VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Caleb’s legs weaken beneath him, but he reacts quickly, grabbing Elliot’s right arm before the champion can pull it away.

Elliot simply keeps his composure. With his left hand, he begins tapping punches against Caleb’s head…

Dsh!

Dsh!

Dsh!

They are just small shots that lack power, but they keep coming without pause as long as Mercer refuses to release his arm.

”Mercer is hanging on for dear life!”

”He knows those legs aren’t there right now, but he’s refusing to go down!”

After more than five short punches land against Caleb’s head, the referee finally steps in, breaking up what can only be described as a desperate clinch.

”Mercer, that’s enough. Let him go!”

Mercer releases Elliot’s arm and tries to straighten himself, but his legs wobble again, forcing him to stagger sideways until his back finds the ropes.

Elliot shakes his head with genuine disappointment. ”What happened to you, Caleb? Where did the pound-for-pound best fighter go?”

Mercer doesn’t respond. He’s in no condition for the usual bravado, and even he seems to understand that pretending otherwise would be ridiculous.

”Or maybe…” Elliot adds, taking a relaxed step backward with both arms hanging loosely at his sides, ”this is what you’re really capable of when Bowman isn’t there to protect you.”

Mercer’s face twitches, twisting with wounded pride. Despite his still-unsteady legs, he forces himself forward, both gloves clenched tightly at chest level.

Elliot sees the openings and simply drives a straight right through them.

DHUACK!!!

His lips curl with amusement as he realizes he has just used the same psychological trick Ryoma pulled on Malik Adebayo earlier.

”Good Lord!”

”Mercer’s just run straight into a freight train!”

But the conviction behind Elliot’s punch isn’t quite the same as Ryoma’s. After all, it’s such a speculative experiment from Elliot, and he doesn’t commit to it with the same absolute certainty.

The punch lands hard enough to jolt Mercer backward, yet Caleb remains on his feet, staggering until his right arm catches the top rope.

”He’s still standing, but Graves has him badly hurt!”

”Look at those legs… Caleb is barely keeping himself upright!”

From the blue corner, Marcus immediately erupts. ”Tighten your fucking guard, Caleb! Get those hands up! Stop giving him your fucking head!”

Caleb finally adopts a tight turtle shell, making himself small and compact as he absorbs the champion’s pressure.

Dug. Dug. Bugh! Thud! Dug. Bugh!

Whatever pride remains, he simply has no other choice. He doesn’t even dare to maneuver with the slips and rolls of his trademark Philly Shell anymore.

At least, he manages to survive the round, refusing to go down despite several moments when his legs nearly betray him.

”Mercer somehow makes it to the bell!”

”He was in serious trouble there, but he refused to hit the canvas!”

”Graves nearly had him out on his feet, and that is a huge round for the champion!”

***

In one of the locker rooms, Nakahara watches as Caleb Mercer, once an undefeated world champion for years, now staggers around the ring in miserable condition.

When the flatscreen switches to Elliot sitting on his stool, Nakahara shakes his head in disbelief.

”He actually pulled it off.”

He then turns toward Ryoma, who is currently undergoing a medical examination.

”You showed him plenty of tricks for breaking the Philly Shell, and he’s clearly put some of them to good use. Aren’t you worried all of this might come back to bite you someday?”

Ryoma simply turns his attention toward the flatscreen while one arm remains in the medical official’s grasp. Before he can say a word, Kurogane cuts in first with a faint, dismissive smile.

”Nothing to worry about, Kaichō. If Ryoma shows you a way, you can expect he’s already set a trap somewhere along that path.”

Ryoma finally lets out a quiet scoff. ”As if I’d be that generous to someone whose belt I intend to take.”

***

Moments later, the fight resumes with the former champion showing none of the aggression he displayed earlier.

Given what he’s endured, it is the sensible approach. For now, Mercer is forced to fight safely, seemingly willing to sacrifice the round while using it to recover.

With Marcus no longer forcing him away from his natural style, Mercer appears to settle back into the fight and actually enjoy the game again.

As the round draws toward its end, Mercer’s form begins to return. He slips and rolls away from pressure before using a light L-step to escape the corner. Then he casually circles out, flicking a few light jabs as he begins dictating the distance again.

