69novels Page 14
Page 14
He asked vaguely.
Michael just grinned, revealing a gold tooth: "The Irish are keeping a close eye on things. They wouldn't dare tamper with the water here. Yesterday's water was diluted, so he should still be a little dizzy."
He patted Viktor on the shoulder, "Don't overthink it, just give it your all!"
Victor took a deep breath; the damp air was filled with the smell of cheap whiskey and sweat.
He stepped into the blinding light, each step feeling like walking on cotton.
This was his first time fighting in an underground boxing match, and he was a little nervous.
The main hall of the Green Forest Bar was transformed into a makeshift boxing ring, with excited spectators crowding around the central rope circle.
The elegant lights hanging from the ceiling were replaced with industrial lights, casting a blinding white light onto the boxing ring, while the surroundings were shrouded in a sickly dim yellow.
The air was thick with the mixed smells of alcohol, sweat, and cigars, so strong that you could almost see them swirling in the air.
Several scantily clad waitresses moved through the crowd, the liquor on their trays reflecting distorted light.
"Beting has ended!"
A bald man shouted as he pushed through the crowd, a thick stack of betting tickets in his hand, "Slavs to 1.2 odds, Yellow Boys to 5 odds!"
Viktor clenched his teeth when he heard the nickname; now, his 361-pound weight and Chinese face have become a laughing stock in the eyes of the audience.
The Slavs were already standing in one corner of the boxing ring, towering like a small mountain.
He was at least 6 feet 4 inches tall, with a bare upper body covered in dark blue tattoos and muscles that looked like roughly sculpted granite.
His coach—a bald man with a burly face—was speaking to him, and the Slav nodded from time to time, but his eyes remained fixed on Viktor, a gaze that reminded Viktor of a Siberian tiger eyeing its prey in a zoo.
But there's nothing to worry about. Just attack. The opponent is much lighter than you, and they also have so many negative buffs.
Viktor climbed onto the boxing ring, feeling countless eyes shining on him like spotlights.
The rope loop swayed slightly beneath his feet, and the canvas beneath them reeked of a mixture of blood and sweat from the previous match.
Laughter rose and fell:
"So fat? Can people of Asian descent box?"
"White is out of options, so he picked a yellow pig!"
"I bet he won't last the first round!"
Viktor's temples throbbed, but he forced himself to take a deep breath.
If it were Victor, he wouldn't care; he was used to such insults. But it was different for Lee Seung-ri; his anger quickly escalated.
He looked at the Slav across from him and noticed some unusual details—the Slav had a fresh scar on his left eyebrow bone, still oozing tiny beads of blood.
The muscles in my right shoulder twitched slightly, like an uncontrollable spasm of the nerves;
His breathing was slightly faster than normal, and his chest was rising and falling noticeably.
"He was indeed drugged,"
Viktor thought to himself, a complex emotion spreading through his chest—this wasn't the way he wanted to win, but he had to win first!
He shook his head, trying to shake off those thoughts.
The referee—a middle-aged man in a wrinkled shirt—walked to the center of the ring and briefly announced the rules:
"One round is three minutes. If you fall to the ground and can't get up for ten seconds, you lose. Understand?"
He looked at the two men, and after receiving a nod in response, added, "Don't kill anyone, or we'll all end up in jail."
Chapter 12 Boxing is not arithmetic
Viktor could barely listen to anything.
His entire focus was on his opponent.
The Slavs began to hop in place, but their movements were somewhat slow and not as agile as in the video.
Viktor remembered Michael's words, and his stomach tightened again.
This wasn't a competition, but a meticulously designed trap—the Irish wanted to use the identity of the overweight Chinese man to make a big move.
"Ding--!"
As the bell rang, Victor Lee and the Slavic man simultaneously threw out their fists, drawing two deadly arcs in the murky air of the Green Forest Bar.
But Viktor's jab struck first, hitting the Slav's nose with a satisfying 'crack'.
But the Slavic right hook grazed Viktor's earlobe, and the resulting air pressure made his eardrums ache.
The two quickly separated and moved around the rope circle.
The Slavs' pace was indeed slower than expected, but their strength was not diminished in the slightest.
Viktor seized the opportunity and landed three consecutive hooks on his opponent's ribs, each punch feeling like hitting a brick wall covered in leather.
The Slav grunted and retaliated with an uppercut. Viktor barely managed to lean back and dodge, but his neck was still grazed, and the impact of flesh made a crisp sound.
