r18novel Page 95
Page 95
On July 10, 1985, the air in Atlantic City was filled with the salty sea breeze and the smell of gunpowder about to explode.
The Atlantic City Convention Center was temporarily transformed into a weighing site, with flashbulbs going off constantly as reporters' cameras were focused on the electronic scale in the center.
When Victor walked into the hall, the temperature seemed to rise a few degrees.
His bare upper body was muscular and bulging, and the lifelike red tiger tattoo on his front and back looked as if it might pounce at any moment under the light.
The massive 389-pound body moved with a suffocating sense of oppression. The 185-centimeter height, combined with the 55-centimeter shoulder width and the astonishing 204-centimeter wingspan, made the body look like a savage warrior, causing everyone present to gasp in shock.
"Victor, calm down."
Old Jack whispered in his ear, his rough hands pressing on his tense back, "Don't let those bastards get away with it."
Victor's jawline was taut like steel.
Last night's surprise drug test—clearly a trick orchestrated by Fujimoto's team—left him barely sleeping all night.
Not to mention the two deliberate provocations a few days ago at the restaurant and at the signing ceremony.
It was supposed to be a simple contract signing, with everyone signing up for a boxing match to split the fans' money. Viktor was even prepared for a WBO warning against seriously injuring his opponent, but he didn't expect his opponent to be even more infuriating than him:
He could feel the blood boiling in his veins, and every muscle trembled slightly from suppressed anger.
"Look, that Japanese pig is here!"
Frankie muttered a curse under his breath: "I really miss the smell of Japanese women, cheap and effective."
Kyotaro Fujimoto and his team swaggered in.
His striking red hair was like a flame, and his height of 183 centimeters was considered robust among ordinary people, but in front of Viktor, he looked like an underdeveloped teenager.
At 230 pounds, he was only considered lightweight compared to Victor, and his 186-centimeter wingspan was laughable.
Fujimoto deliberately spoke loudly in broken English, a nauseating fake smile on his lips, "Did you sleep well last night? I heard the WBC is very interested in your urine test results."
Viktor is a WBO, and Fujimoto is a WBC.
Viktor, utterly dismissive, replied in Chicago-accented English:
"If you expect dirty tricks to replace fists, then bring it on. If you think you can control the arena, then I'll show you that you're just a second-class citizen even in your own country..."
Viktor clenched his fist, his knuckles cracking like popping beans: "I went to your house and raped your mother, and all I got was deportation!"
Lies only make people laugh, the truth is a sharp knife—there's a reason why Fujimoto could grow to 183 cm.
Fujimoto was furious, but was firmly stopped by the security guards.
When Victor saw that Fujimoto was trapped, he was about to punch him.
Old Jack and Frankie immediately grabbed his arms from either side, and the martial arts school disciples behind them quickly surrounded him, forming a human wall.
"Fuck, there's a drug test for Mazzetta dermatitis!"
Victor roared, his voice shaking the ceiling, "You lowlifes—"
Fujimoto feigned surprise and spread his hands: "Oh dear, so angry? Could it be... a drug reaction?"
He deliberately dragged out his words, eliciting a burst of shrill laughter from his Japanese team.
Trump's security detail reacted quickly, with six more burly men rushing forward to surround Fujimoto.
The scene was chaotic at one point, with reporters' flashbulbs going off everywhere.
The race supervisor roared, slamming his fist on the table, "The weigh-in ceremony continues!"
When Viktor stepped onto the scale, the number stopped at 389 pounds—5 pounds heavier than he usually was during training, all weight of anger.
He stared down at Fujimoto, who deliberately made exaggerated muscle displays during the weigh-in, eliciting cheers from his supporters.
During the official standoff, Viktor whispered, a voice only Fujimoto could hear, “I’m going to smash your disgusting face into my skull.”
Fujimoto's smile froze for a moment, then returned to its nauseatingly fake grin: "I'm looking forward to it, Li-san. I hope your fists are as powerful as your mouth—"
Viktor suddenly leaned forward, his forehead almost hitting Fujimoto.
The referee and security guards immediately rushed over to separate the two, and the weigh-in ceremony ended hastily in chaos.
On July 11, 1985, the Atlantic City Convention Center was packed to capacity.
While the heavyweight clash between Tyson and Old is the main course of the night, everyone knows that the undercard match between Victor Lee and Kyotaro Fujimoto is the real powder keg.
In the locker room, Viktor silently wrapped his bandages, each wrap extremely tight, as if trying to compress all his anger into his fist.
Ethan adjusted the expensive Sony camera, pointing the lens at Tyson's pre-fight interview on television.
"Film it all,"
Without looking up, Viktor said, "Every move, every detail, he will be my greatest enemy!"
"That's an exaggeration, he's only 1.78 meters tall!"
Ethan didn't understand why Victor thought so highly of Tyson, "His physique isn't even average."
"So much nonsense! He'll be at the pinnacle of boxing!"
