r18novel Page 116
Page 116
Tyson's eyes were fixed on Viktor across from him, not as an opponent, but as an obstacle that shouldn't exist, an offender who dared to tarnish his "invincible" aura with his fists.
Victor's hook punch that pierced through the defense brought not only pain, but also the humiliation of being challenged.
Tyson stopped probing and pounced like a black lightning bolt, his footwork swift and explosive.
He was determined to crush this unexpected rock—Tyson hadn't expected this guy, who had previously said he'd fight fifteen rounds, to be so tenacious. Wasn't his punch heavy enough?
Those weaklings before were all taken down with a single punch!
The combination of punches rained down on Viktor like a storm—a left hook to the ribs, a right straight to the head, followed by a vicious liver punch.
Viktor adjusted his tactics in an instant.
He no longer pursued direct attacks, but instead used his arms to protect his head and his elbows to protect his torso, using his wider and thicker latissimus dorsi and deltoid muscles to withstand the blows.
Tyson's fists slammed into his arms and shoulders with dull, terrifying thuds, like striking rubber-coated steel.
Each blow carried enough force to knock out an ordinary heavyweight boxer. Viktor was forced to retreat repeatedly, his back slamming against the boxing ropes and bouncing back each time.
The gasps and enthusiastic shouts from the audience blended into a wave of sound.
But Viktor didn't fall apart.
Even though Tyson's punches felt like drills drilling into his body, Viktor, who had been carrying heavy loads since childhood, could clearly endure much more pain.
Victor is a man who surpasses even Fat Peony!
He clenched his teeth, feeling the impact being dispersed and absorbed by the flexible armor and reinforced bones distributed under his skin. The intense vibrations still reached his internal organs, making it difficult for him to breathe, but his structure remained intact.
Trump could hardly sit still in the box; he loosened his tie, crumpling the expensive silk tie in his fist.
Mike Tyson's offensive was like a storm. Every time Viktor retreated, it made his heart pound with joy, but every time Viktor withstood a heavy blow and didn't fall, it made him feel like he had swallowed a fly.
His profits are evaporating second by second!
He roared silently at the boxing ring below the glass window: "Fall down! You damned yellow pig! Fall down!"
Midway through the fourth round, a tiny crack appeared in the storm—so small it was almost invisible to the naked eye.
Perhaps it was the temporary fatigue from sustained high output, or perhaps it was the sweat mixed with blood from that damned wound that happened to sting Tyson's right eye.
His right straight punch was slower than usual, and the trajectory of his return was higher.
For Viktor, this tiny gap was like a lightning bolt in the night!
The fighting spirit that had been suppressed and frozen under adrenaline suddenly erupted!
Just as Tyson's fist grazed his ear and missed, Victor's left arm, which had been firmly in defense and as solid as a rock, moved!
It's not a block, it's an attack!
Like a venomous snake that has been lying in wait for a long time, it pounces out with precision, speed, and without warning!
A straight punch, combining all the power of his body and perfect timing, landed precisely on Tyson's old, bleeding brow wound!
A suppressed groan of pain.
Tyson's head snapped back, a sharp pain exploding from his brow bone. The momentary blurred vision and the flow of tears caused him to freeze, a fatal injury.
Golden opportunity!
Viktor's right leg slammed into the ground like a spring, and the muscles in his core waist and abdomen exploded with amazing torque, pouring the force of the push, the force of rotation, and all the remaining power into the next strike without reservation!
A heavy right hook, drawing a deadly, full arc, skillfully bypassed Tyson's defensive arm, which he instinctively raised in pain, and slammed hard and solidly into Tyson's left rib area!
A dull and terrifying bang was heard, so loud that even the front-row spectators near the boxing ring could vaguely hear a groan similar to the sound of wood breaking under immense pressure—the sound of muscles, internal organs, and bones enduring the ultimate impact!
Tyson's face contorted instantly, not from anger, but from pure, intense physical pain!
His body arched inward suddenly, like a shrimp scalded by boiling water. The intense pain almost suffocated him instantly, and all his attacks came to an abrupt halt.
He staggered backward, trying to create distance, his breathing completely disordered, each breath bringing a tearing pain to his ribs.
Viktor's eyes flashed with a cold light, and he was about to lunge forward to turn his advantage into a winning position with a series of punches!
“Back! Back! Now!”
The referee suddenly stepped between the two, forcefully shoving Victor aside and giving Tyson a precious chance to catch his breath.
Viktor instantly flew into a rage, roaring at the referee, spitting as he yelled, "Are you fucking blind?! He's still standing! He's not down!! He can still fight! What were you doing when I was being bombarded by his punches! Let me end this match!"
His coaching team was also shouting wildly from the audience.
But the referee didn't!
Viktor lost his chance when the whistle blew.
"Fifth round! Listen! His bones are definitely broken! He's in pain with every breath!"
Viktor's coach pressed an ice pack hard against his swollen chin while yelling in his ear, "Press him! Keep pressing! Don't give him a chance to breathe! Attack his body! His body! Make him kneel in pain!"
Viktor greedily gulped down the energy drink, sweat pouring down his body like streams, his muscles trembling slightly uncontrollably after the intense competition.
"I'm in so much pain! My jaw is definitely going to break! And I've probably fractured my ribs!"
Victor's eyes were sharp as knives as he stared intently at the opposite corner: "Michael, tell Ethan that this referee is rigged!! I'm going to kill him!!!"
But Victor saw the anxious look on Tyson's team's face, and he saw the moment Tyson's expression twist in pain as he sat down.
