The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

Page 117

The bell for the prey had already rung, but now, the two men standing in the boxing ring were both scarred hunters.

The person in the private room is the one who is tied to the stakes and suffers greatly as the number of rounds increases.

This feast of money, technology, and primal violence has now entered a bloody and unpredictable deep water.

Trump clenched his fists so tightly that his nails almost dug into his palms. He knew that the worst-case scenario—a protracted war that would drag on for ten rounds—was gradually becoming a reality.

That means that everything he had meticulously planned could be completely destroyed by the survivor on stage who relied on an iron will and a brand-new body.

The ringing of the bell was like a pardon, or a new death warrant.

In the center of the boxing ring, the two giants briefly separated after a fierce battle, dragging their heavy steps back to their respective corners.

The air was thick with sweat, blood, rosin, and an almost tangible urge to kill.

In Victor's corner, Michael moved quickly, pressing ice packs hard against his already bruised and swollen arms and shoulders, the cold stimulation trying to suppress the deep-seated tremors.

Liz Chen quickly wiped the blood-tinged saliva from the corner of his mouth.

Viktor could hear his heart being pulled up into his throat, and with each breath, a large amount of air entered his chest cavity, causing a sharp pain. Thanks to the strength of his internal organs, all the negative effects on his body were being suppressed.

He greedily sucked on the water bottle, each breath tugging at his torso, which had been repeatedly battered by Tyson's heavy punches. But the rapidly absorbed, strong internal organs and highly oxygenated blood were processing lactic acid and metabolic waste with unprecedented efficiency, pumping streams of new, cold energy into his tired muscle fibers.

His core tactics were crystal clear: survive, and then wait for the right opportunity.

Even Mike Tyson, no matter how strong, is still human. Humans get tired and make mistakes.

On the other side, Tyson suddenly spat out his mouth brace, which was mixed with blood.

His coach frantically treated his horrific brow bone, using ointment and Vaseline to try and seal the constantly bleeding crack.

Tyson's eyes were like those of a trapped tiger, filled with rage and a hint of barely perceptible...astonishment.

He had never encountered an opponent who could withstand his full-force attacks for five or six rounds; he had always been utterly crushed.

The sharp pain in his ribs reminded him with every breath just how deadly Viktor's counterattack was.

He gulped down a mouthful of water, his chest heaving violently like a bellows.

The fatigue is real, but what's even more real is the even more furious fighting spirit ignited by the challenges and injuries.

He doesn't need complicated tactics; his tactic is destruction.

Round six begins!

After extracting glucose, Victor regained his fighting ability and continued to stand in the boxing ring, battling Tyson with his muscle armor.

Tyson no longer pursued extreme speed; his attacks became heavier and more precise, like a hammer blow rather than lightning.

Every punch was delivered with the determination to pin Victor to the floor.

The muffled thuds echoed through the stadium once more. Victor's defensive stance remained firm, but each strike caused his massive body to sway slightly, and his steps became even heavier.

However, Victor is no longer just a punching bag.

He began to capitalize on the increasingly long gaps in Tyson's attacks caused by fatigue, launching more decisive counterattacks.

His straight punches were like cold steel needles, repeatedly aimed at Tyson's bleeding face, obstructing his vision and exacerbating his pain.

He even tried to clinch several times, using his 400-pound weight and enhanced core strength to squeeze Tyson's injured ribs, exhausting his energy and slowing down his offensive rhythm.

Tyson delivered a left hook to Viktor's raised arm, and Viktor used the momentum to deflect the force backward while simultaneously thrusting his right shoulder forward, slamming it into Tyson's chest.

Tyson grunted, took a half step back, his eyes blazing with fury, and his increasingly powerful punches landed on Viktor's body with a crackling sound.

Round 7 – The battle entered an even more brutal phase of attrition.

Mike Tyson's offensive was like a winter tsunami in the Atlantic Ocean, wave after wave, violent and relentless.

But Viktor is like a silent black reef, constantly being submerged by giant waves, yet stubbornly and brokenly emerging from the water time and time again.

Viktor's face began to swell so badly it was unrecognizable, and the blood seeping from the wound on his left eyebrow, mixed with sweat, blurred his vision.

His chin was struck by a hidden, upper right hook, like a venomous snake emerging from its hole. Although it didn't hit him directly, the shockwave caused his vision to blur violently and his ears to ring.

In the midst of this dizziness, his warrior genes became even more ruthless. Amidst the pain, Viktor pierced through the fog of his consciousness and precisely captured the barely perceptible pause in Tyson's breathing caused by the old and new pains in his ribs—a brief twitch that was almost imperceptible to the naked eye.

Viktor made a near-gambling dive to dodge, narrowly avoiding the right-handed punch that could have ended the match, which grazed his scalp and stung from the force of the blow.

At the same time, his long-accumulated power exploded instantly. His body twisted and exerted force like a high-strength spring, delivering a solid, almost cruel, belly punch—once again!

It struck the same spot on Tyson's already bruised and swollen left rib!

"Ugh—!"

Tyson let out a roar that was a mixture of pain and rage. His face instantly lost all color, and his devastating attack paused. His lion-like body even curled up slightly.

A deafening roar erupted from the audience, mixed with unbelievable excitement.

But what makes a legend so terrifying is its inhuman resilience.

Tyson took the blow that was heavy enough to knock an ordinary person unconscious. Instead of retreating, the pain that penetrated to the bone completely aroused his most primal ferocity!

Almost instinctively, he unleashed a brutal left hook that swept across like a giant axe!

