svetikya Page 63
Page 63
"The world is about to change,"
Victor muttered to himself.
It was as if the shadow of a giant loomed over the boxing world—Tyson and a whole host of boxing champions.
At the heart of this storm is Rocky Balboa, a washed-up champion, ready to die for his friend.
Victor pulled out a photo—a picture taken a month ago of him, Apollo, and Rocky at the training facility.
Apollo put his arm around their shoulders, his smile as bright as ever.
Viktor gently placed the photograph back in its place, suddenly understanding Rocky's choice: Sometimes, honor is more important than life. Sometimes, a symbol is more meaningful than a thousand victories.
But for the superficial Viktor, his purpose in coming to this era of boxing champions is likely to be only one:
Fight the strongest man, and sleep with the most beautiful woman!
Victor opened the hotel window and looked at the stars in late spring:
"If Tyson can do it, why can't I!"
Chapter 51 Chicago Champions: The Rift
At the weigh-in for the Chicago boxing qualifiers, the air was thick with the smell of sweat and disinfectant.
Victor stood on the electronic scale, his massive 371-pound frame causing the scale pan to creak under the strain.
His bare upper body was covered with bruises from training, and his muscles looked like steel parts that had been roughly welded together, covered with a layer of cast iron. He didn't look 'lean' at all; there were only simple undulations of pure muscle bulges.
"Weight is acceptable."
The referee announced, but dared not look directly into Viktor's bloodthirsty eyes—of course he was qualified, far exceeding expectations; in fact, the weighing was superfluous for Viktor.
Across from him, Los Redo, last year's runner-up in the U.S. Junior Division, was casually stretching his shoulders.
This young boxer, of Latin descent, had a healthy tan and a professional smile on his face.
When his gaze met Viktor's, his smile froze for a moment—what he saw was not the usual fighting spirit or tension of an opponent, but a focus almost like a wild beast staring at its prey.
"Hey, big guy, relax."
Redo tried to ease the tension with a joke, saying, "This is just a qualifying round, not a life-or-death duel."
Viktor's Adam's apple bobbed up and down; he actually wanted to curse, but in the end, he didn't say a word.
His gaze passed over Redo, as if looking at something further away—where there were images of Apollo Creed's last match, of the Russian giant Drago's deadly uppercut, and of the piercing sirens of ambulances.
During the drug testing process, Victor mechanically completed all the procedures.
His agent, Max, was constantly wiping sweat from his brow; the collar of the voluptuous college dropout's suit was soaked. She exuded charm.
“Victor, listen,”
She lowered her voice, "Redo isn't Drago, you don't need to take your anger out on him—"
Viktor uttered two syllables, his voice low and resonant like an echo in a basement: "This isn't taking it out on someone; it's just that I've decided to give it my all!"
On the night of the competition, as it was the championship match of the Chicago regional competition, a total of fifteen matches of various levels and groups started one after another, and the Chicago Stadium was packed to capacity.
The most important matches are saved for last.
By the time Viktor took the stage, it was already late at night.
When the spotlight shone on the boxing ring, Victor's figure cast a huge shadow on the canvas.
He didn't greet the audience for long as usual; he simply turned around, revealing the crimson tiger on his body, and silently struck his boxing gloves, each muffled thud sounding like a countdown.
"Game start!"
As soon as the first round bell rang, Victor charged at his opponent like a beast unleashed from its cage.
His black boxing boots screeched against the canvas, and the sheer force of his 371-pound frame as he moved caused the front-row spectators to involuntarily lean back.
He unusually abandoned his usual probing defense and launched a series of fierce swings at Redo's ribs.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Each punch was accompanied by a whooshing sound, like a small cannonball exploding in the air.
Viktor's muscle memory allowed him to execute these movements perfectly, but his eyes were not on his opponent—in his bloodshot brown pupils was the image of Apollo lying in a pool of blood.
"Very aggressive! But too hasty!"
Coach Jack, standing on the sidelines, slapped the ropes and shouted, his voice carrying the penetrating power honed over decades in the ring:
"Maintain distance! Use your jabs! Damn it!"
Victor ignored him.
All he could hear was the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears—his mind kept telling him that he could become even stronger!