He seemed to smell the taste of victory.
In the opposite corner, the atmosphere was as somber as a funeral.
"Mike! Breathe! Slow down! Damn it!"
While the coach pressed a cotton swab firmly against the split brow bone in an attempt to stop the bleeding, the team doctor quickly examined his ribs.
Tyson abruptly swatted away the hand that was trying to force him to inhale more ammonia, letting out a low, dangerous roar, like a beast pierced by a spear.
The excruciating pain did not frighten him; rather, the rage and savagery contained in the roar sent a chill down the spines of his team members.
He didn't need comfort; what he needed was to vent the rage brought on by the excruciating pain.
From the best spot on the sidelines, Donald Trump tugged at his conspicuous red tie, leaned forward, and almost stepped into the boxing ring.
He had just witnessed that astonishing blow, and his face, instead of being worried, glowed with extreme excitement.
Wow! Incredible! Unbelievable punch!
He spoke loudly to the people next to him, as if he were giving a commentary, but actually trying to justify himself—he had always supported Tyson, but at this moment Trump needed to stand on the side of the victor:
"See? I told you! Viktor has a cold heart! He seized the opportunity! A one percent chance! That's top-notch performance!"
This is what business is all about!
As Tyson staggered backward, Trump even excitedly slapped the back of the seat in front of him: "It's over! It might be over! Tyson's finished! He's broken his ribs! I bet!"
He seemed to have already begun celebrating this "legend-breaking" spectacle he helped promote, his face beaming with anticipation for the impending dramatic ending and pride in his own "foresight":
For the money, he would even accept anyone winning in the fifth round!
Chapter 95: The Battle with Tyson (3)
The bell rang for the fifth round!
Viktor, like a wild horse, sprang forward instantly, executing his tactics without hesitation. He used a barrage of jabs and controlled grappling to constantly pressure and harass Tyson, aiming directly at Tyson's left torso. Every slight touch made Tyson's expression twitch.
Trump nodded on the sidelines, as if to say, "See, I told you so!"
However, the reason Mike Tyson is a legend and a milestone figure in transforming boxing from a sport into a combat sport is precisely because of his superhuman willpower and his deep-rooted fighting instinct.
The excruciating pain did not break him; instead, it seemed to ignite the last and most dangerous fuse.
He let out a deep, beast-like roar that shook the entire arena, almost completely ignoring the excruciating pain piercing his ribs, and once again met Victor's fists with a series of ferocious, almost suicidal right uppercuts!
That fist, carrying all his weight, anger, and remaining strength, tore through the air from below!
Viktor's pupils contracted; a deadly sense of danger made him instinctively retreat with all his might and bend his arm to block.
The fist grazed his chin and parrying arm heavily, the sharp wind even making Viktor feel a stinging sensation on his skin.
The power of that punch was completely unlike what someone who had just suffered a serious injury could deliver!
Trump's smug expression froze instantly, replaced by astonishment: "My God... He's still standing? He's still punching?!"
A man next to him sneered – the accounts are clear, anyone can be an accountant, and everyone knows Trump's tricks. Once it comes to ten rounds, Trump will lose everything.
Only on the field is it truly pure!
Tyson completely transformed into a pain-driven berserk machine, unleashing a desperate offensive with no regard for defense, despite Viktor's pressure!
He swung his fists left and right with a whooshing sound, smashing towards Victor. Although the fists were deformed from the pain, their destructive power was still terrifying.
Viktor was forced to switch from offense to defense. His arms were shaken again. Although his defense was not directly breached, the accumulated damage aggravated the head concussions, and his steps began to become slightly unsteady.
The bell that signaled the end of the round rang out again, like a savior, bringing an end to the exchange of punches that had once again descended into a bloody struggle at the end of the fifth round.
The two dragged their exhausted and bruised bodies back to the corner.
The smell of sweat and volatile painkillers mingled, creating a cruel, sweet, rusty odor. They greedily replenished their fluids, their chests heaving like bellows, their muscle fibers howling and trembling under the intense strain.
On the boxing ring canvas, splattered drops of blood and sweat gleamed coldly and glaringly under the spotlight, silently telling the story of the brutality of this war.
Trump loosened his tie, exhaled, composed himself, and his face showed even greater interest: "Wow...this is real fight! This is why people pay!"
Those around him quickly echoed his sentiments, but inwardly they were mocking him.
When Trump finally entered a private space, he lost his temper:
"Fk! Fk! What the hell! It's the fifth round! He's still not down!"
Trump could no longer contain himself and slammed his fist on the luxurious armrest of the VIP box, the precious wood groaning pitifully.
His signature mask of confidence, as if he had everything under control, had long since crumbled, leaving only the gambler's anxiety, anger, and a barely perceptible hint of panic as he watched his chips flow to the other side.
"My money! Every round they lost was my money! My money! They even want appearance fees! It's all my money!"
He growled at the empty box, as if questioning Victor Lee, who was stubbornly holding on in the audience.
"That damn yellow pig... is his neck made of titanium alloy?! And that waist and abdomen! Tyson's heavy punch couldn't even penetrate it!"
He whirled around, looking down at Victor, who, though disheveled, still had eyes burning with a cold, fierce light.
"Tyson is a piece of trash! I gave him so many resources, and he couldn't even beat a yellow-skinned pig!!!"
At this moment, in his eyes, Victor was no longer a money-making tool that could be discarded at will or a gimmick to attract attention, but a truly terrifying, self-aware "enemy," a hateful entity that was frantically devouring his huge bets and public image.