boyutpedia Page 115
Page 115
Then, in the brief moment when Viktor's offensive was about to end, Tyson made his move!
A devastating straight punch, rising from the depths of hell, landed precisely and coldly on Victor's forehead!
Viktor couldn't even completely avoid it by looking down, hoping to catch Tyson off guard, but he ended up being taught a lesson directly—he never expected Tyson to be so outrageous!
A muffled thud even drowned out the noise at the scene.
Viktor's massive body, like a felled tree, crashed straight backward to the ground!
The boxing ring seemed to tremble.
"He's knocked out! My God! Tyson! Mike Tyson!"
The commentator's voice was hoarse and distorted with shock: "Forty-two seconds into the first round! Mike Tyson knocked out Victor!"
The counting sounded like a death knell.
·····5, 6······
Just as he counted to '7', Viktor suddenly shook his head, the cold flame in his eyes rekindling. He braced himself with one hand and stood up with extraordinary agility!
There was no obvious dizziness, only an extreme calmness after being thoroughly enraged.
Trump nearly jumped up in celebration in the box—it would have earned him almost $53 million in profit—but Victor’s quick rise forced him to swallow his cheers back, and the coldness in his eyes intensified.
Viktor, back in the fight, completely changed his tactics.
He no longer tried to overwhelm Tyson with a frenzied attack.
He became a formidable and suffocating tactical mastermind.
Viktor frequently pressed close and hugged Tyson, using his still-astonishing weight and core strength, even after his evolution, to squeeze Tyson's space and disrupt Tyson's rhythm of power.
He also yelled in Tyson's ear, took the opportunity to hug him, push him away, and then carefully controlled the distance with precise hooks and straight punches.
What's even more chilling is that he deliberately used his enhanced chest and abdomen, a mixture of muscle and fat, to withstand Tyson's powerful belly punches that could rupture the internal organs of an ordinary person!
"Bang! Bang!"
Tyson's fist sank deep into Viktor's abdominal muscles with a dull thud, but Viktor only groaned and didn't even take a step back. Instead, he immediately retaliated with a heavy right fist against Tyson's blocking arm.
He knocked Tyson down, but couldn't kill him.
The bell signaling the end of the first round relieved everyone's tense nerves.
The scoreboard showed the effective strikes and points for both players, and Viktor only landed four punches!
Back in the corner, old Jack and Frankie practically roared into Victor's ears: "That's it! Victor! That's it! Hold him! Grind him to death! Your body can take it now! Don't give him any space!"
"Points don't matter! There are fifteen rounds! Fifteen rounds! Exhaust him! Then knock him out!"
Trump took a big gulp of wine in the private room, his smile vanished, replaced by a look of resentment at lost profits—even a second-round knockout only yielded $46 million in profit.
He stopped looking at the celebrities and stared intently at the boxing ring, his fingers unconsciously gripping the stem of his wine glass tightly.
Frankie's tactics were executed without fail.
Viktor turned into a sticky piece of chewing gum, a heavy sandbag that could move and retaliate.
He kept pressing forward, using his body as both a shield and a weapon, dragging the match into the ugliest and most mentally taxing close-quarters combat.
Tyson was clearly enraged by this style of fighting, and he yelled in Viktor's ear:
"Fuck! You bedbug!"
"You despicable, shameless yellow-skinned pig! If you've got the guts, fight me!"
His heavy punches were like battering rams, slamming fiercely into Viktor's waist and ribs time and time again.
Each hit drew gasps from the audience, but Viktor's facial muscles merely twitched, before he responded with an even tighter hug and shove.
But Viktor was still responding to him:
"屮!氼!偁!の!"
His punches continued, not aiming for a knockout, but rather to steadily accumulate damage and points.
Both were heavy hitters; the air seemed to be torn apart by each punch.
Viktor knew he couldn't fall into Tyson's rhythm. Once Tyson entered the center line, he would immediately grab him and push him away, using simple footwork and straight punches and hooks to exchange punches, trying to control the distance from the outside.
But Tyson was like a beast poised to pounce. His swaying and close-range attacks were incredibly intimidating, and every time he ducked and lunged forward, the audience held their breath. His signature devastating punches seemed ready to explode at any moment.
Viktor's eyes were sharp, and he was extremely focused, not daring to be careless in the slightest.
In what seemed like a routine close-quarters struggle, Viktor seized a fleeting opening.
Tyson's right punch missed slightly, creating a tiny opening as he swung back.
Without hesitation, Viktor stepped forward and instinctively threw a left hook at a tricky angle, like a scorpion's tail, bypassing Tyson's lead hand that was habitually protecting his cheek, and slammed it solidly into Tyson's left cheek!
The muffled sound penetrated the noise of the scene and reached the ears of the experts.
That wasn't just an ordinary hit sound; it was the sound of a weapon solidly penetrating a defense.
The impact force of over 800 pounds exploded instantly, and Tyson's neck muscles twisted violently. Even his powerful core strength could not completely offset this unexpected blow.
