dmims Page 118
Page 118
Is it really an impregnable fortress?
The prey's bell has long since rung, but now, the identities of prey and hunter are blurred.
On stage are two warriors fighting tooth and nail for their own survival, while off stage, he, Trump, is the one tied to the stakes and being dragged into the abyss.
His worst nightmare was becoming a reality. He could almost hear the mocking laughter of his opponents and the media, and see the alarming red on his financial statements after his odds collapsed.
The tenth round ended in yet another exhausting exchange of punches.
When the bell rang, the two didn't even separate immediately. Instead, they supported themselves with each other's weight for a moment before panting and staggering toward the corner.
Trump abruptly closed his eyes, unwilling to look any longer.
He knew that the worst had happened.
This feast of money, technology, and primal violence has turned into a prolonged torture in which he is publicly executed.
And all of this is because of the indomitable Victor Lee on stage.
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Sweat, saliva, and blood droplets hovered in the air, gleaming under the blinding spotlight, before slamming heavily onto the boxing ring canvas.
The ringing of the eleventh bell seemed to break some kind of seal.
Viktor and Tyson, two boxers who had been locked in combat for over thirty minutes, seemed to have reached some kind of bloody consensus.
There was no fierce attack, only heavy, tentative jabs that thudded into the opponent's already numb arm.
Their footsteps slid on the water-stained and resin-soaked canvas, making a sticky sound, their chests heaving violently like broken bellows, greedily swallowing the hot and stuffy air inside the stadium.
Every breath felt like a burning sensation.
This is not peace; it is a false calm in the eye of a storm, two apex predators licking their wounds after tearing each other apart, recalibrating the angle for their fatal blow.
The coach's roar came from below the stage, becoming muffled and distant, as if separated by a thick layer of water—neither of them could hear it.
The entire world shrank to just the area within the rope circle, and the opponent opposite him, whose body was steaming hot and whose eyes were still fierce.
The brief respite was utterly shattered at the end of the twelfth round.
A primal predatory glint flashed in Tyson's eyes as he caught a barely perceptible pause in Viktor's movements—perhaps fatigue had slowed nerve conduction by a fraction of a second.
It's this very moment!
His body was like a spring compressed to its limit, suddenly released, and a right hook that twisted his waist and abdomen tore through the air, smashing heavily through Victor's high-held fist.
Viktor's head snapped to the side, his vision blurred instantly, and a deafening ringing filled his ears.
Before he could regain his balance, that signature, hellish uppercut had already come from below and viciously struck his jaw.
The sound of bones colliding with each other was a dull, teeth-grinding thud.
Viktor's braces spurted out along with a mouthful of scalding blood, and his legs went limp as if they had lost their bones. He only managed to stay upright thanks to sheer willpower.
He staggered backward and crashed into the ropes, which bounced him back. His mouth was filled with a strong, rusty, metallic taste, and each difficult breath caused a gurgling sound of blood and foam in his throat.
The referee's figure swayed, and the countdown sounded as if it came from the end of a tunnel.
Viktor couldn't hear, so he could only rely on the other person's gestures and lip movements to judge how many numbers had been counted—the referee was counting very quickly!
No, it absolutely cannot be ten!
He stared intently at Tyson's figure, using his willpower to force his trembling legs to steady themselves.
The ringtone—he had never longed for the ringtone so much.
And it finally rang out before the judgment arrived.
Ding ding ding! ! !
Viktor was given a chance to catch his breath.
Round 13. Viktor coughed up blood, but his eyes blazed with renewed intensity.
Tyson attempted to continue his momentum from the previous round, lunging forward to tear his prey apart.
But Viktor reacted using his remaining sanity and bodily memory.
Tilting head, shaking, getting closer!
In the brief moment of paralysis after Tyson's punch missed, Viktor found an outlet for all the pain and anger within him.
His fists were like a sudden burst of lightning, one, two, three, four!
A vicious right straight punch pierced through the defense, followed by a left hook that tore through the air, and finally finished with a full-force right uppercut that landed clearly and precisely on Tyson's chin!
Tyson's thick neck creaked under the strain, his head snapped back, and his massive body swayed violently for the first time. His eyes widened in disbelief and a moment of disorientation.
He managed to stay upright by the ropes, the canvas creaking beneath his feet.
The gasps and screams from the entire venue almost lifted the roof off.
Viktor lunged forward, wanting to end it all, but Tyson's beastly instincts made him hold on tightly to his opponent, surviving the most dangerous moment.
In the fourteenth round, all techniques and strategies were cast aside, leaving only the most primal clash of strength and will.
