svetikya Page 101
Page 101
Some people stood up, while others covered their mouths.
Victor could hear Frankie's shout from the corner: "That's it! Keep going!"
"That was a nice body punch! Eddie looks like he's in pain!"
The commentator was practically screaming—he thought the end was just around the corner.
Eddie managed to hold onto Victor for a moment to catch his breath; his sweat soaked Victor's shoulders, and his breathing was rapid and hot.
The referee quickly separated the two, and Victor saw a flicker of fear in Eddie's eyes—a feeling Eddie had never experienced in the boxing ring before.
After restarting, Eddie changed his strategy and began using his height advantage to corner Victor.
His jabs became cautious and precise as he tried to maintain distance.
"A smart adjustment; Viktor's offensive can't last a whole round!"
The commentator remarked, "Eddie is trying to turn the game into a war of attrition."
Viktor, with his back against the ropes, appeared to be in trouble, but in reality, he was playing right into Viktor's hands.
He deliberately acted tired to lower Eddie's guard.
As Eddie launched his triumphant combination attack, Victor noticed that his right hand was half an inch lower than usual—the very habit Frankie had mentioned.
Victor suddenly ducked to dodge a hook punch, and at the same time landed a thunderous right hook squarely on Eddie's waist and abdomen.
This punch concentrated all his power, originating from his feet, rotating through his waist, and finally reaching his fist.
The sound of that punch echoed throughout the stadium, even temporarily drowning out the noise of the audience.
Eddie's face contorted instantly, and his tall body bent forward like a felled tree.
His blond hair was soaked with sweat and stuck to his forehead, and he spat out a mouthful of saliva.
In that instant, Victor unleashed all his power from his feet, through a rotation of his waist, and finally into his right fist—a perfect uppercut that struck Eddie's exposed chin with pinpoint accuracy.
Viktor could feel his fist hitting his bones, a sensation he would never forget, because his fingers were likely to get injured.
Time seemed to stand still for a second.
Eddie's eyes went unfocused, his blue irises rolled upwards, and saliva dripped uncontrollably from the corners of his mouth.
Then, his 240-pound body slammed heavily onto the boxing ring like a sack of potatoes, making a dull thud.
The floor of the boxing ring seemed to shake.
The referee immediately rushed forward; there was no need to count the seconds.
Medical staff rushed onto the boxing ring, one of them prying open Eddie's eyelids to check his pupil response.
The entire venue erupted in cheers.
The audience all stood up, some cheering, some covering their mouths in shock—the odds of a first-round knockout were 1:1.5.
Flashes of light, like stars, captured this decisive moment.
Victor calmly walked back to the neutral corner and watched as the medical staff rushed toward the unconscious Eddie.
He didn't show excessive joy, but simply nodded slightly—a signal to the excited Frankie in the corner.
"ladies and gentlemen!"
The announcer's voice echoed throughout the stadium through the sound system: "Match result! First round, 1 minute 30 seconds, KO victory! The winner is 'Fat Tiger' Victor Lee!"
Viktor raised his arms, his sweat glistening under the spotlight.
He looked at Eddie, who was lying on the ground and being woken up by medical staff, his eyes glazed and confused.
Eddie's team surrounded him, some offering him water, others wiping the sweat from his face with towels.
As the referee raised Victor's hand to declare victory, he heard shouts from the stands: "Victor!" and "Fat Tiger! Fat Tiger!"
Viktor's lips curled up slightly, but he quickly regained his composure.
He knew that this match was far more than just a victory for Eddie; it was also a testament to his own training methods and tactical beliefs, proving that perhaps Tyson could also be defeated.
As he stepped off the boxing ring, Victor took one last look at Eddie, who was still sitting on the corner bench, looking dazed.
The once arrogant boxer now looks incredibly small, despite his still massive size.
Victor let out a soft breath and headed towards the locker room, ready to face the next challenge.
In the post-match interview, reporters rushed to ask questions.
"Viktor, is it true that you bet before the fight that you could knock out in the first round?"
"One to one and a half times the original price!"
Viktor wiped the sweat from his face and gave a rare smile: "I bought all my savings!"
"How did you do that? Eddie is so much taller than you!"
Viktor pointed to the scar on his forehead: "He gave me the best motivation."
Then he turned to the camera, his tone suddenly becoming serious, "Who's next?"
In the locker room, Foucault patted Viktor on the shoulder and laughed: "Kid, you've just tripled your value! Everlast just came to me; they want you to use their sports equipment and are willing to sponsor a game for you."
