The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

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Viktor interrupted him, “But I have a plan. After each combination of punches, he pauses for half a second to breathe. I saw that opening.”

On the other side, Riddick's brow bone was in worse condition. The doctor managed to stop the bleeding, but the wound was torn open and looked horrific.

"If this continues, the referee might stop the game because of the injury,"

Tom warned, "You must deal with him as soon as possible!"

"I'm fine!"

Riddick roared, "I can feel him slowing down, the pain is affecting him! Give me two more rounds, and I can finish him!"

Tom frowned at the wound. "There might not be two rounds left. If the wound continues to worsen in the next round, the referee will stop the fight. You have to finish the fight in the next round."

The bell rang for the third round.

Riddick continued to focus on attacking Viktor's left flank.

He kept using feints to trick Viktor into raising his defense, then he would strike his body hard.

Viktor's left side was visibly red and swollen, and it would twitch slightly each time he was hit.

But Viktor gradually adapted to this pattern.

He noticed that Riddick would pause briefly to catch his breath after a series of punches—a pause of about half a second, which was the moment he readjusted his breathing.

This discovery gave Viktor hope, and he began to patiently wait for the right moment to arrive.

Chapter 157 Victory in the Third Title Defense

The atmosphere in the audience reached a fever pitch.

A father with his son pointed to the boxing ring and said, "Watch how Viktor takes the punches, son. Boxing isn't just about how to throw punches; it's about how to take them and keep going."

The little boy opened his eyes wide. "But it must hurt a lot, Dad."

"Yes, but the difference between a champion and an ordinary person is not that they cannot feel pain, but that they can endure pain and stick to their plan."

Viktor's plan is slowly taking shape.

He deliberately exposed an opening on his left side, luring Riddick to attack that area, while secretly gathering his strength, preparing to launch a fatal counterattack during that half-second window of opportunity.

After Riddick finished his combination punches, that familiar breathing pause appeared.

Instead of retreating or blocking as before, Victor suddenly rushed into the middle!

Another left hook!

All of them landed squarely on Riddick's chin and temple!

Riddick was completely overwhelmed and his defense collapsed entirely.

His eyes instantly lost focus, and his legs became weak and powerless.

Victor gave him no chance to recover, unleashing a terrifying right hook that spun with his entire body weight, striking Riddick squarely in the chin!

Time seemed to stand still.

Riddick's eyes rolled back, and his body went limp as he collapsed onto the canvas floor like a sack of potatoes.

Blood and sweat traced an arc in the air before falling with him.

The referee immediately rushed over to count, but there was no need to count to ten at all.

Riddick Bowe had completely lost consciousness; his body twitched slightly on the canvas as a reaction of his nervous system to the blow.

The stadium erupted in a deafening mix of cheers and gasps.

Flashes of light, like lightning, captured the final moment.

Viktor stood before his fallen opponent, his chest heaving violently, sweat and blood streaming down his body.

He raised his fists, but there was no joy on his face, only a relieved exhaustion.

He walked over to Riddick, who had fallen to the ground, and crouched down to check on him until the medical team rushed into the ring.

"Amazing KO! Victor Lee defends his title! After being on the back foot for a while, he seized his only chance and finished the fight with a perfect right hook! That's heavyweight boxing—a single moment can change everything!"

Medical staff quickly lifted Riddick onto a stretcher and put a neck brace on him.

Viktor followed the stretcher to the edge of the platform, his face filled with worry.

Despite having just gone through a life-or-death struggle, the respect between the boxers transcended victory or defeat at that moment.

As Riddick was lifted out of the ropes, Victor returned to the center of the ring, the gold belt fastened around his waist.

He raised his belt, but his gaze remained fixed on the exit, where Riddick was being taken to the hospital.

"Tonight, we witnessed a great champion's title defense, and we also witnessed the cruelty and beauty of this sport,"

The commentator's voice suddenly turned somber, "Let's applaud these two warriors; they gave it their all."

Before the interview, Viktor said to the camera, "Riddick is an incredible fighter, and I hope he's okay. Boxing isn't just about winning or losing; it's about respect. Please pray for him."

Applause erupted from the crowd; those who had just cheered for the bloody duel were now moved by the spirit of sportsmanship.

