Round 5 – DING!
Victor shot out like a runaway bull, no hesitation. He stuck to the game plan: peppering jabs, distance-controlling clinches, constant pressure straight at Tyson's left ribcage. Every little tap made Tyson's face twitch.
Trump nodded ringside, smirking like he'd called it: Told you so.
But that's why Mike Tyson is a legend, why he turned boxing into straight-up combat. The guy's willpower isn't human, and his fight instinct is carved into his bones.
The pain didn't break him—it lit the final, most dangerous fuse.
Tyson let out a guttural, arena-shaking roar, pure animal. He ignored the rib pain that felt like a spear through his side and charged forward with reckless, murderous right uppercuts—trading blow for blow like he wanted both of them dead!
Those punches carried every ounce of his weight, rage, and whatever gas he had left, ripping upward through the air.
Victor's eyes shrank—pure survival instinct kicked in. He back-pedaled hard and threw up both arms.
BOOM!
The punch grazed his chin and forearm. The wind alone felt like it peeled skin.
That power was insane for a guy who'd just taken a liver shot from hell!
Trump's smug grin froze. "My God… He's still standing? He's still swinging?!"
The guy next to him smirked—accounts are public, everybody knows Trump's stunt. Drag it past ten rounds and Trump loses his shirt.
Only the ring is real.
Tyson turned into a pain-fueled berserker, eating Victor's pressure and answering with a no-defense death rush!
Left and right hooks screamed in. Pain warped them a little, but the destruction was still terrifying.
Victor went full defense. Arms rattled again. Nothing clean broke through, but the cumulative damage made his head swim, feet getting that tiny float nobody wants.
The bell finally rang—sweet mercy—ending another bloody slugfest at the end of round five.
Both men dragged battered bodies back to their corners.
Sweat and evaporating liniment mixed into a cruel, sweet, rusty stench. They guzzled water, chests heaving like broken bellows, muscle fibers screaming and twitching under the load.
The canvas glittered with blood drops and sweat under the lights—silent proof of how savage this war had become.
Trump loosened his tie, exhaled, forced a smile. "Wow… This is a real fight! This is why people pay!"
The people around him nodded, laughing inside.
Once he got to his private suite, Trump lost it.
"Fuck! Fuck! Son of a bitch! Fifth round and he's still up?!"
He slammed a fist into the luxury armrest—expensive wood cried out.
That trademark I've-got-this mask was gone. Just a gambler watching his chips bleed away—panic, rage, and a flicker of fear.
"My money! Every round they survive is my money! My money! And they still want their purses! MY MONEY!"
He snarled at the empty suite like he was yelling at Victor Li down there refusing to fall.
"That damn chink… is his neck made of titanium?! And that mid-section—Tyson can't even punch through it!"
He spun, glared at the battered but ice-eyed Victor below.
"Tyson's a bum too! I gave him everything and he can't even beat one chink?!"
In Trump's eyes, Victor wasn't a sideshow prop anymore. He was a real, conscious enemy—devouring his massive bet and his public face.
The prey bell had rung long ago. Now both men on the canvas were wounded predators.
The guy in the suite? He was the one tied to the stake, tortured with every extra round.
This banquet of money, tech, and primal violence had plunged into deep, bloody, unpredictable waters.
Trump clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. Worst-case scenario—going the distance past ten—was becoming real.
And that meant the survivor down there, running on steel will and a rebuilt body, could destroy everything he'd planned.
…
DING!
The bell was either a pardon or a death sentence.
Center ring, the two giants separated after another brutal exchange, dragging heavy steps back to their corners.
The air stank of sweat, blood, rosin, and pure killing intent.
Victor's corner: Michael slapped ice bags hard on his purple arms and shoulders, cold shock trying to kill the bone-deep tremor.
Liz Chen wiped bloody spit from his mouth fast.