Victor didn't waste any words and looked at Frankie: "Coach, you need to analyze Tyson's fighting style and tell me the best way to beat him!"
Don't worry about that!
Old Jack massaged his shoulders: "Listen, kid. I know you want to knock that Fujimoto bastard's head off. But remember, boxing is an art, not a street brawl. Control your anger, don't let it control you."
Viktor raised his eyes, a cold flame burning in his black pupils: "There's only one ending today—he'll leave lying down."
The cheers inside the stadium surged like a tidal wave, signifying that their match time had arrived.
Victor stood up, his red tiger tattoo standing out vividly under the locker room lights, as if it might leap off his skin at any moment.
As Victor walked through the tunnel toward the ring, the cheers from the crowd nearly lifted the roof off.
The martial arts students used the $500 worth of beer they brought to "convince" the American audience into chanting his name, while a small group of Japanese spectators booed loudly.
Fujimoto was already standing on the other side of the boxing ring, making an exaggerated kiss gesture towards the audience.
"ladies and gentlemen!"
The host's voice resounded throughout the arena through the loudspeakers: "Tonight's special undercard match is a ten-round heavyweight bout!"
Victor ignored the host's introduction and fixed his sharp gaze on the vine itself.
The red-haired bastard was making a throat-slitting gesture at him, a provocative smile on his lips.
"The rules will be read aloud!"
The referee called the two boxers to the center of the ring, saying, "Protect yourselves at all times, listen to my instructions, no hitting behind the head..."
Viktor nodded mechanically, but didn't actually hear a single word.
His entire attention was focused on Fujimoto's delicate nose, imagining the sensation of a punch landing.
"Bump the gloves."
The referee gave the order, his voice particularly jarring in the noisy arena.
Viktor peered through the gaps in his boxing gloves at Fujimoto Kyotaro across from him. The Japanese fighter wore a fake smile, but his eyes were as cold as a viper's.
Fujimoto feigned concern, extending his boxing gloves, his lips moving as if he were about to say something.
Viktor lowered his voice the instant they made contact: "Your mother must have been very good at pleasing American soldiers, making them willing to leave their marks, to give birth to a bastard like you—"
Fujimoto's eyes widened instantly, and his fake smile froze.
Viktor watched with satisfaction as the anger ignited in the other man's pupils; this was exactly the effect he wanted.
How did this bastard and his team mock his own identity during the weigh-in ceremony?
"Shina," "a stray dog without a homeland"—those words seeped into Viktor's veins like venom.
The ringing of the bell was like a signal for the cage to open.
Viktor pounced like a tiger unleashed from its cage, without any probing. His 204-centimeter reach allowed him to land a precise jab on Fujimoto's face with his first punch.
The dull thud of a fist colliding with a cheekbone echoed throughout the stadium via the microphone.
Fujimoto clearly hadn't anticipated such a lightning-fast start. He staggered backward, only to be hit in the ribs by Victor's right hook.
The fragile arm blocked the fist, but the fist landed on the equally vulnerable waist and abdomen.
Fujimoto doubled over in pain, but Victor's left uppercut was already whistling through the air, grazing his chin, forcing Fujimoto to continue retreating.
The audience erupted in deafening cheers, and flashbulbs went off like a storm.
"You think you're so great! Why do I see your mother lying down there now!"
Viktor roared and forced Fujimoto into a corner, raining down heavy punches from both hands.
"You bastards are only second-class citizens in your own country!"
"Why didn't you bring your sisters and cousins with you! Doesn't your government encourage this?"
"You bastard, your body is as supple as your twins!"
His voice was loud enough to turn the faces of the Japanese reporters in the front row ashen.
Fujimoto could only hold on to his defensive stance, but every punch sent shivers down his spine.
Viktor deliberately slowed down, precisely controlling the distance like a cat toying with a mouse.
His jabs kept poking Fujimoto's face, while his right straight punches were specifically aimed at his vulnerable ribs.
Fujimoto's defense began to show weaknesses, and his breathing became rapid and disordered.
"You idiot who even gave your own mother to American soldiers!"
Viktor roared after yet another blow to the liver, his voice loud enough for the front-row audience to hear.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fujimoto's coaching staff shouting wildly in the audience, while the area for the Japanese media was deathly silent.
Fujimoto's eyes were bloodshot with pain and humiliation. He tried to fight back, but his 186-centimeter wingspan looked like a child's in front of Victor.
His hook punch futilely grazed over Viktor's head, while Viktor retaliated with a right straight punch powerful enough to shatter bricks:
"Let your twins come! She's stronger than you at squeezing them!"
Fujimoto's nose broke with a snap, and blood splattered onto the boxing ring canvas, appearing an eerie dark red under the spotlight.
Viktor smelled the metallic scent of blood. The rapid attacks made his blood flow extremely fast, making the red tiger tattoo on his back seem even hotter.
“Why don’t you speak?”