In this brutal aesthetic, respect and violence coexist in a peculiar way, forming the eternal paradox of boxing.

Standing in the center of the boxing ring, the reporter handed him a microphone.

"Victor, you've successfully defended your title once again. What's your response to Riddick Boucher's comments before the match?"

Viktor took the microphone, paused for a moment, and then calmly said:

“There are no races or nationalities in the boxing ring, only two people willing to give everything for honor. Riddick proved tonight that he is a true fighter, and I respect him, but his insults to me are unforgivable.”

Will there be a signing ceremony today?

A reporter asked a question.

No! There aren't any today.

Viktor pointed to his ribs: "I need to take care of my injury. There will be a press conference early tomorrow morning."

In a New York restaurant late at night, a voluptuous woman with long chestnut hair stared blankly at the world boxing champion on television.

On March 18, 1987, New York was still chilly in spring, but inside the Plaza Hotel, a wave of heat was surging.

Fran stood in front of the gilded-framed mirror, carefully adjusting his tie.

This 51-year-old boxing promoter has a typical redneck face—red hair, freckles, and blue eyes that are always smiling.

But today, there was not a trace of a smile in those eyes.

“Victor, we’ve really messed up this time.”

He muttered to himself, took a deep breath, and turned to walk towards the conference room.

At the other end of the corridor, members of Holyfield's team had arrived.

Frankie recognized the stocky African American—Lou Duva, Holyfield’s legendary coach—and the tall, shrewd white lawyer, Michael Herman.

They were followed by six assistants, each with a solemn expression.

"Frankie!"

Duva extended his large hand, a professional smile on his face. "Ready to hand over the money to us?"

Frankie returned the same insincere smile: "Lu, I'm more worried that we'll get cramps counting money."

The two laughed and hugged, patting each other on the back, their exaggerated movements like those of old friends reunited after a long separation, but their eyes were full of calculation.

This is the norm in the boxing world: outwardly passionate, but inwardly rife with intrigue and conflict.

Inside the meeting room, a long table was covered with a dark green velvet cloth, and five high-backed chairs were placed on each side.

The crystal chandelier on the ceiling cast a warm glow, and an oil portrait of the hotel's founder hung on the wall, seemingly gazing at the negotiations that were about to change the history of boxing.

"So, shall we begin?"

Herman got straight to the point, taking out a thick stack of documents from his leather briefcase.

Frankie nodded, and his assistant produced a prepared draft contract.

For the next four hours, the two sides engaged in a tug-of-war over every single clause.

Appearance fees, profit sharing ratios, venue selection, referee nominations, media rights, and even locker room temperature and the types of fruit required—every detail was scrutinized under a magnifying glass.

"Giving 40% of the box office revenue to the winner is too high."

Hermann adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. "30% is more reasonable."

Frankie leaned back in his chair, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Michael, do you know how much of the box office revenue Victor got last time? Seven million! And that was against Riddick Bowe. This time it's Holyfield, the PPV (pay-per-view) numbers will double."

"But the risks also double,"

Duva interjected, "Your boy has played three games in two months. He's a human being, not a machine. Exhaustion will take its toll."

"No need for you to trouble yourself, Lu."

Frankie's voice remained gentle, but his eyes sharpened. "Victor is in better shape than ever. If you're worried about Holyfield's chances of winning, we can reduce the split to 39%."

Duva's face instantly darkened.

The air in the meeting room froze.

Ultimately, after mutual concessions and compromises, an agreement was reached:

Both sides received a $1350 million appearance fee, and the winner will receive an additional 40% of the box office revenue.

The competition is scheduled for July 20th at the MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas.

The signing ceremony was brief but formal.

The flashbulbs went off, and Frankie and Duva shook hands and smiled, exchanging signed copies of the contract.

Reporters swarmed in, bombarding the reporters with questions.

"Frankie! Can Viktor handle four title defenses in six months?"

"Lu! What secret weapon has Holyfield prepared? Victor's punching power is likely over 1200 pounds!"

"Will this match be considered a preview of the Tyson fight?"

Frankie raised his hand to signal for quiet: "Ladies and gentlemen, Victor Lee and Evander Holyfield are the greatest boxers of our time."

On July 20th, you will witness a legendary fight in boxing history. Now, please excuse me, I have to go call my boxer.