Victor's heart was in his throat, every breath stabbing his torso where Tyson had hammered him. But those super-charged organs and oxygen-rich blood were processing lactic acid like a machine, pumping fresh, icy energy into exhausted muscle.
His plan was crystal clear: survive, then strike.
Tyson's human. Humans tire. Humans mess up.
Across the ring, Tyson spat out his mouthpiece—bloody mess.
His trainer frantically worked the torn brow, smearing Vaseline and coagulant over the leaking cut.
Tyson's eyes were a caged tiger—rage mixed with a tiny, hidden flicker of shock.
He'd never faced anyone who could eat five full rounds of his best shots. Usually he steamrolled guys.
Every breath stabbed his ribs, reminding him how deadly Victor's counters really were.
He chugged water, chest heaving.
Fatigue was real, but the rage from being hurt and challenged was realer.
He didn't need fancy tactics. His tactic was annihilation.
Round 6 – GO!
Victor downed glucose and came alive again. He stood toe-to-toe, trading with Tyson's heavy artillery using nothing but muscle armor.
Tyson stopped chasing pure speed. His punches got heavier, more precise—like sledgehammers instead of lightning.
Every shot meant to nail Victor to the floor.
BOOM-BOOM. The arena echoed with dull thuds.
Victor's guard stayed rock-solid, but each impact rocked his huge frame, feet turning to cement.
But Victor wasn't just a heavy bag anymore.
He started using the longer gaps Tyson needed to recover, snapping crisp counters.
His jabs were cold steel needles, tagging Tyson's bloody face, messing vision, cranking pain.
He even clinched a few times, using 300 pounds of reinforced core to grind on those cracked ribs, sap stamina, slow the rhythm.
BAM!
Tyson's left hook smashed Victor's raised arm. Victor rolled with it, then rammed his right shoulder into Tyson's chest.
Tyson grunted, stepped back half a pace, eyes blazing hotter. Harder shots rained down—crack-crack-crack.
Round 7 – pure war of attrition.
Tyson attacked like a winter Atlantic storm—wave after wave, no mercy, no breaks.
Victor was a silent black reef—swallowed by every wave, yet breaking the surface again, battered but unbroken.
Victor's face stopped looking human. Blood from his split left brow mixed with sweat, blurring everything.
A sneaky right uppercut—like a viper strike—grazed his chin. Not clean, but the shockwave turned the world blurry, ears ringing.
In that dizziness, his warrior DNA got crueler.
Through the fog, Victor spotted it: Tyson's tiny, almost invisible hitch in breathing from the rib pain—a split-second flinch.
Now!
Victor gambled—ducked low, razor-close. Tyson's fight-ending right hand screamed over his scalp, wind burning skin.
At the same time, Victor uncoiled like a high-tension spring. Every drop of power left exploded into another vicious body shot—same exact spot on Tyson's already purple left rib!
"URGH—!"
Tyson roared—pain and fury mixed. His face went ghost-white. The onslaught stuttered. The lion actually curled slightly.
The crowd lost their minds—deafening, disbelieving screams.
But legends are terrifying because they're not human.
Tyson ate a punch that would hospitalize normal men, didn't step back—instead the bone-deep agony flipped his primal switch.
He swung a wild, no-rules left hook like a lumberjack axe!
Victor couldn't retreat in time—threw up his right arm and ate it full.
CRUNCH!
Tooth-rattling impact. Guard nearly shattered. The punch still clipped Victor's right cheek.
BAM!
Sweat exploded off Victor's head like he'd been hit by a train. Feet slipped on the wet canvas.
In that split second, pain triggered his steel kidneys—massive adrenaline dump killed the hurt.
With monster core strength and that thick neck, Victor steadied himself. Eyes locked dead on Tyson—no wobble, no fear.
Tyson couldn't follow up—he was gassed too.
Both men stood there, chests heaving, blood dripping, staring each other down like two apex predators too hurt to finish the kill…
…but neither willing to blink.