Viktor nodded, while the team doctor treated the slight swelling in his hand.
He looked at himself in the mirror—the scar had begun to scab over, like a medal of honor.
"Don't rush."
Victor calmly replied, "I'll talk about it after I finish fighting Tyson."
Foucault's smile widened: "This is the Viktor I know."
That night, Victor stood alone on the hotel balcony, overlooking the lights of Atlantic City.
The $300,000 check lay quietly on the table in the room, but the image of his next opponent falling was already flashing through his mind.
This victory was just the beginning—he knew perfectly well that Tyson would always be an insurmountable obstacle on the road to becoming the heavyweight champion, and he couldn't follow others and wait until his twilight years to fight!
"We all have our pride; we can't do something like this!"
······
Nobody is a fool, especially in this most developed country that boasts the highest per capita education level. Aside from the few minutes of leisure time spent in the controlled atmosphere of drugs, alcohol, and promiscuity, many people are still quite intelligent.
But Trump likes to treat others like fools.
Viktor stood in the center of the gym, sweat trickling down his brow bone, shimmering in the morning light.
He had just finished a brutal abdominal workout, the brutality of which lay in the intense pain of the rubber ball hitting him, and was now wiping the sweat from his face with a towel.
The television was showing footage of Trump's interview last week, with the real estate tycoon sporting his signature blond hair and talking boastfully to the camera.
“Victor is a remarkable young man. His punches are powerful, and his fighting style is fierce, but let’s face it—he’s not yet ready to face a real beast. But audiences love watching Washington versus Lincoln, don’t they?”
Trump winked at the camera, a smile that made Victor's stomach clench.
"Turn off that damn TV."
Viktor spoke to his sparring partner in a low, almost inaudible voice.
He doesn't need to listen to these things—this subtle denigration has never stopped since Trump started promoting his game.
On the surface, they praised him to the skies, but in reality, they were implying that he was nothing more than a pathetic wretch about to be crushed by Tyson.
Lowell Hadda pushed open the door and entered, holding a stack of documents, his face as grave as the sky before a storm.
“We need to talk,”
Lowell looked around and gestured for the others to leave the gym, saying, "Let's talk privately."
Victor stopped the others: "Let's go over there, you two."
After Victor closed the door, Lowell spread the documents out on the instrument table.
"Trump rigged the contract so that if the signatories win all their games, he has the right to pay five times the appearance fee, one month earlier,"
He pointed to a line of small print among the densely packed terms and conditions and said in surprise, "Just as we guessed, we can arrange a final match between you and Tyson, unless you pay an equivalent amount of US dollars to violate this clause."
Viktor stared at the line of text, showing little reaction.
He had long known that Trump was no pushover, but he never expected the other party to manipulate his career so blatantly.
Did Foucault know about this?
He asked, his voice unusually calm: "Jimmy had already told me about the risks, and after asking for my opinion, I agreed."
"Alright! Foucault contacted Keton,"
Lowell lowered his voice when mentioning Tyson's agent, saying, "Kayton was also very unhappy. Trump wanted to use you as a stepping stone for Tyson while extracting the maximum profit from both of you."
Viktor suddenly understood why Tyson had become cold towards him recently.
Last week at the sponsor event, I thought I got along well with Tyson, but I noticed that Tyson had a fierce look in his eyes.
At the time, he thought Tyson was just focused on training, but now he realizes that Tyson knew about the arranged match and therefore believed that Viktor had been deliberately getting close to him all along.
Because Trump definitely needs a winner.
"That arrogant bastard,"
Victor slammed his fist on the sandbag, which shook violently and the chain creaked horribly. "Does he think he can manipulate us like he manipulates his real estate?"
Lowell pressed down on his shoulder: “Calm down, Victor. Anger won’t solve anything. Foucault has arranged an informal meeting with Tyson’s team tonight, at the Trump Hotel, just the two of you.”
"On Trump's turf?"
Victor raised an eyebrow.
"We need to let him know!"
Lowell gave a sly smile. "His imagination will make up for everything."
That evening, Victor arrived half an hour early.
The restaurant at the Trump Hotel is opulent, with crystal chandeliers illuminating the entire space as if it were daytime.
He chose a secluded corner spot, with his back against the wall, where he could clearly see the entrance.
When Mike Tyson appeared at the door, a murmur rippled through the restaurant.
Tyson was dressed in a simple black T-shirt and jeans, with his signature gold chain around his neck.