Viktor couldn't retreat in time, so he could only raise his right arm as high as possible to take the hit.

The heavy thud made your teeth ache, your defensive stance almost crumbled, and the fist landed squarely on Viktor's right cheek.

The sweat on Viktor's head shattered instantly, his head felt like it had been hit by a train engine, and the sweat on his feet made him slip and fall.

In an instant, the pain activated the steel kidneys, releasing a large amount of stored adrenaline to suppress the pain.

With his powerful core strength and thick neck, Victor regained his balance, his eyes fixed on his opponent without wavering—Tyson was powerless to come up and land a follow-up punch.

Chapter 96: The Battle with Tyson (4)

The ringing bell was like a life-saving horn.

Viktor practically dragged himself back to the corner.

"Breathe! Victor, take a deep breath!"

His coaching team surrounded him, pressing ice packs on his swollen cheeks and hard, worn-out shoulder and arm muscles, while also applying ice to his right cheek.

Cold water streamed down his sweat-soaked black hair.

"He's tired! See? His combos are slowing down! Your body can hold up better than his! Keep going, use your resilience to wear him down! Remember, counter-attack!"

Viktor was breathing heavily, his chest heaving like a bellows.

His body is working overtime, metabolizing lactic acid and pain signals, and repairing muscle damage at the microscopic level.

He felt physically exhausted, and everything was making him want to give up.

But a deep, mechanical endurance was sustaining him; the adrenaline stored in his steel kidneys was released, and the extreme excitement prevented Victor's physical functions from experiencing a precipitous decline.

Victor stared at Frankie's constantly opening and closing mouth: "I can't hear what you're saying! But I'm going to fight him!"

On the other side, the atmosphere in Tyson's corner was heavy.

He gulped down water, spraying it on his face, his chest heaving violently, the excruciating pain in his ribs making each breath feel like being scraped by a knife.

"Fuck! That kid's a lump of iron!"

Tyson growled, the beastly glint in his eyes undiminished: "He took a punch to the temple! And he didn't even manage to fall down!"

"Mike, calm down! Don't let him lead you astray, he's trying to ensnare you!"

His coach massaged his shoulder vigorously, "You still have the advantage in strength! Find an opportunity, one strike! Just one strike!"

······

Rounds 8 and 9—time becomes blurred and slows down in the most primal collisions.

The boxing ring was a mess, with sweat and even occasional drops of blood glistening under the top-of-the-line spotlights like cruel diamonds. Both fighters looked as if they had been pulled from the water, leaving wet footprints on the expensive canvas with every move.

Their punches were no longer as sharp and swift as they used to be, full of explosive beauty, but each strike became more dangerous because it contained the fatigue, damage, and increasingly intense desire to finish after several rounds.

Tyson's footwork frequency, his fearsome head movements, and the fluidity of his punches have shown a subtle but irreversible decline.

His heavy punches could still make Viktor's body tremble and his steps become unsteady, but he could no longer push him away as easily and overwhelmingly as he had in the first few rounds.

Viktor, like a precise and tireless hunter, relentlessly bombarded Tyson's injured ribs with straight punches, forcing him to expend his precious energy on defense and movement.

Just then, a huge commotion suddenly erupted from the sidelines, out of sync with the rhythm of the boxing match.

Trump actually stood up, his signature blond hair was a little messy, and his face was flushed with excitement.

Completely disregarding the occasion, he held a camera in one hand, seemingly recording, while pointing forcefully at the boxing ring with the other, shouting loudly in Tyson's direction, his voice even penetrating the noise of the arena:

"Mike! Finish him off! Now! With your right hand! Show him who the real boxer is! You're the best! Unbeatable! Crush him!"

His actions instantly attracted everyone's attention, and were like a shot in the arm, or rather, a spark, thrown into the boxing ring.

Tyson glanced in that direction, a hint of spurred ferocity flashing in his eyes, or perhaps an instinctive aversion to such outside interference, but it undoubtedly ignited his final rage.

He took a sudden step forward, no longer caring about how to allocate his energy, and unleashed a furious combination of left and right punches at Victor, his offensive suddenly escalating!

After making these remarks, Trump sat down with satisfaction, straightened his tie, and loudly commented to his companions, as if he had just personally coached the game and was certain that victory would come because of his "inspiration."

His face was radiant with confidence and a sense of control, completely absorbed in the dramatic moment he had created.

Viktor's pupils contracted slightly. He took a deep breath, squeezing out the last of his energy, lowered his center of gravity, and tightly protected his head and torso with his arms, once again transforming into the black reef about to face the fiercest storm.

The dull thuds of impact once again became the main theme in the boxing ring. This brutal war of attrition was injected with new and unpredictable variables due to the intervention of a distinctive bystander.

In the box, Trump's rage had turned into a cold, desperate silence.

He stopped pounding on the armrests and slumped into the luxurious chair with a livid face, his tie askew and his carefully styled hair disheveled.

He watched helplessly as the bell rang for the tenth round.

"The tenth round... the tenth round..."

He muttered to himself, his voice hoarse.

His fingers tapped unconsciously on his knees, his mind racing as he calculated the ever-evaporating numbers, each disappearing zero feeling like a knife to his heart.

His gaze toward Victor had changed from anger to utter hatred.

This "product" that he pushed into the boxing ring with one hand, thinking he could easily control, is now using its tenacious survival to devour his wealth and reputation.

"How could he... still be standing?"

Trump could hardly understand why Tyson, with so many powerful punches that could knock down a rhinoceros, failed to destroy that yellow-skinned pig.