After the fight ends, both corners quickly fill with their respective teams.

On Roy’s side, smiles spread easily as his team gathers around him, patting his shoulders and speaking in excited bursts. His father, acting as chief corner, stands at the center of it all with unmistakable pride, lifting the IBF belt high above his head.

Roy himself remains composed, breathing evenly, his expression unchanged as though nothing about this moment demands emotional reaction.

Across the ring, Mercer’s corner is silent and heavy. His team stands with lowered heads or fixed stares, still processing what just happened.

Mercer stands still, shoulders heavy, staring forward without focus. The fight keeps replaying in his mind, but nothing resolves into an answer, only the same sequence repeating without escape.

Normally, a champion would already be thinking about a rematch. But Mercer does not reach that thought. What comes instead is just a slow unraveling of certainty that has defined his entire reign.

Thirty-nine fights undefeated, years of dominance, a championship run built on control and belief in his own inevitability. Now, none of it feels as absolute as it once did.

At ringside, Bowman sits rigidly, his expression tight, while the other promoters around him look increasingly displeased. Only Jackson remains relaxed in contrast, his easy-going demeanor unchanged despite the tension building around him.

"It looks like that undefeated record was just our protection," Vaughan says flatly, making it sound less like an achievement and more like an arrangement that benefited them.

Jackson exhales. "Hey, I get you’re upset, but think about the guy next to you before you say things like that."

Vaughan does not soften. Instead, he looks directly at Bowman. "You might still make money off Mercer," he says. "But I’d start looking elsewhere. The world’s big enough that there’s always someone more talented out there."

Bowman glares at him, visibly angry, but before he can respond, Jackson leans forward into Vaughan’s space, subtly intruding between him and Bowman as if deliberately drawing both of their attention onto himself.

"Well then maybe it’s time you take another look at the WBC Lightweight scene again. My father just brought in a new talent from Japan."

Ramirez immediately cuts in. "If you mean Shimamura Suzuki, forget it. He couldn’t even handle Elliot Graves."

Mendes shakes his head. "I actually see something in him. At least he doesn’t fight like someone trying to survive on decisions. His defense is topnotch even at close-range. He can endure any kind of pressure."

"Are you telling me that drunkard could handle this guy?" Vaughan asks, gesturing toward Roy in the red corner.

No one responds to his question, because Roy isn’t just any pressure.

Even Jackson can no longer maintain his nonchalant demeanor. He sees the potential, but it is still not enough to convince him with certainty.

***

Back in the ring, the announcer finally steps forward toward center canvas, raising the microphone as he prepares to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen, after a decisive championship contest for the IBF and WBC Lightweight titles, contested over the scheduled rounds, we have a referee stoppage to render the official result..."

The announcer pauses briefly as the noise in the arena rises again, then steadies his tone.

"The bout comes to an end at the conclusion of the fight."

"Your winner... and now the unified IBF and WBC Lightweight Champion of the World..."

The announcer raises his hand toward where Roy stands. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

"JEAN-PASCAL... ’THE BLIZZARD’ ROY!"

The crowd erupts as Roy walks forward to the center, accepting the WBC belt. His father then steps in and places the IBF belt over his shoulder, completing the unification.

"This was a complete performance from Jean-Pascal Roy," one commentator says. "Controlled pressure from start to finish."

"And it shuts down every criticism about him avoiding Mercer," the other adds. "He didn’t avoid anything tonight."

"Three successful defenses of his IBF title... and now he’s achieved unification of two world championships!"

"Could history be repeating itself? From his reign in the Super Featherweight division to now, Jean-Pascal Roy once again stands on the path of dominance!"

"Two divisions, two eras of control... and now he’s pushing toward becoming undisputed in the Lightweight class!"

Roy listens quietly at first, indifferent as the commentary continues. But the mention of history repeating itself draws a subtle shift in his expression. He turns slightly toward the announcer and gestures, signaling for the microphone.

Once he receives the mic, Roy clears his throat once and brings it closer to his mouth. Instantly, anticipation rises across the arena, the crowd expecting a statement about his next steps in this apparent path of dominance.

