svetikya Page 148
Page 148
Smith was indeed known for his strong resilience. Despite such a precise blow, he only tilted his head back slightly. His thick neck muscles absorbed most of the impact, and he swayed before regaining his balance.
However, this punch not only failed to stop him, but instead, like a spark splashed into an oil drum, it ignited the ferocity in his eyes.
"Come on, kid! Don't hide like a girl!"
He let out a low growl from deep in his throat, his voice hoarse like that of a wounded beast, and his attack became even more ferocious.
Before he finished speaking, another cunning and vicious left hook tore through the air and swung towards Victor's ribs—where the liver is located. In professional boxing, a single blow there is enough to instantly break a tough guy.
Viktor was fully focused, having anticipated the opportunity presented by this deadly move.
He deftly stepped back half a step, and by that tiny margin, the powerful hook that could have ended the match narrowly grazed his waist and abdomen.
At the same time, his counterattack was launched again—another concise and efficient right straight punch, as if precisely calculated, hitting Smith's cheek, which was wide open from his frantic punches.
The same location, the same crisp sound, like a merciless reminder.
The first round flew by in this rhythm:
Smith launched a relentless and ferocious attack, attempting to overwhelm his opponent with sheer power.
Viktor, on the other hand, was like a rock standing firm in the turbulent current, using calm and precise counterattacks and an impenetrable defense to contend with it.
The bell that signaled the end of the first round sounded like heavenly music, temporarily rescuing Viktor from the raging waves.
He exhaled a breath of rusty air, turned and walked to the corner, the clamor from the audience still lingering in his ears, and the heart pounding violently in his chest.
His world temporarily shrank to this red corner.
Old Jack's voice pierced through the thin foam earplugs, urgent and clear: "Good job, keep it up like this!"
Viktor was panting heavily as Ethan applied more Vaseline to his body. His nostrils were filled with the mixed smell of sweat, Vaseline, and rubber matting.
He nodded, his gaze drifting to the opposite corner.
Smith sat there raging like a caged beast, his coach practically yelling at him rather than instructing him.
Smith shook his head impatiently, his fierce gaze piercing through the air and locking onto Victor, his eyes conveying a clear message:
In the next round, I will tear you to pieces.
Smith charged forward like a killing machine that had been turned on again, fueled by an even greater rage than in the first round.
His steps became heavier, his intention clearer—to compress the space, corner Victor against the ropes or in the center of the ring, and then finish the fight with a devastating punch.
Viktor immediately executed the tactics.
He no longer held his ground, but instead used his strong arms to block and began to attack Smith.
Smith's fists came hurtling down again, a simple combination of a right hook and a left uppercut, yet incredibly powerful.
But Victor no longer took the hits head-on. He swayed his head and upper body slightly and leaned back, causing the heavy punches to miss him by the slightest margin.
Victor's right straight punch found its rhythm again, like a nimble snake, striking Smith's nose and brow bone with precision time and again.
It wasn't a knockout blow, but it was extremely insulting. More importantly, it scored a point and left a mark on Smith's hard face—his nose started to turn red, and his eyebrows might soon crack.
"Damn it! Don't hide!"
Smith roared, his pursuit becoming somewhat erratic.
Enraged by Victor's dodge, he began to throw punches with increasing impatience.
A powerful but somewhat reckless right straight punch missed, causing Smith to charge forward too aggressively and creating a very brief opening in his middle.
Viktor's pupils contracted, and he almost instinctively cut in.
He leaned forward, and a sharp left hook flew in a short arc, slamming into Smith's liver area!
That was the sound of a fist sinking deep into the muscles and the protective zone of the internal organs.
Smith's massive body stiffened abruptly, and a muffled groan, a mixture of pain and shock, escaped his throat.
His facial muscles contorted instantly, his charge came to an abrupt halt, and he even involuntarily bent forward slightly.
A liver injury won't knock you down immediately, but the excruciating pain and temporary physiological dysfunction it causes are very real.
Victor didn't miss the opportunity and immediately followed up with a series of punches!
A right straight punch landed on his chin, followed by a left hook to his cheek!
Smith's head swayed as he was hit, and he instinctively raised his armband to protect his head, staggering backward—this was the first time he had been forced to retreat since the start of the match!
The entire audience was instantly ignited!
Exclamations and cheers mingled together.
Viktor felt a rush of heat to his head.
A voice was shouting in his mind.
Strike while the iron is hot! He saw a glimmer of hope in ending the game, and his adrenaline surged so high that it almost overwhelmed Joe's tactical plan.
