r18novel Page 62
Page 62
Viktor murmured, a complex emotion welling up in his chest.
Apollo had rebuked him, but Victor didn't blame him, because aside from the rebuke, Apollo was almost the standard of knights in every other respect.
When Ivan Drago appeared at the entrance to the passageway, the noise in the room instantly subsided.
That Soviet giant was a full six feet five inches tall, with muscles as sharply defined as if sculpted from marble.
He walked expressionlessly toward the boxing ring, followed by a gloomy-looking coach and several Soviet officials in suits.
"My God, that guy looks just like an Arctic wolf!"
Someone whispered.
Viktor's stomach tightened.
He had seen Drago's video in the training facility before, but seeing it again still made him gasp.
Drago's every movement was imbued with mechanical precision and an unsettling sense of power.
As the game bell rang, Viktor unconsciously leaned forward.
The first round started relatively peacefully, with Apollo using his signature agile footwork to move around Drago and throw tentative punches.
Although they were attacked the whole time, they still managed to put up a fight.
But Drago remained almost motionless, like a wall, tracking Apollo's every move with his cold blue eyes.
"What is Apollo doing? Why isn't he attacking?"
Old Jack frowned and asked.
He had no choice.
Victor's nails dug into his palms: "He's trying to find his rhythm, but Drago's defense is too tight, his punches are heavy, and his footwork is fast!"
Before he could finish speaking, Drago suddenly launched an attack.
His right straight punch was so fast it was almost invisible. Apollo barely managed to turn his head to avoid it, but a second left hook followed immediately.
The fist grazed Apollo's chin, and the American champion staggered.
A gasp rippled through the room.
Viktor suddenly stood up, his eyes fixed on the screen.
Drago's style of attack was unlike any other boxer he had ever seen—no unnecessary movements, no probing, every punch carried a chilling efficiency and power.
"This isn't the style of play for an exhibition match,"
Victor's voice tightened, "That bastard is serious, he's going to kill someone!"
The next few rounds turned into a nightmare.
Apollo's rapid combination punches seemed to have no effect on Drago, while each strike from the Soviet made Apollo's defense weaker and weaker.
Suddenly, Drago delivered an uppercut that knocked Apollo to the ground.
Victor shouted into the television as if Apollo could hear him.
Apollo struggled to his feet, barely managing to stay upright when the referee finished counting down.
But Drago gave him no chance to catch his breath, and a new wave of stormy attacks followed.
A heavy blow to the liver made Apollo bend over, followed by a punch aimed straight at his face.
Blood gushed from Apollo's nose and mouth, splattering onto the boxing ring.
Viktor felt a wave of dizziness. He recognized that look—Apollo could no longer see clearly and was relying purely on instinct.
"Stop the game!"
Victor roared, "Damn it, that damn coach! Throw the towel!"
But no one moved in Apollo's corner.
Apollo had made it clear to them that they should never admit defeat on his behalf.
This is his battle, his choice.
The ringing of the bell in the first round felt like a redemption.
Apollo escaped unscathed.
But the second bell tolled like a death knell.
Drago launched a fierce attack as soon as he entered the ring, landing a heavy right hook to Apollo's temple.
The American champion crashed to the ground like a felled tree, his head slamming hard against the canvas.
The room fell into a deathly silence.
Only the horrified voice of the commentator came from the television: "Creed hasn't moved... Oh my god, Creed hasn't moved!"
Viktor's blood had congealed.
He saw that Apollo's eyes were still open, but they had lost focus.
Medical staff rushed onto the boxing ring, while Drago stood aside, his face expressionless, as if he had just completed not a match, but a job assignment.
No...no...
Viktor's voice was filled with fear: "You can kill someone while wearing boxing gloves?"
The chaotic images on the screen—the paramedics' attempts at CPR, the referee's panicked expression, the woman crying in the stands—were all blurred together.
The only thing he could clearly see was Apollo's limp hand, the fist that had once been so powerful was now loose, as if it had finally laid down all its burdens.