His strong legs buckled, and his body tilted uncontrollably to one side. After a few steps, he fell heavily onto the boxing canvas!
Before Victor could rush in for another punch, the referee had already pulled him back.
Chapter 94: The Battle with Tyson (2)
Mike Tyson fell to the ground, his braces flying off.
"oh--!"
The entire audience erupted in gasps and exclamations of disbelief!
The invincible Tyson has actually been defeated!
Moreover, it comes from Victor, who is known for his strength, not his agility!
Trump leaned forward abruptly in the stands, his eyes wide behind his glasses, and he may have unconsciously muttered, "Unbelievable!"
But then his face lit up with the excited look of someone who had caught a dramatic turn of events—he didn’t care who won after the three rounds!
This match was definitely worth the ticket price!
The referee immediately intervened and started counting down the seconds—Victor was cursing in the back, saying that two seconds had been counted down to one, and that Fuck Yumazel's tongue could be faster!
However, Tyson's eyes on the ground showed no confusion, only a primal, ignited rage.
He didn't even wait for the referee to count to "3" before he sprang up like a compressed spring and stood up instantly.
He shook his head, his eyes fixed on Viktor, the rage burning within them almost consuming his opponent.
For Mike Tyson, this was the ultimate humiliation, and humiliation must be repaid in the most direct and cruel way!
Viktor intended to take advantage of the situation and exert pressure, but Tyson's speed in standing up and his terrifying gaze made him shudder.
The murderous aura in the air was so intense it was almost tangible—the last time Victor saw it was when he killed Max Wilson.
Tyson gave himself and his opponent absolutely no time to adjust.
As soon as Victor got close, Tyson's explosive attack was already underway!
With a swift, crouching movement, he dodged Victor's probing jab and darted into the inner circle like a cannonball.
His body was like a spring compressed to its limit, channeling all his power and anger into his right arm.
A bottom-up uppercut!
The punch was so fast it left only a blur, and so heavy it seemed to tear the air apart.
It precisely and cruelly slipped through the tiny defensive gap between Viktor's fists, perfectly prying open the defenses on his chin!
Viktor didn't even get to let out a full cry of pain; a short, painful groan escaped from deep in his throat—his triple-layered chin armor was completely useless.
The feeling wasn't like being punched, but more like being slammed down from below by a heavy iron hammer.
The immense force nearly lifted his feet off the ground, sending him staggering backward. His brain went blank for a moment, his vision rapidly being filled with flashing white dots and darkness, and the noise around the boxing ring became distant and blurry.
The world was spinning around him. He barely managed to stay upright by relying on instinct and his powerful core muscles. His back slammed heavily against the ropes, and the elastic ropes bounced him back, preventing him from falling to the ground again in humiliation.
A wave of dizziness washed over me.
Viktor's world was shaking, and all he could hear was his own heavy, bellows-like breathing and the pounding of his heart.
But the cold flame in his eyes did not go out; instead, it burned even more fiercely because of the heavy blow and his near-limit state.
Humiliation, pain, and the desire to win were intertwined.
He clenched his teeth tightly, and with astonishing willpower, shook his head, which felt like it was filled with lead, and forced his unfocused gaze to refocus on the relentlessly approaching, destructive figure.
The referee rushed over and his first words were, "Victor, do you need to come off the field?"
Viktor flew into a rage, shoving the referee aside: "Fuck! Don't bother me!"
He raised his trembling fists again, adopting a defensive stance that was both precarious and unusually stubborn.
Tyson approached like the ultimate killing machine, intent on ending the fight completely.
The combination of punches rained down on Viktor like a storm. Viktor could only desperately cling to his defense, using his body to withstand the heavy blows that hit his arms, shoulders, and ribs. Each hit sent a jolt through his body, but he held on and did not fall.
Trump watched intently from the stands, his body swaying slightly with each powerful strike. He admired the display of raw power, and even more so Tyson's vengeful and ferocious nature—very "Trump," where attacks must be met with double the retaliation.
At the same time, he was also somewhat surprised that Viktor was still able to stand.
Just as Tyson was preparing his next powerful attack that could potentially end the match—
"Ding! Ding! Ding!"
The bell that signaled the end of the second round rang out like heavenly music, temporarily severing this cruel chain.
In the corner, cold water was splashed on his face, and the coach's urgent voice buzzed in his ears, but he could only clearly hear the violent panting in his chest like a bellows, and the faint pain in his jawbone as if kissed by Tyson's devilish uppercut.
A faint darkness still flickered at the edge of his vision, but his heart was working efficiently at its core, forcefully suppressing the dizziness and pumping cold clarity, oxygen, and energy into his brain.
"That's it! He's very tired!"
Frankie could only encourage him: "You can handle him, but he can't handle you!"
On the other side, in Tyson's corner.
The angry lion roared as his trainer pressed hard on the swollen wound on his brow bone.