And indeed, once the second round begins, the entire rhythm of the fight changes. Roy starts pressing forward immediately, not recklessly, but with constant pressure that never seems to pause.

Step after step, he stalks Mercer around the ring with the same suffocating patience that made him feared across two divisions, gradually reducing space without wasting movement.

And the moment he reaches the exact distance he wants, he suddenly explodes forward with that Phantom Jab.

The left snaps out so abruptly that Mercer tilts his head left almost entirely on reflex rather than from clearly reading the punch, yet the glove still clips the skin near his temple.

Tic!

Before Mercer can fully reset, Roy is already close enough to begin attacking.

Left hook. Right hook. Left hook.

Mercer compresses into the Philly Shell. His right arm tightens across his chest. His lead shoulder twists inward. Then his right glove rises higher to protect the side of his head as all three hooks crash heavily against the shell.

Dug! Dug! Dug!

The moment the combination ends, Mercer fires a coiling right hand in return, but Roy reacts instantly, taking just enough of a step backward to let the punch fall short.

"And that right there is the problem," one commentator says immediately. "Roy’s pressure isn’t reckless. He’s staying balanced even during the exchanges."

"Exactly," his partner adds. "Most pressure fighters overcommit once they get inside. Roy doesn’t. He’s still reading counters while forcing the pace."

As soon as space opens again, Mercer slides smoothly toward open ring space, clearly trying to avoid getting trapped near the ropes.

But he barely manages two steps before Roy suddenly closes the distance again with that same explosive step-in.

At least Mercer understands one thing now. He no longer needs to wait for the jab itself. The step-in is already the warning.

The instant Roy surges forward, Mercer folds back into the shell.

Dug!

This time the Phantom Jab crashes directly into Mercer’s lead shoulder.

Mercer then shifts deeper into a blade stance, legs spread wider while his upper body leans farther backward, leaving almost nothing exposed except the shoulder line itself.

Roy keeps hammering anyway.

Left hook. Right hook. Left hook.

Mercer keeps parrying, deflecting, and rolling the impacts across the shell, but Roy’s pressure never loosens.

Dugh! Dugh! Dugh!

Then suddenly, after the final left hook, Roy’s torso swings much wider to the right, his right foot digging hard into the canvas while his hips coil violently in the opposite direction.

Riding that momentum, he drives another right hook far heavier than the earlier ones.

BAM!!!

The punch slams into Mercer’s shoulder again, yet the impact alone visibly shakes his balance and jolts his legs beneath him.

And Roy does not stop there. His body swings immediately back toward the opposite direction, left foot planting sharply while his hips twist once more with even greater momentum.

BAM!!!

Another crushing hook smashes into Mercer’s guarded chest.

Mercer manages to absorb most of it on both arms, but the force still knocks him backward several steps, his guard lifting instinctively after the collision.

The arena finally erupts, thousands of voices crashing together at once after nearly two rounds of restrained tension finally explode into violence.

"What the hell is that?!" one commentator blurts out.

His partner sounds almost equally stunned. "...Is that a Dempsey Roll?"

The arena finally erupts, thousands of voices crashing together at once after nearly two rounds of restrained tension finally explode into violence.

And before Mercer can even fully recover his balance, Roy suddenly closes the distance again with that same Phantom Step.

Mercer reacts immediately, raising his right glove, ready to parry the incoming jab.

But Roy’s left hand suddenly stops midway, then curves sharply from the outside.

Dsh!

The lead hook slaps violently across Mercer’s face from the side, snapping sweat into the air beneath the lights.

"Ohhh! That lands clean!"

"Mercer bit on the jab completely!"

Before Mercer can reset, Roy is already back inside again. And the assault begins; hook after hook on both sides.

Mercer folds straight back into the shell, gloves tightening high while his shoulders roll constantly beneath the impact, deflecting some punches, absorbing others across forearms, elbows, and guard.

But this time, his right hand stays loaded near his ribs, tightly coiled and waiting.

"So you learned the Dempsey Roll to break my shell..."

Mercer’s eyes stay locked forward beneath the guard.

"Go ahead. Try it if you dare."

But the Dempsey Roll never comes. Roy remains compact, disciplined, patient.

Dug! Dug! Bugh! Dugh!

He simply keeps hammering the shell without urgency, without overcommitting, calmly breaking down Mercer’s defense piece by piece.

And the terrifying part is that Roy clearly no longer cares whether the punches land cleanly.

Shoulder, forearms, gloves, it makes no difference to him. If he has to break the shell apart first, then he’ll break the shell apart first.

***

Every time even the smallest gap appears in Roy’s assault, Mercer immediately flicks out a left hand before using that brief interruption to slide himself away from danger again.

But he never gets far. Roy’s Phantom Step keeps erasing the distance almost immediately, closing space before Mercer can properly reset his rhythm again.

And little by little, Mercer begins realizing this is not purely a tactical problem anymore. The difference in raw physicality is becoming impossible to fully neutralize through strategy alone.

"He can’t keep Roy off him," one commentator says as Mercer circles away again. "Not for long. And look how much energy Mercer’s spending just trying to create breathing room."

Mercer continues boxing cleanly, disciplined, refusing to stay planted long enough for real exchanges.

But as long as he keeps fighting that way, Roy simply continues hammering the shell relentlessly with those compact hooks, every rotation sharp, balanced, and heavy enough to keep shaking Mercer’s guard apart little by little.

Roy doesn’t chase recklessly. He just keeps grinding forward like pressure itself has taken physical form.

And somehow, even while Roy continues grinding Mercer down with compact pressure, the entire arena keeps waiting for that devastating hook to appear again. Because the difference is obvious; the shape, the momentum, and the sound it created on impact.

Everything about that earlier swinging hook felt completely different from the compact combinations Roy is using now.

"Yo, Ryoma..." Kurogane mutters while keeping his eyes on the ring. "That last one... those huge swinging hooks earlier. That was a Dempsey Roll, right? I didn’t even know this guy had something like that."

Ryoma slowly shakes his head beneath the mask. "I’ve followed Roy for a long time," he says quietly. "And just like you, this is the first time I’ve ever seen him use it."

Kurogane’s expression tightens slightly after hearing that. "So you’re telling me..." he mutters, "...he deliberately prepared that move for this fight."

"Probably," Ryoma replies. "Maybe that’s his answer for breaking the Philly Shell."

Below them, Mercer slips away again after another short exchange, immediately circling to open space while Roy calmly stalks after him without rushing.

"But honestly," Ryoma continues, eyes still fixed on the ring, "I don’t really like that idea."

Kurogane glances sideways briefly.

"Why?"

"Because Mercer is one of the best counter punchers in the world," Ryoma says. "Using something as committal as a Dempsey Roll against someone like him is dangerous."

His eyes remain fixed on the ring afterward, watching Roy continue stalking Mercer forward with that same disciplined pressure.

"And Roy isn’t reckless," he says quietly. "He’s too smart for that. A guy like him understands the risk behind every movement he makes."

Kurogane glances sideways slightly. "Then why use it?"

Ryoma narrows his eyes a little. "That’s exactly why I think there’s something behind it."