"He's slow,"
Viktor internally assessed, "But the power is still there, the technology is still there!"
He changed tactics, using his greater strength and stamina to launch a fierce attack on the Slavs, occasionally lunging forward to unleash a combination of punches before quickly retreating.
In the second minute, Viktor delivered a powerful left hook to the Slav's temple.
The Slav swayed and collapsed to the ground, his eyes briefly glazed over. Someone nearby seemed to be counting down, but the Slav quickly shook his head, regaining his composure, and a ferocious smile twisted his lips.
"Is this all you can do?"
He mocked in heavily accented English.
Viktor was not fooled and continued to execute his tactics.
He noticed that the Slavs' breathing had become more rapid and their foreheads were covered in sweat, which was not normal for a match—the medication from yesterday was taking effect.
In the third minute, the Slavs suddenly changed tactics, no longer chasing Viktor, but standing in the center of the ring, waiting like a statue.
When Viktor charged forward again, the Slav deliberately revealed an opening—he lowered his right hand.
Viktor instinctively threw a right straight punch at the opening, but at the moment of the punch, he saw the cunning glint in the Slav's eyes.
Victor realized it was a trap, but it was too late to retract his fist.
The Slavic man dodged to the side with astonishing speed, while simultaneously unleashing a left hook like a cannonball aimed at Viktor's liver.
The force of that punch was so great that even a layer of fat several centimeters thick couldn't be neutralized by the tremor. It landed squarely, and Viktor even felt his internal organs being displaced by the impact.
A sharp pain, like an electric shock, spread from the point of impact throughout his body. His vision blurred instantly, and his legs bent uncontrollably.
Victor knelt on one knee, his left hand braced on the canvas, his right hand instinctively protecting his head.
The Slavic man's follow-up punch was stopped by the referee.
The screams of the audience suddenly seemed distant, as if they were coming from behind a thick layer of cotton.
He heard Michael yelling from the sidelines, "Get up! Damn it, get up!"
The referee began counting: "...three...four..."
Viktor's vision gradually cleared, and he saw the Slav standing in the other corner of the boxing ring, his chest heaving violently, but his face showing an expression of impending victory.
What's even stranger is that the Slavic coach didn't seem excited at all. Instead, he frowned and kept looking towards the bar entrance, as if he was waiting or worried about something.
"·····Six······Seven······"
Viktor clenched his teeth and forced himself to stand up.
The pain continues to rage in my abdomen.
"······eight······"
When the referee counted to eight, Victor grabbed the rope loop and pulled himself up.
A burst of disappointed boos and sporadic applause erupted from the audience.
The Slavs looked somewhat surprised, then broke into that predator-like smile.
"Yellow-skinned pigs are quite resilient,"
He whispered, his voice so low that only Victor could hear him.
The ringing bell saved Victor, and the first round ended.
He staggered back to the corner, and Michael immediately pushed a stool under him while pressing an ice pack against his injured ribs.
"Damn! I thought you were going to be finished!"
Michael sprayed water in Victor's face, "That bastard shouldn't even be able to stand up!"
Viktor spat out his mouthguard, gasping for breath: "What...what did you give him?"
"Veterinary medicine! An aphrodisiac for bulls! Enough to knock out a horse,"
Michael frowned. "Logically, he should be convulsing right now."
He leaned closer to Victor. "Listen, you went too far in the first round. Your stamina isn't keeping up. You have to finish the fight in the second round. Mr. White has placed a heavy bet; there can't be any slip-ups."
Viktor looked towards the opposite corner, where the Slav was pouring water over his head, the water droplets running down his tattooed chest.
His coach was speaking urgently in his ear, but the Slav suddenly pushed the coach away and angrily said something in Russian.
Something's not right...
"Victor murmured."
"Who cares if he's right or wrong,"
Michael roughly shoved the mouthguard back into Victor's mouth. "Next round, aim for his chin. The drug will kick in sooner or later."
The bell rang again, and Victor stood up, his liver still trembling.
The Slavic man stood in the center of the boxing ring, his eyes flashing with emotions Viktor couldn't decipher—anger? Pain? Or... fear?
The nearly two-meter-tall Eastern European giant was breathing heavily, his short, blond hair soaked with sweat and plastered to his forehead.
Viktor noticed that the Slav's mouth twitched slightly with each breath, which made him think that his bones must be in pain.
"Round Two! Fight!"