Redo, this heavyweight rookie, moves with the agility of an eel in water.
He took a half step back, and Victor's right hook grazed his red boxing vest, the resulting air pressure causing the vest to press tightly against his abdominal muscles.
"You can't hit me, big guy."
Redo grinned, revealing a gold tooth that gleamed under the spotlight. "You're as slow as a drunken bear."
Viktor's breathing rhythm remained unchanged, but sweat was already dripping from his extremely short black hair.
Another left hook missed, and he briefly lost his balance, his right knee trembling slightly.
Redo seized the opportunity and landed a precise jab right on his right cheek.
The sound of his chubby chin swaying was drowned out by the audience's gasps.
Nothing happens.
Viktor licked the blood trickling from his mouth; it tasted salty and fishy. He continued his attack.
"Round One Over!"
The referee raised his hands to separate the two.
Viktor walked steadily back to the corner, opened his mouth, and the white towel he wiped on his face was immediately stained red.
Old Jack shoved the cotton ball into his mouth, his movements as rough as if he were repairing a disobedient machine.
"What the hell are you thinking?"
Old Jack roared in a low voice, spittle flying onto Victor's sweaty face, "This isn't a street brawl! Use your brain! Redo is waiting for you to make a mistake, and you're charging in like a bull in heat to die!"
"I can fight twelve rounds, you know that!"
Victor's gaze passed over the coach and landed on Max—Max never doubted his actions.
"Listen, kid."
Old Jack grabbed Viktor's chin, forcing him to look at his wrinkled face. "Boxing is a sport of wisdom, not a slaughterhouse or a gladiatorial arena. It doesn't need to please the audience!"
Victor remained silent.
When the bell rang for the second round, Viktor's right cheek was already swollen.
Redo had completely taken control of the rhythm, his jabs like sewing machine needles, constantly leaving red dots on Viktor's face.
On the scoreboard at the sidelines, Redo's point advantage continued to widen.
"Left! Watch out for his left hook!"
Old Jack was jumping up and down on the sidelines, his old-fashioned leather shoes screeching on the concrete.
But Victor kept trying his best to corner Redo.
Redo's right hook landed squarely on Viktor's chin, causing his vision to go black for a moment and his knees to buckle, almost causing him to kneel down.
A gasp erupted from the stands, and someone started shouting, "Stop the game!"
But Victor didn't hesitate and continued his attack.
"Round Two Over!"
Viktor slumped onto the stool, and old Jack poured a whole bottle of ice water over his head.
"Wake up! Damn it!"
The veteran coach's voice suddenly became hoarse, "Control your breathing, observe your opponent, wait for your opportunity... This isn't your first match, Viktor!"
"I only need one chance!"
Ice water streamed down Viktor's neck and into his vest, and he suddenly shivered: "Their technique is truly comprehensive!"
"How long have you been learning? They all started learning at a young age!"
Old Jack kept rambling on: "Boxing is a game for the wise, Viktor. Anger only slows you down, while calm... calmness allows you to see your opponent's weaknesses."
Victor spat out the drink in his mouth: "I'm confident!"
When the bell rang in the third round, Viktor's expression changed.
He charged forward like a bull, while simultaneously shifting his feet to maintain distance.
When Redo threw another jab, he suddenly crouched down, and the fist grazed his hair.
Viktor's body was like a spring compressed to its limit, suddenly released, and his right fist slammed into Redo's arm, directly knocking Redo to the side.
Victor stepped forward, his left straight punch like a cannonball, hitting Redo precisely in the chin.
The entire stadium seemed to stand still at that moment.
Redo's body fell slowly like a felled tree, his head slamming heavily onto the canvas with a dull thud.
The referee immediately began the countdown, and Victor had already retreated to the neutral corner, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white from the force.
"...six, seven, eight..."
Redo struggled to his feet, his eyes unfocused, his legs trembling like a newborn fawn, yet he still refused to give up.
Viktor gave him no time to recover, and the next wave of attacks came down like a storm.
A hook punch pierced through Redo's loose defense and landed heavily on his right waist.
Redo let out a painful groan, and his brace crumbled instantly.
Viktor saw the opening and threw an uppercut from below, carrying his full weight and pent-up anger.