RNP Page 61
Page 61
Viktor felt the blood rush to his temples, but he calmly walked off the weigh-in. As he passed Max, his eyes suddenly widened: "See you in the ring, rich kid. Hope you bring a bigger anal plug!"
Before the match bell rang, Viktor made a brief gesture of clasping his hands together in a corner, essentially saying only, "Kill him!"
Old Jack gave him one last reminder: "Control the distance, don't let him lead the way, find an opportunity to use your right fist..."
As the bell rang, Victor did not probe first as usual, but rushed straight to the center of the field and swung his fist.
Max clearly hadn't anticipated this start, and he habitually threw a probing left jab, but Victor didn't defend at all, and the fist floated past his head.
He dodged one punch, but Max threw another.
With a muffled thud, Max's fist sank into the thick layer of fat on Victor's side, like hitting a sack full of sand.
Victor didn't even flinch before his right hook came hurtling toward Max's head.
Max barely managed to lean back and dodge, but Victor's left hook followed immediately.
The punch grazed Max's earlobe, and he felt a wave of dizziness, instinctively taking a few steps back to adjust his posture.
A gasp erupted from the stands—no one had expected the match to start this way.
"Come on, you idiot born of your cousin!"
Viktor growled and continued his advance, "Didn't you say you were going to beat me down? I'm going to shove my fist down your stomach!"
Max's expression changed. He quickly adjusted his tactics, starting to move around Victor and occasionally firing quick jabs.
Several punches did land on Viktor's chin and stomach, but the massive body only swayed slightly before continuing forward like an unstoppable tank.
The bell rang at the end of the first round, saving Max.
He returned to the corner, panting, and the coaching team quickly poured water and massaged him.
"Damn it, his fat layer is too thick, my fist can't penetrate it at all!"
Max gritted his teeth and said, "It's like he's wearing a suit of armor!"
"Change tactics, target the liver,"
The coach said urgently, "With repeated blows, even the thickest layer of fat can't protect the internal organs."
At the start of the second round, Max became noticeably more cautious.
He used his faster pace to try to attack Viktor's ribs from the side.
A tricky right hook did indeed hit Viktor's liver, but Viktor only frowned and then threw a straight punch at Max's face.
Max managed to raise his arms to block, but the force made his arms go numb.
Victor then unleashed a flurry of punches, delivering two powerful swings that completely distorted Max's defensive stance.
As Max instinctively tightened his guard to protect his head, Victor suddenly changed direction and delivered a vicious right uppercut that bypassed his defense and struck Max hard in the abdomen.
Max let out a painful groan, his handsome face contorting in pain.
The power of that liver-bursting punch traveled through his meticulously trained six-pack abs and directly impacted his internal organs.
The impact of over a thousand pounds not only caused him excruciating pain, but also broke one of his ribs.
Max knelt on the ground and started retching. The referee immediately stepped forward to count the hits. Victor, in his habit, threw an uppercut that nearly knocked the referee down.
The referee glared at Viktor and immediately began counting down the seconds.
When he counted to 8, Max struggled to stand up, but his legs wouldn't obey him and his eyes were already unfocused.
"competition is over!"
The referee raised Victor's hand. "The winner is—Victor Lee!"
The sideline medical team rushed onto the ring to check Max's injury.
Viktor, panting heavily, watched his opponent being carried onto a stretcher. He felt little joy at victory; he only wanted to curse:
"You fucking fell so fast, I didn't even get a chance to unleash a move!"
Viktor was escorted back to the locker room when two men in official uniforms approached him.
“Mr. Victor Lee, we need to conduct a random drug test on you,”
One of them said that there was obvious suspicion in his eyes—they didn't believe Viktor.
Why are you only checking me?
Victor frowned. "Because I'm Asian? Or because I'm fat? I had a physical exam before I went into the ring!"
"This is standard procedure,"
The other person said curtly, "Your performance is extraordinary, which will make it more convincing!"
"Are you even here?!"
Victor sneered, but still followed them to the testing room.
He knows this trick—when they can't explain your success using common sense, they accuse you of cheating.
The test result will of course be negative, but the process itself is an insult.
The anger stemming from the insult lasted for several days!
Three days later, Victor stood in the ring for the third round, facing Illinois Junior Champion Derek Stone.
