The bell rang like a lifeline.
Victor practically dragged himself back to his corner.
"Breathe, Victor! Deep breaths!"
His crew swarmed him, slapping ice packs on his cheeks and those iron-hard shoulders that were now way past their limit, while someone pressed a cold compress to his swollen right cheek.
Ice water ran down his sweat-soaked black hair.
"He's gassed! You see it? His combos are slowing down! Your body can outlast his! Hang in there, wear him out with your recovery! Remember: defend and counter!"
Victor was heaving like a busted bellows, lungs on fire.
His body was red-lining, burning off lactic acid and pain signals, patching microscopic muscle tears on the fly.
Every fiber screamed at him to quit.
But something deeper (mechanical, relentless) kept him upright. Those iron kidneys pumped out one last surge of adrenaline, the kind of high that kept his engine from flatlining.
Victor stared at Frankie's flapping lips. "I can't hear a damn word you're saying! But I'm fighting this guy till one of us drops!"
Across the ring, Tyson's corner was grim.
He chugged water, sprayed it across his face, chest heaving like a freight train. Every breath felt like a blade scraping his cracked ribs.
"Fuck! That kid's a goddamn tank!"
Tyson growled, the beast in his eyes still blazing. "I clocked him clean on the temple! And the bastard didn't even blink!"
"Mike, chill! Don't let him drag you into his game. He's baiting you to burn out!"
His trainer kneaded his shoulders like dough. "Your power's still king! Wait for the opening. One shot. Just one!"
···
Rounds eight and nine blurred into a slow-motion slugfest.
The canvas was a war zone: sweat, occasional flecks of blood sparkling like cruel diamonds under the spotlights. Both men looked like they'd been yanked out of a lake, leaving sloppy footprints on the pricey mat with every shuffle.
Their punches had lost the early snap and beauty, but every swing carried the weight of eight rounds of damage, exhaustion, and a growing hunger to end it.
Tyson's footwork frequency, that terrifying head movement, the seamless combos; everything had dipped just a hair. Irreversible.
His bombs still rattled Victor to the core, made his legs wobble, but they no longer shoved him around like the first few rounds.
Victor hunted like a machine that never slept: constant jabs, needling Tyson's busted ribs, forcing him to burn gas on defense and lateral slides.
Then the crowd erupted in a roar that didn't match the fight's rhythm.
Trump was on his feet. That signature golden hair was a mess, face flushed red from pure hype.
He didn't give a damn about decorum. One hand held a camera (was he filming?), the other jabbed toward the ring as he bellowed at Tyson, voice cutting through the chaos:
"Mike! Finish him! Right now! With that right hand! Show him who the real boxer is! You're the best! Untouchable! Crush him!"
Every eye in the arena snapped to him. It was like he'd tossed a Molotov onto the canvas.
Tyson flicked a glance that way; eyes flashed with pumped-up fury, maybe a flicker of annoyance at the meddling, but it lit his final fuse.
He surged forward, threw caution (and stamina) to the wind, and unleashed a savage left-right combo that cranked the heat up to eleven.
Trump plopped back down, smug as hell, straightened his tie, and loudly bragged to the guy next to him like he'd just coached the knockout himself.
···
Victor's pupils shrank. He sucked in a breath, squeezed every last drop of juice from his tank, dropped his center of gravity, arms locked tight over head and body; back to being that black reef about to eat the mother of all storms.
The dull thuds of impact became the soundtrack again. This brutal war of attrition just got a wild-card injection from a loudmouth in the stands.
Up in the luxury box, Trump had gone from raging to ice-cold despair.
No more pounding the armrest. He just slumped in his plush seat, face gray, tie crooked, perfect hair coming undone.
He stared as the bell for round ten clanged.
"Round ten… round ten…"
He muttered, voice like sandpaper.
His fingers drummed his knee, brain crunching numbers that were evaporating faster than sweat. Every zero vanishing felt like a knife in the chest.
His glare at Victor had morphed from fury to pure hate.
This "product" he'd shoved into the spotlight, thinking he could control the puppet; now it was biting back, devouring his money and his rep.
"How the hell… is he still standing?"
Trump couldn't wrap his head around it. Tyson had landed rhino-killing shots. Neck? Chin? Body?
Was the kid actually bulletproof?
The hunter and the prey; roles blurred.
Up there were two warriors bleeding for survival. Down here, Trump was the one chained to the bet, getting dragged into the abyss.