He took a sudden step forward, ready to unleash all his firepower and completely engulf this arrogant "bone crusher"!
However, just as he unleashed his next powerful punch, a beast-like instinctive counterattack erupted from Smith's body, which had been curled up in pain!
Using his retreating posture, he suddenly unleashed a near-suicidal uppercut, swinging explosively from an extremely low angle!
Victor's powerful punch missed.
But he felt a gust of evil wind coming towards his chin!
He could only desperately clench his jaw and use his chin to brace himself.
The heavy impact traveled through my gloves and arms all the way to my brain.
Viktor felt a buzzing in his head and his vision blurred slightly. Although he wasn't knocked out outright, the impact of the punch instantly brought him to his senses. His momentum was interrupted, and he had to readjust his center of gravity, take a small step back, and return to a defensive stance.
Smith was panting heavily, the pain in his eyes replaced by an even more frenzied rage.
He licked his lips, like a tiger that had been thoroughly enraged.
Viktor's heart sank—the opportunity had passed.
That moment of greed and recklessness almost cost me dearly.
In the boxing ring, never underestimate the counter-attacking ability of a heavy hitter, especially a tough guy like Smith.
Psychological fluctuations last only a moment.
Viktor immediately suppressed his frustration and calmed down again.
Chapter 125 The Mad Tiger, Who Will Never Forget a Little Bit!
Viktor started moving again, returning to the rhythm of movement and control.
After that brief surge, the match entered an even more brutal stalemate.
Smith became more cautious, but also more determined to get closer.
His jabs began to take effect. His height and reach made it difficult, and although the power was far less than his heavy punches, his forward-pushing footwork constantly disrupted Viktor's vision and rhythm of movement.
Viktor, on the other hand, was like a sailboat navigating through raging waves, constantly controlling the distance with small-angle swaying, sliding, and retreating.
Victor's jab hits.
Smith's body strike was blocked by Victor's elbow with a dull thud.
A heavy punch grazed Viktor's hair.
Sweat splattered under the spotlight, and every breath was hot and heavy.
Viktor's arm was getting increasingly numb, and his heart and lungs were burning with pain—he wanted to exchange punches, but Frankie had made it clear that if he wanted to fight more, he needed to avoid getting injured!
So he persisted, intently reading Smith's every subtle movement: the shrugging of his shoulders, the shifting of his center of gravity, the direction of his gaze.
He saw Smith make another slight right shoulder drop—was it a right hook or a feint?
Viktor instinctively prepared to move to his left.
But in the fraction of a second before the weight shifted, he keenly caught an extremely subtle inward rotation of Smith's left heel—this was not a prelude to the right hook, but a signal to initiate a left hook!
Is the target his liver, or his chin?
In a flash, Viktor made his choice.
He abandoned his attempt to move to the left and instead jumped back sharply, pressing his right armrest firmly against his chin and rib area.
Almost at the same moment he finished his defense, Smith delivered an extremely concealed yet fierce left hook that whistled past the edge of Victor's right glove!
The immense force even caused Victor's carrying frame to shift slightly.
Perfect prediction!
Viktor, who had dodged the fatal blow, did not pause for a moment.
During the brief moment of Smith's fist retraction and slump, his counterattack sprang out like a precisely calculated machine!
Two lightning-fast right straight punches landed precisely on Smith's already injured nose!
Smith groaned in pain as blood finally started flowing uncontrollably from his nose, staining his lips and chin red.
The cheers from the audience were so loud they almost lifted the roof off.
Smith began to become more dangerous.
He no longer pursued a single heavy punch, but began to try combined attacks, alternating between heavy punches from his left and right hands. Although it was a bit rough, it was full of power and pressure.
He was determined to execute the coach's tactics and corner Victor.
Victor continued to implement his parry and counter-attack strategy. His movements were more agile, like an elusive feather, causing Smith to miss his punches time and time again, expending a lot of energy.
On the sidelines, Smith's coach's face grew increasingly grim, while old Jack kept shouting, "That's it! Move! Move!"
During the break, Smith slumped onto the bench, sweat splattering everywhere.
His coach yelled into his ear, his finger almost poking his temple: "Now! Stop fucking messing around! Get close to him! Press him down! Otherwise we're all done for! Think about that money!"
For Smith, the ringing of the fourth round was like a bugle call to a final battle, and also like a countdown to despair.
He practically sprang up from the stool and charged at Victor without a second thought!
Tactics and rhythm were thrown to the back of their minds, leaving only the most primal instinct for destruction.
He unleashed a barrage of powerful punches with both hands, without any pause, like a sweeping metal storm!