When the referee signaled for the match to continue, the stadium of over sixty thousand fell eerily silent. Everyone knew—the moment of truth had come.
Jason Luo's head spun violently, his legs trembling beneath him. He staggered forward like a drunken man…
Carl, his swollen, pumpkin-like head held high, inched toward him one small step at a time…
A tragic march forward.
Two men who could barely stand, yet both glared at each other with burning eyes, fists clenched tight.
Less than two meters apart, yet every inch between them felt endless, every step a battle in itself. The crowd held its breath, terrified one of them might collapse before they met.
Finally—they closed the distance.
Neither threw a punch immediately. Jason Luo wasn't even sure he could lift his arm anymore…
It felt like only a second passed, yet like half a century had gone by. Carl's eyes grew brighter and brighter. Jason, through the spinning world around him, finally locked onto his opponent.
"Yaaah!"
"Ahhh!"
They roared together, unleashing the strongest punch of their lives.
They punched at the same time—and hit at the same time!
But the result…
Both fell. It was hard to describe—were they knocked down? Pushed down? Or simply collapsed from exhaustion?
No one cared anymore.
The entire arena fell silent!!!
No cheers. No applause. No sound at all.
In that moment, every spectator felt their soul cleansed. The purest spirit of sport had risen above everything—as if humanity itself had rediscovered what it meant to live.
The referee rushed to check on both fighters. Seeing that their eyes were open and they were still breathing, he knelt between them and shouted in a trembling voice, "Both fighters down! The countdown begins now! The first to stand before the count ends will be the winner!"
He slapped the canvas hard. "One!"
The crowd shot to its feet, necks craning toward the ring.
Carl's head lifted slightly—then dropped again.
Jason Luo struggled to rise, but his strength failed him. It felt like he was on a roller coaster, spinning and plunging nonstop. The world before him swayed and blurred—he couldn't tell if his head was moving or if the world itself was spinning around him.
"Two!"
The crowd grew restless.
"Come on! Get up! Come on! Stand up and you win!"
"Hold on! You're both heroes! God, give them strength!"
Jason Luo pushed against the ropes, forcing his body upward—then fell again. The moment his head left the ground, the spinning grew worse, as if his soul was being flung away.
Carl pressed his forehead to the mat, arms limp like noodles. His strength was gone—completely gone.
"Three!"
Women wept. Men wiped their tears and shouted hoarsely, "Damn it! Get up! Get up! We'll always support you! Never give up!"
Brown and Raul screamed as well, but their voices were drowned by the crowd's roar. Jason Luo couldn't hear a thing.
His thoughts drifted.
He saw himself unloading cargo at Boeing with Tony.
He saw himself the first time Reches knocked him down.
He saw himself training brutally with Kamman…
Coach Pedro appeared in his mind, his face stern. "You punk! Can't hold on already? Hmph… I was wrong about you."
Then his father's voice: "I knew you couldn't do it. Come home and study instead…"
No!
Jason Luo suddenly remembered the words he'd once told Brown: "Even if it costs my life, I'll bring you that Gold Belt!"
Even if I die—I'll die standing!
"Five!"
Jason Luo gritted his teeth, pushing with all his strength, forcing his upper body up. To hell with the spinning world—no matter what, I'll stand!
Across from him, Carl pressed his head against the mat, arched his back, and began dragging his knees forward.
"Six."
Jason Luo kept his eyes shut, afraid he'd faint if he opened them. Physically, he was in better shape than Carl—but the dizziness was crippling.
Even so, he was rising faster. He just didn't know it, eyes closed tight.
The crowd could see it clearly. Those cheering for Carl grew desperate. "Come on! Carl, hurry! Don't lose!"
Jason Luo's supporters were ecstatic. "You got this, Jason! Keep going! You're almost there—damn, he's really getting up!"
Brown and Raul trembled with excitement. "Jason! Push through! Go beyond your limits—you're the champion!"
"Seven!"
Carl dug his knees into the mat, biting his lip until it bled. His back straightened slowly. When he looked up, he saw Jason Luo—still with eyes shut—already on one knee, just one push away from standing. Panic filled Carl's heart, but his body wouldn't respond. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
Jason didn't dare move too quickly. In his mind, the ring was heaving violently, the world spinning madly. He wanted to grab something—anything—to steady himself, but there was nothing to hold onto.
"Eight!"
He rose slowly, pulling one leg beneath him, inching toward full balance.
Carl felt despair. He forced his body to move one last time—but darkness flooded his vision, and he fell limp to the mat.
"Oh no! No, this can't be! Carl, get up! God!" The crowd screamed in anguish. But Carl had reached his limit. His energy spent, he had relied purely on willpower. In the end, his body shut down—his nervous system simply couldn't take it anymore.
At that moment, Jason Luo finally stood upright—barely. He swayed, ready to fall again at any second…
But it no longer mattered.
The referee stepped forward, gently catching him, and whispered, "Young man, you win."
Jason Luo's last bit of strength left him. A faint smile appeared on his lips as he collapsed into the referee's arms.
...
This fight—
Jason Luo and Carl became legends.
The crowd was so overwhelmed, they nearly tore apart the century-old stadium in celebration.
The two unconscious fighters were carried out on stretchers, passed overhead by thousands in a relay of respect.
The second round of Group B couldn't even continue—fans were too excited, too worked up to calm down.
Chicago's local TV ratings skyrocketed ninefold. Within two hours, every remaining ticket for the Golden Gloves Tournament sold out completely.
In Chinatown, the streets overflowed as fans poured out to celebrate, forming spontaneous victory parades. Police rushed in to maintain order.
That night, local newspapers hurriedly reprinted their editions, running front-page stories detailing both fighters' backgrounds and the full course of the match. By the next day, The New York Times and The Washington Post had picked up the story too.
...
(40 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / GhostParser