cocks his right, and Mercer immediately pulls away. And suddenly, that phantom jab appears again, Roy following his retreat with quick jab behind a sharp step-in.

Dsh!

It lands flushes on Mercer’s nose, his face winced by the surprise. Roy slides his lead foot forward, intending to send a left hook, but…

Ding!

The bell rings first.

Roy still lets the hook continue halfway through its arc before stopping it cold in midair.

And somehow, even that alone makes it obvious to everyone watching. This man is completely in control.

“And there’s the end of round one,” one commentator says as the crowd responds with scattered applause across the arena. “Very cautious opening from both champions.”

“Especially Mercer,” his partner adds immediately. “He spent almost the entire round testing range without really committing himself.”

“And honestly, the cleanest punch of the round still belongs to Roy from that sudden jab early on.”

“That step-in speed clearly got Mercer’s attention.”

For a moment after the bell, the atmosphere inside Scotiabank Arena feels strangely restrained.

Nothing truly explosive happened during the first round. And yet the tension inside the building has only grown heavier.

Kurogane glances around before speaking. “…This silence is kind of strange.”

“Because everybody knows what comes next,” Ryoma says calmly. “Roy’s fights always start like this. Quiet first round. And then suddenly, that cold breeze turns into a blizzard.”