vncnus Page 108
Page 108
Now it's a battle of who can extract more strength from the pain, and whose will is melted by suffering first.
The bell signaling the end of the round seemed impossibly far away.
Viktor's fat seemed to melt away, his body temperature rose, and the shouts of the audience around him seemed to come and go.
Radok's uppercut grazed his chin, the edge of his mouthguard chipping the inside of his mouth, leaving him with a mouthful of rusty taste.
Viktor spat out a mouthful of blood, which splattered onto the canvas like a small red flower, but such a blow could not shake Viktor's will!
Suddenly, Radok's defense faltered slightly—the Jamaican's chin was exposed to attack as sweat dripped into his eyes.
Viktor's pain miraculously disappeared, the world fell silent, and he saw a golden path extending from his fist to his opponent's jaw.
Muscle memory takes over the body.
Viktor twisted his body and used the excruciating pain in his right leg as propulsion, unleashing a right uppercut like a cannonball.
The moment the leather boxing gloves made contact with Radok's chin, he heard a sickening sound of bones colliding!
bite·····!
The bell rang, and Victor's fourth knockdown failed to finish off his opponent.
The referee walked over to Radok, repeatedly checked with him, and finally agreed to let Radok continue playing.
By the start of the sixth round, Frankie had run out of advice and could only tell Victor to persevere and keep going!
At 1 minute and 38 seconds, Victor seized a moment of lapse in Radok's defense.
He noticed that his opponent's right hand was half an inch lower than usual, possibly due to over-fatigue of the shoulder muscles.
This opening only lasted 0.3 seconds, but that was enough for a professional boxer.
He twisted and exerted force, from his ankles to his waist and then to his shoulders, the power like a compressed spring suddenly released.
Another textbook right uppercut pierced the defense.
The sensation of a punch hitting someone is like hitting a sack full of wet sand.
Radok's jaw slammed shut with a sickening thud, and he collapsed to the ground like a felled oak tree.
A deafening gasp erupted from the audience, and some even covered their eyes.
Viktor retreated to the neutral corner, his lungs feeling like they were being branded with a hot iron, and he was trying to recover his strength as quickly as possible—he knew that Radok wouldn't fall down; Radok had just retreated, and the actual force of his strike was no more than three hundred pounds.
He saw the referee crouch down next to Radok and begin the count, the spotlight reflecting a rainbow-like halo on the sweat-soaked boxing ring.
“1····2···3····”
The counting sound pierced the blood flow in the eardrums with a deafening roar.
At the fifth second, Radok's finger twitched.
“6····7·····”
When the referee counted to '7', Radok propped himself up with trembling arms.
He spat out a bloody tooth, leaving a scarlet arc on the table.
When he stood up again, his eyes reminded Viktor of a man he had met on the construction site: a man who spent 335 days a year on the construction site, going home every month to gain 30 pounds of weight, which he would burn off in a year, and who refused to slack off because his son wanted money.
Radok stood up, his steps were steady, and his punches were still precise.
The two exchanged several punches. Viktor's arm was in pain and he was a fraction of a second too late. Radok then delivered a jab to Viktor's nose, and warm blood immediately rushed into his mouth.
As Viktor tasted the blood, he suddenly remembered when he was fifteen and started carrying cement with a group of old guys on a construction site.
The moonlight that night was just as pale as it is now, but the boy refused to give up.
The match attracted a lot of people, the broadcast viewership was rising, Trump was laughing heartily, Tyson was watching TV intently, and Tyson's coach was also watching TV.
"These two will be formidable rivals!"
The seventh round became the stage for a comeback.
Radok suddenly changed his rhythm, feigning a right straight punch but then changing direction midway.
Viktor's block was a beat too slow again, and the heavy punch landed squarely on his forehead.
The world instantly lost its color, the thick neck churned with fleshy waves that stretched all the way to the waist, and the damned buzzing of church bells rang in the ears.
For the first time, Viktor knelt down, his mouthguard spurting out with blood, bouncing twice on the canvas before landing in a patch of sweat.
The commentator in the broadcast booth lost his temper, ripping off his tie and yelling into the microphone, "My God! This is the craziest comeback I've ever seen in my career! Radok has pulled off a miraculous comeback!"
Through his blurry vision, Victor could see the referee's lips moving, but the sound seemed to be coming from underwater.
When he grabbed the rope and stood up, he found that the straps of his left glove had come loose and blood was seeping from between his fingers.
That light bulb became the only color in my field of vision, like a lighthouse in the darkness.
Can you continue?
The referee stared at his rapidly swelling left eye.
As Victor nodded, a drop of blood fell onto the referee's gleaming leather shoe.
He saw Radok panting across from him, his chest rising and falling with his rapid breathing.
Before the start of the eighth round, both fighters' coaches were frantically pressing ice packs on their students' swollen faces.
Victor's left eye was already squinted into a slit, and Radok's right arm was clearly unable to be raised to the standard height.
