radicalducati Page 142
Page 142
Chapter 119 I still want to fight two more!
Now, the two meet again in the center of the stage, their boxing gloves touching silently.
A barely perceptible look of surprise flashed in Fury's eyes—Victor had changed.
His movements were no longer probing, but carried a certain cold rhythm.
Viktor's attack rhythm suddenly increased, like a sudden downpour, more ferocious and rapid than the suffocating "Chicago Typewriter" style rapid-fire in the second round, yet exceptionally clean and efficient.
Every punch he threw seemed meticulously calculated, coldly avoiding all controversial areas and precisely striking only those unassailable, legal spots—a brutal and perfect performance of violence.
The left straight punch tore through the air first, like a poisoned bee sting, so fast that it left only a blur.
Its lightning-fast strikes were not intended to inflict serious damage, but rather to humiliate and dismantle Fury with utmost precision, hitting him squarely on the forehead and nose with resounding thuds.
This was not just an attack, but a disruption of rhythm. Fury's offensive rhythm was completely disrupted, and the momentum he had just built up quickly dissipated with each precise shot.
The oppression doesn't stop there.
The moment his left fist was pulled back, Victor's right rear hand punch was like a heavy cannonball, whistling through the air, and pounded violently against Fury's head brace again and again.
Loud thuds echoed through the stadium; it wasn't the sound of boxing gloves hitting each other, but the muffled thud of a battering ram striking a fortress.
Fury's arm went numb from the continuous heavy blows, and his solid defense was being cracked little by little.
"I'll get through this... I'll take care of you later..."
During a forced embrace, Fury pressed his sweaty, even bloody chin hard against Viktor's shoulder, his voice hoarse and low, like a curse.
His arms appeared to be limply wrapped around Viktor, but in reality, he was exerting force, pressing down on Viktor's neck and shoulder blades like heavy shackles, trying to slowly drain his young opponent's precious stamina and explosive power in the seemingly calm entanglement.
This is a survival tactic used by seasoned veterans in adversity. The audience in the stands are unaware of it, and even the referee's view may be deliberately blocked by this massive body.
But Victor was not fooled.
His calmness was just as terrifying as his offensive.
Just when Fury thought he had the situation under control for the time being, the air seemed to freeze for a second.
Viktor's core energy erupted in that instant, like a dormant volcano suddenly erupting.
He twisted his body suddenly, not struggling to break free, but like a giant python that had been gathering its strength for a long time, tearing apart Fury's grip with a smooth and violent movement.
That struggle carried a cruel beauty that was almost artistic.
Space was created—perhaps only half a foot, but that was enough for Victor.
The counterattack began almost the instant he broke free.
A short, vicious uppercut came from below, like a venomous fang shot from the shadows, and landed precisely on Fury's abdomen.
A dull yet clear thud pierced the noise in the arena; it was the distinctive, almost suffocating sound of the diaphragm being struck hard.
Caught off guard, Fury let out a suppressed groan from deep in his throat.
His body instantly bent over, as if he had been kicked in the ribs by an invisible foot, and all his defensive awareness crumbled under the impact of the excruciating pain.
But the storm never stops.
At the very moment Fury bent over, Victor's left fist had been waiting for him.
A horizontal hook, like a precisely calculated missile, followed the shortest and most lethal trajectory, striking the already injured ribs once again!
"Ugh—!"
This time, the agonizing screams could no longer be suppressed.
Fury's face turned deathly pale, the intense pain distorting his once resolute expression.
He staggered and bent over, his steps unsteady, completely exposed to his opponent's attack.
But Fury was a seasoned fighter, and sporadic heavy blows had no effect on him.
There was no pity in Victor's eyes, only a cold, icy glint.
Without hesitation, he took a step forward and pushed aside the massive body that had lost all resistance, clearing the best distance for himself to exert force.
Then came the final blow.
His right foot slammed into the ground, and the power surged from his heel like an electric current, passing through his taut, steel-like lower limbs and his rapidly twisting waist and hips. All the power converged and exploded in his core, finally pouring wildly into his right shoulder, right arm, and fist!
That right straight punch, like a heavy arrow shot from a fully drawn bow, carried the weight and kinetic energy of the entire body, tearing through the air and emitting a chilling whistling sound.
Save your last words for my fist!
Viktor's roar and the explosive sound of his punch erupted simultaneously.
A dull, solid thud, almost striking everyone's heart, echoed through the suddenly silent stadium.
The fist struck Fury precisely in the chin—the highest point Victor, at 186cm, could reach.
Fury's head snapped backward, the impact causing his cervical spine to groan in agony.
The light in his eyes vanished in a fraction of a second, all focus shattered by a single punch, leaving only a void.
He was like a giant tree whose roots had been severed by an axe, losing all support, staggering and swaying backward until the rope tightened around his body, barely stopping him.