But Roy has no intention of meeting that expectation, instead choosing once again to stir controversy in a way he has often done before.

"Honestly," he says, "there’s no pride in me winning a belt from a champion who only knows how to run."

A ripple of shock, disbelief, and rising noise spreads through the arena almost instantly. Half of the arena, especially Mercer’s supporters, reacts in outrage.

But Roy continues anyway, his voice steady. "So to the WBC, with no disrespect intended to the organization... I am relinquishing the title."

The arena explodes into confusion.

"What?!"

"He’s giving it up?!"

"Did he just say...?!"

"What the hell is he talking about?"

The commentators are forced into stunned reactions.

"No way... no way he just said that!"

"Jean-Pascal Roy... fresh off a win over the WBC champion... is now vacating the belt!"

"Is he disrespecting the WBC organization?"

"He clearly stated it wasn’t intended as an offense toward the WBC."

"Then what is it supposed to mean?"

"There’s only one interpretation... it’s a direct insult toward Mercer."

Roy removes the title and hands it to the WBC representative inside the ring. The official takes it hesitantly, clearly caught off guard.

From nearby, Mercer stiffens. His jaw tightens as the words settle in. The humiliation is not just implied anymore. It is spoken openly, in front of everyone.

But Roy doesn’t even look at him. After handing the belt back to the WBC representative, he turns toward the crowd again and continues speaking without hesitation.

"Go ahead. Crown a new champion. And when you do, that champion can challenge me."

He pauses briefly, then looks toward Bowman and the surrounding promoters. His gaze sharpens slightly.

"Just make sure it’s not another champion who survives under someone else’s protection."

A wave of disbelief hits first, then instantly transforms into roaring excitement as the arena begins to fully grasp what has just happened. It is no longer confusion, but pure, electrified shock at the boldness of it.

The noise swells even louder as fans rise to their feet, reacting to something they have almost never seen at this level of boxing: a reigning unified champion discarding a belt in real time and openly demanding a new challenger be produced to face him again.

Commentators struggle to keep their voices steady over the chaos, calling it one of the most unprecedented moments in boxing history.

Up in the spectator’s stand, Kurogane lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly.

"That audacity... reminds me of someone."

He glances sideways toward Ryoma, teasing with him. "Say we send a challenge to this IBF champion... think you can beat this guy? Just saying, one of his losses was actually against Liam O’Connel, your next opponent."

Ryoma doesn’t answer. His eyes remain locked on Roy without even a flicker of distraction, completely absorbed by what he has just witnessed.

He hears Kurogane clearly. But his instincts are occupied elsewhere, replaying the fight, the moment, the decision, the statement itself, as if trying to understand Roy as something to reach.

At first, it’s just amazement. Yet slowly, something inside him shifts without permission.

<< Khukhukhu... >>

<< What an interesting fella. >>

His face tightens, unsteady, almost unhinged. And he starts seeing Jean-Pascal Roy as someone to crush.

***

Several rows away, another pair of eyes remains fixed on the ring.

Liam O’Connel himself is also present in the arena, elbows resting against his knees, the roaring arena fading into distant noise around him.

As he watches Roy silently, memories of that fateful night resurface in his mind; Roy’s second professional fight. Even back then, Roy already looked absurdly gifted, sharp footwork, clean combinations, high ring IQ, dominating the scoring for almost the entire match while carefully avoiding unnecessary risks.

But Liam had kept walking forward anyway. Pressure after pressure, body shots, rough exchanges, forcing the fight uglier every round until, in the final round, Roy finally went down.

He defeated Roy that night. But ever since then, Jean-Pascal Roy has never been the same fighter again.

The careful fighter who once prioritized clean scoring disappeared, replaced by someone terrifying enough to dominate an entire division, become undisputed at Super Featherweight, and now stands at the center of the Lightweight world after dismantling Mercer.

Meanwhile, Liam himself is still clinging to world-title contention.

"...Look how far you’ve gone, Roy," he mutters quietly.

A bitter twist tightens faintly inside his chest as he watches Roy standing there with only the IBF belt over his shoulder, casually throwing away the WBC title like it means nothing.