Old Jack pressed an adrenaline-soaked cotton swab against the wound on Victor's brow bone, the stinging pain sending a shiver down his spine.
Old Jack's voice was hoarse, "Don't get distracted! Don't get distracted! In such an exciting competition, the loser will be the backdrop for the winner for the rest of their life!!!"
The sound of the bell drowned out the second half of the sentence.
They charged at each other like gladiators from ancient times.
Every clash of fists sent shivers down the spines of the audience, and the photographers' fingers twitched from constantly pressing the shutter, yet no one wanted to miss a single moment.
The medical supervisor lay tensely by the ropes, ready to end this near-suicidal struggle at any moment.
In the corner, a reporter muttered to himself, taking notes in his sweat-soaked notebook: "Round 8, 2 minutes and 15 seconds, Viktor's straight punch forced Radok into a corner. Radok's counter-punch grazed Viktor's ear, and the blood from his gloves glittered like rubies under the spotlight..."
His pen suddenly broke, and the ink smeared on the paper, forming a strange flower shape.
At the same time, Viktor delivered a body strike to Radok's ribs.
Radok's roar of pain was drowned out by the screams of the crowd, and he stumbled backward, knocking over the referee.
Viktor seized the opportunity to rush forward, but slipped on a sweat stain.
This mistake gave Radok a chance to catch his breath. He leaned against the ropes, took a deep breath, and suddenly smiled, revealing his bloodied teeth.
That smile reminded Viktor of lightning before a storm.
The bell was about to ring for the start of the ninth round. Viktor slumped on a stool in the corner, sweat pouring down his swollen face like a waterfall.
His vision was half-blurred by the blood from the split brow bone, and every breath carried the smell of rust—the smell of his own blood.
"Drink it!"
Old Jack roughly shoved the straw between his swollen lips, and the liquid, a mixture of electrolytes and glucose, slid down his throat.
"That guy's left hook is all gone. Did you see the range of his arm swing in the last round?"
The icy water was suddenly splashed on his face, and Viktor jolted.
Old Jack slapped his cheek with his calloused hand: "Wake up! He's more tired than you! Think about why you're standing here! He's still a hero even if he loses, but if you lose, don't even think about getting your $80,000 appearance fee again!"
The noise from the audience surged in like a tide.
Viktor's blurry vision went over the ropes and he saw Jamaican "Razor" Radok in the opposite corner having cotton wool stuffed into his nose by his coach—his nose had been shattered by Viktor in the third round.
When Victor stood up, he noticed that Radok's movements had indeed become sluggish.
The master of dodging, who had been like a spring in the previous rounds, now felt as if his legs were filled with lead.
But Victor knew that the wounded beast was actually more dangerous.
"Move! Don't stand still!"
Old Jack's roar came from afar.
The opportunity came at 1 minute and 47 seconds into the round.
Radok's missed left hook threw him off balance, and Victor charged forward like a shark that had smelled blood.
His head was still buzzing—a lingering effect of the fatal straight punch he'd taken in the seventh round—but muscle memory was faster than thought.
The first punch landed on Radok's liver, and the Jamaican let out a muffled groan like a wild beast.
The second punch grazed the opponent's already deformed nose, drawing out a string of blood beads.
When the third uppercut landed on his chin, Victor heard a tsunami of gasps erupt from the stands.
Viktor roared inwardly, but his fists were faster than his thoughts—a fourth right hook arced perfectly through Radok’s powerless handguard and struck his forehead like an axe.
Time seemed to slow down suddenly. He clearly saw Radok's eyeballs tremble for a moment, and then his 1.9-meter-tall body crashed down on the boxing ring like a felled redwood.
The referee's countdown seemed to come from a distant underwater depth, coinciding with Victor's own rapid heartbeat.
Each heartbeat felt like a heavy punch to his temple, and the low blood sugar caused dark ripples to appear at the edges of his vision.
He stood in the center of the boxing ring, his legs feeling like lead, yet also light and airy, as if he might float away at any moment.
"Nine!"
As the second-to-last countdown began, Viktor felt a wave of dizziness wash over him.
Sweat mixed with blood slid down his brow bone, stinging his swollen eyelids.
His vision blurred as he caught a glimpse of Radok—his unshakeable opponent, who was now half-lying on the ground, panting heavily.
When the final pronouncement of "Ten!" rang out, Viktor tried to raise his arms, only to find that even his fingertips were trembling.
His shoulders felt like they were being pressed down by an invisible weight, and the muscles in his arms were spasming uncontrollably from the twelve rounds of intense combat.
He could barely raise his right hand to chest height, while his left hand hung limply at his side, his fingers twitching slightly.
Under the spotlight, his swollen eyes saw the referee raise his hand, and Radok was spitting out his mouthguard—which was covered in blood and had a broken molar.
The mouthguard landed on the canvas with a dull thud. Radok wiped his mouth with the back of his boxing glove and spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva—this hero had actually recovered his senses so quickly after taking such a heavy punch.
"The winner is—Victor Gian!!!!!"