It bounced him back helplessly, setting him to meet his final end.
The referee quickly stepped in, separating the two men. He used one hand to warily block Viktor, but his eyes were fixed on the swaying Fury. He loudly counted down the seconds and observed his state of consciousness.
The veteran was frighteningly tenacious; he swayed, his knees trembling, but refused to fall.
He even used the last shred of his consciousness to beckon Viktor with a trembling, defiant gesture, trying to force a mocking smile, but only managed to drool a trickle of saliva mixed with blood.
Victor's pupils contracted.
The referee did not stop it and announced that the game would start again.
Viktor, like a shark that has smelled blood, lunged forward!
The combination of punches from both hands was like a storm, and two fierce body shots landed precisely on Fury's waist again.
The agonizing pain finally broke down the last defense, and Fury's sturdy frame snapped open for a moment, his body twisting and collapsing from the excruciating agony.
Viktor lowered his center of gravity, and his legs unleashed a surge of power once more. A fierce uppercut from below to the top tore through the air and landed with unparalleled precision on Fury's unprotected jaw and mouth!
The braces, mixed with blood and foam, spurted from Fury's open mouth, tracing a strange pink arc in the air before finally falling limply to the corner of the boxing ring.
All of Fury's movements froze instantly. His body, like a puppet with its strings cut, fell straight and heavily backward, crashing onto the cold canvas floor with a thud, kicking up fine dust, and remained motionless.
The referee immediately waved his arms, ending the match.
The urgent chimes were drowned out by the huge gasps of surprise from the crowd.
Medical staff rushed onto the boxing ring with first aid kits and surrounded Fuli.
Viktor stood to the side, his chest heaving violently like a bellows, his heavy breathing booming in my ears.
Sweat soaked his hair and slid down his taut cheeks.
He stared at his opponent, who was now unconscious, and a surge of emotion, a mixture of extreme exhaustion, release, and the passion of victory, rushed to his head.
He roared in a hoarse voice at the chaos and at the unconscious Furi:
"Say it again!"
Victor knew what this meant: "I'll beat you so badly you can't speak!"
······
But in the post-match press conference, Victor praised Fury highly: "He is one of the toughest opponents I have ever faced. His recovery ability is incredible. It was a tough fight."
However, a reporter quickly steered the conversation elsewhere: "Mr. Viktor, you placed a bet of $200,000 off the court. As a professional athlete, is this against professional ethics? Could this lead to unhealthy values being instilled in minors?"
"The issues concerning minors are for the president and governments at all levels to resolve; that's not something I can control. Everyone here is an adult or an adult is present."
Victor's eyes turned cold: "Besides, my private life outside the boxing ring is none of your business. I box in Las Vegas, and of course I gamble in Las Vegas too. Maybe I'll lose all $250,000 this time, and that's fine with me. It's my money, what's wrong with how I use it?"
"Some people believe this could affect your performance in the ring, and might even involve..."
The reporter didn't finish speaking, but the implication was obvious.
Viktor leaned forward, closer to the microphone: "Listen, I just beat one of the toughest challengers in three rounds. If I wanted, I'd choose the easier way, wouldn't I?"
A burst of laughter erupted from the audience.
Just then, a WBO official approached Frankie, Victor's promoter, and whispered a few words to him.
Frankie smiled and quickly walked over to Victor.
"good news!"
Frankie said into the microphone, "The WBO just informed us that if Viktor wins two more scheduled fights, he will win the Intercontinental Championship and enter the world's top fifteen!"
Applause and cheers erupted, and Viktor managed a weak smile—WBO was really stingy.
But this is an important step in his career, bringing him one step closer to his dream of becoming a world boxing champion.
But then Viktor did something that surprised everyone.
He took the microphone and said clearly, "Thank you to the WBO for the opportunity, but I have my own plans. Before the WBO's scheduled matches, I want to fight James Smith and Tony Tucker. Please convey my message to these two boxers that I want to defeat them!"
There was an uproar at the scene.
Smith and Tucker are both top 50 players and could be far more dangerous than the opponents the WBO is preparing to field.
Frankie frantically tried to grab the microphone back: "Victor means he's willing to consider all options..."
"No, those two people also tried to challenge me!"
Victor said firmly, "I'm going to fight Smith and Tucker. Either we really fight, or we don't fight at all and see if we're real men!"
After the press conference, in the hallway back to the locker room, Frankie exploded: "Are you crazy? Smith will blow your head off! Tucker's speed will make you look like you're in slow motion!"
Victor did not answer; his gaze was drawn to the figure at the end of the corridor.
A middle-aged man stood there, followed by two burly men.
The casino owner wore a cold smile and clapped lightly.
“This is Mr. Chen from Hong Kong, and he is one of our shareholders.”
Chapter 120 You, Me, Him = Everyone
The night in Las Vegas is a mirage built from neon lights, money, and desire.