This young man has the perfect boxing physique—189 centimeters tall, 230 pounds of well-proportioned muscles, and moves as nimbly as a leopard.
Before the fight, Derek confidently told the media, "I will use technique and speed to teach that big guy what real boxing is. Strength isn't everything."
When the first round bell rang, Derek indeed displayed championship-level skills.
He moved nimbly, constantly harassing Victor with jabs, and immediately retreated from the attack range after landing a successful punch.
Viktor missed several times with his heavy punches, and instead used up a lot of his energy due to the excessive force of his movements.
Don't chase after him!
During a break in the rounds, Old Jack shouted, "His reach isn't as long as yours! Let him come find you! Save your energy!"
In the second round, Derek seemed more confident, and he even began to imitate the signature moves of famous boxers, drawing cheers from the audience.
But Victor noticed that Derek's jabs were starting to lose power, and his retreat after each attack was also slowing down.
Just as Derek threw another jab, Victor suddenly lunged forward, closing the distance between them.
Derek hurriedly backed away, but his back had already touched the ropes.
Victor's left and right swings came like a storm, and Derek could only hold on tightly to Victor's thick waist, trying to buy himself some breathing time.
The referee warned him, but Derek ignored him.
Viktor felt a surge of irritation. He suddenly swayed his upper body from side to side, the oil and sweat reducing friction, and forcefully broke free from Derek's embrace.
The instant Derek lost his balance, Victor unleashed a straight punch like a cannonball, striking his opponent squarely in the face.
With a crisp 'crack', Derek's nose broke, and blood gushed out.
Derek staggered backward, his eyes glazed over.
Viktor strode forward, ready to finish the fight with a single punch.
The referee immediately intervened, ramming Viktor in the front with his body, sending him flying two steps, thus ending the match.
After checking, the referee found that Derek could no longer see how many fingers he had, and thus announced the result of the match:
"TKO! The winner is Victor Lee!"
Medical personnel quickly stopped Derek's bleeding.
Victor went over to apologize, but Derek's coaching staff glared at him as if he had committed some unforgivable crime.
"Barbarians! Boxing should be a sport!"
One of the assistant coaches spat.
Viktor shook his head and walked away.
He knew these people would never accept a boxer like him—not because they really cared about 'technique' or 'sportsmanship'.
It's not because of his existence that they've shattered their preconceived notions about what a boxer should be like—but the person who will truly shatter whether boxing is a fight or a sport is about to emerge.
Back in the locker room, old Jack patted him on the back excitedly: "Well done, kid! One more win and we'll get a ticket to the National Boxing Championships!"
Victor applied an ice pack to his swollen knuckles but did not respond.
He recalled the pained expression on Max's face as he was carried away on a stretcher, Derek's face covered in blood, and the fearful yet excited looks in the eyes of the audience.
This is his only path.
But the news came even faster before the final match!
Chapter 50: Apollo Dies, Tyson Emerges (Main Quest)
The neon lights of downtown Chicago streamed through the hotel windows, casting shifting colors on Victor's face.
He sat in a hotel suite, in the seat closest to the television, with a nearly untouched glass of whiskey in front of him.
The area was packed with people—Michael, Ethan, Jimmy, old Jack, Foucault, and Ray, Millie, and Max, who were competing in the light heavyweight category.
Everyone stared at the 25-inch color television, which was showing footage of the MGM Grand boxing ring.
They booked three rooms in total: Victor, Michael, and Ethan shared a room; Ray, Old Jack, and Foucault shared a room; and Millie and Max shared a room.
"I can't believe Apollo would agree to this exhibition match. Back then, he was just a vibrant young man, and now he's become so unwise."
Foucault spoke to old Jack beside him, his fingers unconsciously tapping the bar counter—the men were mostly on the window side, surrounded by smoke:
"That Drago guy is a killing machine. Look at his physique, he was born to fight!"
Old Jack flicked his cigarette ash and shook his head: "Apollo has always been stubborn, especially when it comes to American boxing honor. Do you remember those three fights he had with Rocky? That guy has a warrior's blood in his veins."
Foucault nodded, his gaze returning to the screen.
Viktor stared intently.
Apollo Creed walked into the ring wearing his signature Stars and Stripes shorts, a confident smile that both impressed and annoyed Victor.
A deafening roar of cheers erupted from the stands, and flashbulbs went off like a storm.
"He is not a warrior, he is a knight!"