r18novel Page 141
Page 141
His Asian features stand out in the Western-dominated world of boxing, which is why he needs a white girlfriend—because nobody thinks a Chinese person would be American.
The ringing of the bell pierced the noise, like a sharp blade cutting through the frozen air.
Round one begins.
Tyson Fury, the giant of a boxer, moves around the ring with a nimble footwork that belies his size.
His height of 206 cm and astonishing wingspan of 216 cm make him like a white leopard in control of the hunting grounds, weaving a dangerous attack network from a safe distance.
The jabs struck like venomous snakes, the hooks like heavy hammer blows. A relentless barrage of punches rained down on the silent figure, the dull thud of gloves striking flesh ringing out clearly under the spotlight.
"Come on, you yellow-skinned pig!"
Fury growled in a low voice between punches, sweat splattering from his blond hair, a defiant smile playing on his lips.
The camera captured the lip movements, and a commotion arose in the audience, mixed with boos and jeers.
Victor Lee simply bent over slightly, his arms protecting his head and ribs like steel shields.
Each strike sent numbness through his arm, but his specially tempered bones remained completely still.
His gaze pierced through the gaps in the boxing gloves, calculating the rhythm of each breath, the distance of each step, and every possible opportunity.
Fury's offensive was as turbulent as the tide, but Victor was like a reef on the shore—silent, resilient, waiting for a turning point.
Fury's overly forceful right hook missed its mark, causing him to momentarily lose his balance.
It was in that very instant.
Victor suddenly burst forth, his 400-pound weight surging forward like a truck at full speed.
The boxing ring floor groaned beneath his feet, and the air was torn apart with a whooshing sound.
With a dull thud, his shoulder slammed solidly into Fury's chest.
The Englishman's bright blue eyes widened instantly, more in surprise than in pain, and he staggered backward. That moment of panic did not escape Victor's eyes.
"Hold him down! Hold him!"
From the corner, Fury's coaching team erupted in anxious shouts, their voices hoarse and almost torn apart.
Fury instinctively opened his arms in an attempt to hug her, a common tactic used by giants to neutralize an offensive.
Victor's right hook tore through the air and slammed into Fury's left ribs like a hammer.
A clear, crisp sound indicates a strong, sharp impact.
Before Fury could react, a left hook followed, landing precisely on his right ribs.
Fury's face instantly lost all color; the pain caused him to involuntarily open his mouth, but no sound came out.
He instinctively reached out to push, but this defensive instinct left his center line wide open.
Victor did not miss this opportunity.
A simple, powerful straight punch, like a cannonball, tore through the defense and landed precisely in the center of Fury's forehead.
Time seemed to freeze at this moment.
Fury fell backward like a felled giant tree, crashing heavily onto the boxing ring and creating an invisible ripple.
The referee quickly intervened and began counting.
A deafening roar erupted from the stands, a cacophony of surprise, excitement, and disbelief. Flashbulbs rained down, capturing this unexpected moment.
"...Six, seven, eight!"
When he counted to eight, Fury suddenly braced himself with his arms and struggled to stand up.
His eyes were somewhat unfocused, but a burning flame of resentment raged deep within them.
This former boxing champion's resilience and willpower are indeed far beyond that of ordinary people.
Viktor narrowed his eyes slightly and readjusted his breathing.
This guy was even more tenacious than he had expected.
Just then, the bell that signaled the end of the round rang out crisply, like the tolling of a redemption bell.
Fury staggered toward his corner, and the coaching staff immediately swarmed around him.
Viktor calmly turned and walked toward his rest area, his steps steady as if nothing had happened.
The smoke of the first round had just cleared, but everyone knew that the war had only just begun.
"His waist is a weakness,"
Victor said to Coach Frankie, taking a sip of water from the bottle, "His pants are pulled up too high, leaving his kidney area unprotected."
Frankie nodded: "You can test the waters a little, but be careful of the referees. The WBO people are watching. Don't hit too low."
Victor scoffed: "Once he's down, nobody will remember where the punch landed."
As soon as the bell rang to start the second round, Viktor seemed to be infused with a different soul.
He no longer cautiously circled around and probed as he had in the first round, but instead pressed forward directly, his feet as firmly planted on the floor, each step causing the ring to tremble slightly.
He abandoned all pretense and, like a war machine suddenly activated, launched a storm of attacks.
His combination punches were so dense they were suffocating; the whistling of the gloves cutting through the air and the dull thuds of impacts on flesh intertwined to create a heart-pounding symphony.
A left hook landed precisely on Fury's right ribs, followed by a heavy right swing to his left waist and abdomen, each strike carrying the force to shatter internal organs.
In the suddenly silent arena, the pure sound of violence was amplified infinitely. Occasionally, gasps of shock could be heard from the audience in the stands, and some people couldn't help but cover their eyes.