”Now that looks more like the Mercer we know. Calm, economical, and frustratingly difficult to pin down.”

”He’s buying himself time without giving Graves much to work with. That’s smart boxing.”

Ding!

”And there’s the bell to end round six!”

”Mercer has weathered the storm, and the door to reclaiming the title is certainly not closed yet.”

Seeing the change, Marcus simply abandons the aggressive approach. It is simply too risky if doing so only leads his fighter into the same foolish mistakes again.

”That’s it, Caleb. You’re doing great. We’ve still got plenty of rounds left, so don’t rush anything. Take control of the pace, make him reach for you, make him give you an opening.”

Mercer nods, confidence returning to his face as though the disaster of the fifth round had never happened.

When the bell rings, he leaves his corner with an easy stride, his upper body swaying calmly as he leans slightly forward, lead hand dangling low while his right hand stays tucked beneath his chin.

He returns to his clean, economical Philly boxing, throwing only one or two punches at a time from range. He never commits to long combinations or steps too deeply into the pocket.

Soon, the crowd grows restless, their excitement turning into scattered boos and frustrated shouts from the stands.

”Stop running! Fight him!”

”Come on, Mercer! Give us a fight!”

”Quit dancing and throw!”

But the shouting means nothing to Mercer. He has heard the same criticism for years, from people who mistake movement and restraint for fear.

”What the hell do you people know about boxing?”

”Just shut up and watch.”

Elliot doesn’t mind the criticism either. He has accounted for this kind of fight, and with the score already in his favor, there is little reason to take unnecessary risks.

Caleb keeps baiting him, patiently waiting for the mistake to come. But Elliot never gives him one.

***

The same rhythm continues through the remaining rounds. Elliot keeps pressing without becoming reckless, while Mercer grows increasingly confident in his approach, convinced that his opportunity will eventually appear.

Then the final bell rings.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

And that chance never appears.

Yet Mercer still raises both hands confidently. He even climbs onto the corner, pumping his fists toward the crowd as though the victory is already his.

”And that’s twelve rounds in the books,” the first commentator says. ”What a fight, especially after the chaos we saw earlier.”

”Mercer certainly had his moments,” his partner adds, ”but Graves has controlled the pace for large stretches tonight. The question is whether the judges saw it the same way.”

However, the boos and frustrated shouts directed at Mercer from the stands catch their attention, drawing a brief laugh from both commentators.

”Well, the crowd clearly didn’t enjoy Mercer’s approach.”

”No, they certainly didn’t. But whether they liked it or not, this one comes down to the judges.”

Soon, the arena gradually settles as the ring announcer steps toward the centre of the ring and begins reading the judges’ scorecards.

”Ladies and gentlemen, after twelve rounds of action, we go to the judges’ scorecards.”

”Judge Michael Reyes scores the bout 117–111.

”Judge Thomas Whitaker scores it 116–112.”

Mercer pumps his fist again into the air, his face breaking into a wide grin. The nearly identical scorecards are enough for him to assume the decision has gone his way.

”Yeah, baby! Come on, baby!”

The ring announcer continues with the third scorecard without much ceremony.

”Judge Robert Callahan scores the bout 117–111. And for the winner… still WBC lightweight champion…”

The ring announcer extends his arm toward Elliot. And Mercer stares at it with a pale, dumb look on his face.

”Elliot… the Swing Jazzman… Graaaves!!!”

The arena erupts in celebration, while Elliot simply raises a hand and offers a relaxed, polite applause.

Mercer, meanwhile, looks as though he has just been subjected to the cruelest injustice of his life.

”What? Are you fucking kidding me? How the hell did I lose that?!”

Like a child running to the teacher after another kid stole his candy, Mercer hunts for the nearest camera, gesturing furiously as he launches into a string of complaints.

”This is disgrace! A fucking disgrace! They stole that fight from me, and you all fucking know it!”

Whether it is mere denial or whether he genuinely believes he has won, one thing is certain: for the first time in his career, Caleb Mercer is experiencing what so many of his opponents have felt before him.