War of attrition?
His worst nightmare, live and in color. He could already hear the rivals and the press cackling, see the blood-red numbers on the financials after the odds tanked.
Round ten ended in another exhausted exchange. When the bell rang, the two didn't even separate right away; they leaned on each other for a second, gasping, before staggering to their corners.
Trump squeezed his eyes shut. Didn't want to watch.
He knew the nightmare was real.
This circus of cash, tech, and raw violence had turned into his public execution.
All because of that unbreakable Victor Li on the canvas.
···
Sweat, spit, and blood hung in the air, catching the lights like glitter before slapping the mat.
The bell for round eleven felt like it broke a spell.
Victor and Tyson (two guys who'd been trading leather for over thirty minutes) suddenly locked into some bloody mutual understanding.
No blitzkrieg. Just heavy, probing lead jabs pff-pff into arms that had gone numb hours ago.
Their feet slid on the soaked, rosin-dusted canvas with sticky shlick sounds. Chests heaved like busted furnaces, sucking in the hot, stale arena air.
Every breath burned.
This wasn't peace. This was the eye of the storm; two apex predators licking wounds, lining up the kill shot.
The coaches' screams from ringside turned into muffled garbage; neither man heard a word.
The world shrank to the ropes and the steaming, snarling beast across from you.
The fake calm shattered at the end of round twelve.
A primal glint flashed in Tyson's eyes. He caught Victor in a micro-hesitation; maybe fatigue slowed a nerve signal by a thousandth of a second.
That's it.
His body uncoiled like a spring compressed to the breaking point. A twisting right hook ripped through the air and blasted Victor's high guard apart.
Victor's head snapped sideways, vision went white, ears ringing like church bells.
Before he could reset, Tyson's signature hell-uppercut dug under and cracked into his jaw.
BOOM!
Bone-on-bone crunch that made teeth ache in the cheap seats.
Victor's mouthpiece flew in a red arc, legs turned to jelly. Pure willpower kept him from eating canvas.
He staggered back into the ropes, bounced off the springy cables, mouth full of hot pennies and foaming blood with every ragged breath.
The ref's shadow danced. The count sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
Victor couldn't hear; just watched the ref's hands and lips. Counting fast!
Ten?
Hell no.
He locked eyes with Tyson and ordered his trembling legs to hold.
He'd never wanted a bell so bad in his life.
And it came; salvation just before the hammer fell.
DING-DING-DING!
Victor got his ten seconds.
Round thirteen. Victor spat a mouthful of blood, but his eyes reignited.
Tyson charged, trying to ride the momentum and rip the prey apart.
But Victor's muscle memory and whatever brain cells still fired kicked in.
Slip, weave, close the gap!
In the tiny window where Tyson's haymaker whiffed, all Victor's pain and rage found a door.
His fists became chain lightning: one, two, three, four!
A vicious right straight punched through the guard, left hook tore the air, and a soul-crushing right uppercut landed flush on Tyson's chin; clean, perfect.
Tyson's thick neck made a sound like timber snapping. His head whipped back, massive frame wobbled hard for the first time, eyes wide with shock and a flash of vacancy.
He caught the ropes to stay up; canvas groaned under his boots.
The arena damn near imploded.
Victor swarmed, ready to end it, but Tyson's animal instinct clamped him in a bear hug and rode out the storm.
Round fourteen; technique and game plans were ancient history. Just raw power and will slamming together.
Both men were running on fumes and adrenaline, trading in the pocket like cavemen.
No dodging, no blocking; just savage, straight-up exchanges!
Heavy fists like sledgehammers thud-thud-thud into cheeks, brows, ribs.
The steel frame, rapid recovery, iron kidneys package finally paid dividends. Victor absorbed punishment and bounced back faster, still landing with scary accuracy.
In one no-frills slugfest, Victor poured every ounce left into a left hook that carved a deadly arc, slipped past Tyson's slow guard, and cracked flush on the cheekbone.
The sound was sharp and sickening.
Tyson froze, then his mountain of a body toppled like a felled redwood, canvas shaking on impact.
The building held its breath for one heartbeat; then erupted like a volcano.
During the count, Tyson's eyes went from floor-stunned to hellfire.
He climbed up, spat out the mouthpiece, and stared down ref and opponent: We ain't done.
Victor just stood there, brain short-circuiting; Peak Tyson is human!
Chapter 96: Round One with Tyson (Part 4)