Fury was beaten so badly he was like a swaying sandbag, and could only lean against the ropes in a sorry state.
When Victor landed two tricky uppercuts on the top of his shorts, the Englishman doubled over in pain, his facial muscles contorting.
The referee glanced quickly at the point of impact, determined that there was no violation, and simply gestured for the match to continue.
Fury gasped for breath through his mouthguard, beads of sweat mixed with blood sliding down his forehead, gleaming eerily under the spotlight.
"Damn it! You Englishman who only knows how to stir up trouble!"
Viktor squeezed out those words through gritted teeth between his punches, his gloves raining down, each punch aimed at Fury's already reddened torso.
Fury suddenly looked up amidst the barrage of blows, and a muffled yet clear response came from behind his blood-stained fangs: "Want to beat me? Not so easy, Chinaman!"
The word pierced Viktor's ear like a red-hot nail.
His eyes suddenly narrowed into dangerous slits, and his attacks became increasingly ferocious, his fists slamming into Fury's defensive gaps like iron hammers.
But amidst this storm of attacks, a doubt crept into his mind—this guy's defensive posture was clearly protecting his right torso, and his pupils would contract violently every time his ribs were hit, so why could he still stand firm like an old tree with its roots firmly planted?
Given the force of the blow, he should have broken at least one of his ribs.
What's even more unsettling is that a faint smile seemed to flicker across Fury's lips as he took the heavy blow.
That wasn't mocking Viktor's weak strikes, but rather the expression of a trap setter seeing their prey walk into their snare.
Victor's intuition screamed that something was wrong—a person with a broken rib couldn't absorb such a heavy blow so steadily.
The moment the bell rang to signal the end of the round, Viktor keenly noticed that Fury's gait as he returned to the corner was somewhat stiff, but that stiffness seemed too deliberate, like an actor's overly exaggerated performance on stage.
More noteworthy is the change in the British breathing pattern – no longer deep, regular inhalation and exhalation, but a shallow, rapid panting, with their brows unconsciously furrowing with each inhalation.
This is clearly a typical compensatory breathing pattern after a rib injury, but the rhythm is too perfect, so perfect that it looks like a rehearsed performance.
Victor turned and walked to his corner, his boxing gloves slamming heavily against the ropes, making them vibrate.
His gaze never left Fury in the opposite corner, watching the coaching team hurriedly wipe him down, apply ice, and give him water.
A drop of sweat slid down Viktor's brow bone, carrying the salty taste of doubt.
"He's acting."
Viktor whispered to the coach, his voice drowned out by the noise of the crowd.
The coach pressed down hard on his shoulder: "What? You almost broke him!"
Viktor shook his head, sweat flying everywhere.
He watched Fury's every subtle movement in the corner, his deliberately exaggerated expression of pain, his overly obvious breathing adjustments—it all seemed like a meticulously designed performance.
The Englishman's eyes became unusually clear the moment the coach covered them, even showing a smug satisfaction at his successful scheme.
"He's in pain, but he's waiting for me to tire after my all-out attack!"
Viktor gritted his teeth and said, "His bait is on the right."
The coach frowned, about to retort, but then he saw that Viktor's eyes had turned cold and sharp.
Frankie wiped the sweat from Victor's face: "He thought he could hold on. Hit his waistband, finish him off in the third round, don't give the referee any chance to intervene."
Victor nodded.
The bell rang, the third round.
The echo of the metal striking the glass still reverberated in the air. Victor shook his head, sweat splattering like shattered diamonds, tracing fleeting arcs under the blazing lights.
He licked the salty sweat mixed with blood from the edge of his braces, his gaze sharp as a knife, piercing the opposite corner.
There, Fury was struggling to his feet, supported by his coach and assistant.
A gruesome gash appeared on his brow bone, the ointment smeared by sweat and blood, turning into a chaotic pink mess.
His chest heaved violently, each breath like a broken bellows being pulled, every muscle on his face contorted with pain, but his eyes—like a beast driven to the brink of despair, burning with humiliation and resentment, still radiated a tempered determination.
Viktor was suddenly startled, as if a fine needle had unexpectedly pierced his taut nerves.
He had thought Fury would be a coward, a "boxing champion" packaged from those events filled with showmanship and second-rate boxers, who would be exposed as nothing when he stepped onto the real top-level ring.
But he was wrong, terribly wrong.
This guy's will was also forged on an anvil.
He moved his shoulders, and a deep soreness immediately spread from the depths of his muscle fibers, like a silent protest.
The offensive in the first two rounds was far less than he had anticipated.
But Fury's fists were not only heavy, but also carried a kind of savage cunning, always walking on the gray edge of the rules.
Don't let him drag you into the mire! Don't dance to his tune!
Old Jack roared into his ear, jabbing his finger into his chest, "Your match isn't his! Did you hear me?! Cleanly and decisively take him down!"