Both were already exhausted, and they were fighting each other entirely on the back of their adrenaline and instinct.
No dodging, no blocking, just the most savage exchange of punches!
Heavy fists pounded against each other's cheeks, brow bones, and bodies like hammers.
The loud banging sounds were unsettling.
The superior defensive system, composed of steel-reinforced bones, rapid absorption, and steel kidneys, now showed its value. He recovered faster after taking a punch, and his punches still maintained a terrifying accuracy.
In a completely unpretentious exchange, Victor unleashed a left hook, pouring all his remaining power into it. The hook arced deadly around Tyson's sluggish block and landed squarely on his cheekbone.
The sound was crisp yet terrifying.
Tyson's movements froze instantly, and then his mountain-like body crashed to the ground like a collapsing mountain, causing the canvas to tremble.
The stadium was silent for a second, then erupted into a tsunami-like roar.
As the countdown began, Tyson's gaze, which had been blankly fixed on the floor, rekindled with a terrifying flame.
He stood up, spat out his mouthguard, and told the referee and his opponent with his eyes that it was far from over.
Viktor was completely dumbfounded—Peak Tyson was simply amazing!
Chapter 97: The Battle with Tyson (The End)
Round 15.
The air was so heavy you could feel the moisture seeping out of it.
The two even skipped the probing and rushed straight to the center.
The battle suddenly escalated, transcending mere brutality and entering the realm of legend.
Tyson knocked Viktor down with a brutal right hook!
Viktor got up at eight o'clock.
In less than twenty seconds, Victor delivered a vengeful left hook that knocked Tyson down!
Tyson also got up after eight seconds.
Their faces were no longer recognizable, only swollen, torn, and bruised.
But they kept throwing punches, dragging their broken bodies, burning with their last breaths.
Victor fell to the ground again!
Then stand up again!
After a fierce exchange of blows, Tyson swayed and knelt on one knee, then gritted his teeth and stood up straight!
The final bell rang, like a redemption, ending this ritual of mutual destruction.
The two were almost unable to stand on their own and fell forward simultaneously, only to be held back by the rushing team.
Their arms rested heavily on each other's shoulders, supporting each other, their heads touching, sweat and blood mingling and dripping onto the battlefield where they had fought together.
There were no words, only broken, bellows-like gasps, a shared memory of fifteen rounds of hell that only they could understand.
When the referee painstakingly separated the two players, and the three linesmen announced the result through the host's hoarse voice, the entire stadium erupted in a mix of cheers and uproar.
Despite having an advantage in knockdowns, Viktor lagged far behind in total points and effective hit rate.
Ultimately, Tyson won by an uncontroversial points decision.
The coaching teams on both sides, who had been holding back their excitement, erupted immediately upon hearing the result.
Victor's coaches, Frankie and Jack, were like a powder keg that had been ignited. They rushed into the ring and headed straight for the referee's table, their spittle almost landing on the referee's face.
"Is your countdown a fucking slow-motion replay?! That knockdown clearly lasted more than ten seconds! You let that little brat Tyson rest for a full twenty seconds!"
"There was one last chance, why did you intervene so quickly?! You took away Viktor's chance! He could have ended it right away!"
On the other side, Tyson's coaching team was equally furious. They believed that Viktor frequently used clinching, slamming, and even occasional strikes to the back of the head throughout the fight, and that the referee's warnings came too late and were too lenient.
"Look at his face! Look at the injuries Tyson sustained! Were you all blind to those dirty tricks?! This victory should have been much cleaner!"
Four agitated old men surrounded the three referees, shouting and blushing. Security guards had to intervene quickly to prevent the conflict from escalating.
However, at the eye of the storm—the two boxers—a completely different picture emerges.
Viktor, his face completely disfigured, struggled to move, reaching out his heavy arms to embrace Tyson, who was also teetering on the brink of collapse.
"Hey Mike... good fight... that was fucking tough."
His voice was hoarse and indistinct.
Tyson, equally pained, gasped and replied, "You're a damn tough nut to crack, Victor... I've never... never been this tired."
Only they themselves knew the piercing pain in their chests from each breath during those fifteen rounds, and the astonishing willpower consumed by each punch.
Viktor then added with all his might, "Wait... I'll recover... the rematch... it's in the contract..."
Upon hearing this, Tyson let out a short laugh that was a mixture of pain and excitement: "I'm ready anytime!"
Trump's smile faded long afterward.
Because the 15-round fight cost Trump a lot of money, he even wanted to detain Viktor!