Then Drago said that line: "If you're dead, then you're dead!"
The television suddenly switched to a commercial break, and a commotion of anger and sorrow erupted in the room.
Viktor slumped back into his chair and repeated, "You can kill someone while wearing boxing gloves?"
Apollo is dead.
His friend, the proud warrior who always had a bright smile and believed in the American Dream, died in an exhibition game where there was no honor to speak of.
"That wasn't a competition at all?"
Old Jack's voice was hoarse. "That was an execution."
Victor nodded mechanically, replaying Drago's every move in his mind.
That's not the style of an ordinary boxer; that's a specially trained killing machine.
Every punch was precisely calculated in terms of angle and force, with no energy wasted.
What's even more frightening is that Drago seems to have no emotional fluctuations at all, just like a robot carrying out a mission—Victor is a little confused, could this be a world of high martial arts?
Victor pulled out a coin and walked toward the public phone in the room—he needed to speak with Rocky, and he needed to now.
But it rang for a long time without anyone answering.
By late at night, the room was empty. Viktor dialed the number once an hour and finally got through.
“Loki? It’s me, Victor.”
His voice sounded unfamiliar and distant.
Heavy breathing came from the other end of the phone, followed by Rocky's hoarse voice: "You watched the game."
This is not a question.
Victor closed his eyes: "I saw it. Rocky, how's Apollo?"
“They killed him,”
Rocky's voice suppressed a terrible emotion, "You're right, Apollo can only die on the field, the coach was ordered not to throw the white towel! They used him as a tool for political propaganda, and then killed him."
Viktor felt a chill: "Loki, where are you now?"
“MGM. Apollo… He’s still here. In the hospital.”
Rocky's voice choked up. "Victor, they won't even let me see him. The boxing association has arranged a 'special medical team'."
Victor clenched his fists: "This is outrageous! We need—"
"I've made my decision,"
Rocky interrupted him, his voice suddenly becoming firm, "I want to challenge Drago. Christmas, Moscow. An exhibition match."
Viktor felt dizzy and had to hold onto the wall to steady himself: "Are you crazy? Rocky, did you see what that guy did today! He'll kill you!"
"Maybe,"
Rocky said calmly, "But Apollo is my friend! He's my brother!"
Victor wanted to say more, to tell Rocky it was pointless, to remind him that he was thirty-seven and had been retired for two years.
But Rocky's silence on the other end of the phone told him that all attempts to dissuade him were in vain.
In the end, Viktor only said one sentence: "Let me know if you need me!"
After hanging up the phone, Victor walked to the bed in a daze. Ethan pushed a glass of double whiskey on his shoulder, which he gulped down. The hot liquid could not dispel the chill in his bones.
The television in the room had switched to the news channel, reporting on Apollo's "accidental death." The commentator described this "tragic accident" with cautious wording, emphasizing that Drago's victory demonstrated the advancement of Soviet sports science and that Apollo's death in battle represented the American spirit!
Viktor angrily turned off the television in front of him.
But then his gaze fell upon a copy of the Las Vegas Sun on the bar, and a headline in the sports section caught his attention:
"Rising Star: Mike Tyson Destroys Mercedes!"
The accompanying picture shows a young boxer who is not yet twenty years old, with well-developed muscles and a ferocious, beast-like look in his eyes.
Victor knew Tyson—the 1982 Junior Olympic Boxing Champion;
Lee Seung-ri knew Tyson—the powerful figure who unified the WBA, WBC, and IBF championship belts, ushered in the 'Tyson era,' and transformed boxing into a fighting sport.
And in the newspapers:
1985年3月6日，纽约州奥尔巴尼，赫克托·梅塞德斯被泰森在第1回合1分47秒TKO！
Viktor stared at the words and suddenly felt a chill run down his spine.
Tyson's style—violent, primal, and ruthless—shares a terrifying resemblance to Drago, yet is also strikingly different.
Tyson's every punch was filled with anger and passion, while Drago was like a cold-blooded killing machine.