The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

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Either you kill me, or I kill you!

But as Radok was quickly treating his wound, the opposing coach provided a solution.

This time, the Jamaicans abandoned fancy movement and instead adopted a more direct, aggressive style of play.

His jab was as precise as a sewing machine needle, hitting Victor's forehead seven times in a row—the same spot that had been blocked by his arm.

Shouts of "Razor! Razor!" erupted from the stands.

"You're like a damn punching bag! Your voice sounds like you're practicing!"

After his eighth jab landed, Radok taunted, his gold teeth gleaming in the spotlight, "I'm going to carve it on your face—"

This was the moment Victor had been waiting for.

Just as Radok was about to utter the last word, Fat Tiger's right hook came hurtling past like a runaway freight train!

The boxing gloves grazed Radok's ear as he dodged, and the resulting air pressure even ruffled the referee's tie.

"Oh my god! If that punch lands..."

The commentator's voice trembled.

A flicker of alarm crossed Radok's eyes, but it was too late.

Victor suddenly lowered his center of gravity and delivered a blow to the liver, causing the Jamaican to curl up as if he had been electrocuted.

The stadium's clamor instantly turned into white noise, and all Victor could see was his opponent's exposed chin—

Viktor is about to be finished.

But Radok struck a strange pose that Victor had never seen before—his right fist was hanging low, almost touching his thigh, while his left fist was raised high like a scorpion's tail.

Viktor instinctively sensed danger, but still wanted to finish off his opponent.

The moment he entered the attack range, Radok's seemingly powerless right fist came from below at an angle that defied human biomechanics!

The world went silent for a moment.

Viktor felt as if his skull had been struck by a battering ram—even three layers of armor couldn't stop it, and a bloody explosion appeared before his eyes.

As he staggered backward, Radok's long-planned left hook came hurtling towards him—

Viktor felt himself fly.

No, to be precise, his consciousness drifted to the sky above the stadium, looking down at the massive body that had crashed to the ground.

Strangely, he did not feel pain; instead, he felt an eerie tranquility.

The referee's countdown sounded like it was coming from underwater:

"...four...five...six..."

In this red mist, Victor suddenly saw himself.

"...seven...eight..."

Viktor's fingers twitched.

Something hotter than adrenaline awakened in his veins.

When the referee counted to "nine", the bell rang and saved Victor!

"Stay calm, stay calm!"

"That was a great fight. He can't throw more than a few punches like that!"

"Oh my god! Your neck is practically as long as your thigh!"

"Fuck! I was careless, I didn't dodge!"

Viktor gritted his teeth, spitting out blood: "I'm going to trade punches with him! He shouldn't be as strong as me!"

······

The moment the second-round bell rang, Victor's gloves tore through the air, and Radok's golden boots simultaneously launched him off the ground. The impact of the two colliding at the center line caused the ring to hum under immense strain.

As soon as the referee stepped back to the ropes, he saw both sides abandon all probing jabs and go straight into the most primal aesthetics of violence—a fistfight!

Viktor's hook punches carried the oppressive force of a Siberian cold wave, each punch delivered with incredible speed and ferocity.

As his left hook grazed Radok's temple, spectators could clearly see beads of sweat fanning out in the shockwave.

The dull thud of the boxing gloves hitting his cheekbone echoed throughout the arena via the ringside microphone, and Radok's chin immediately flushed an unnatural red.

But Jamaica's 'surgical' counterattack came faster and more viciously.

His combination punches were like precision-guided missiles; his right uppercut pierced through Victor's raised defense and accurately struck one of the three chins.

Viktor instantly retreated, but forcibly stopped the momentum of his retreat. Suddenly, he took a step forward, his ankle groaning, and threw a straight punch with his right hand.

This blow caused Radok's mouthguard to fly off as he charged forward. The white brace traced an arc in the air before finally landing on the commentator's trembling notebook.

"You hit someone like a little girl!"

Viktor grinned maliciously, deliberately drawing out the last syllable of his English—he thought Radok would collapse and not get up.

But God the hell, Radok stood up again!

"My grandma is stronger than you!"

Radok can still spout such arrogant remarks.

Before he could finish speaking, his blow to the liver had already pierced Victor's right abdominal muscle, the sound of leather hitting flesh reminiscent of a butcher's cleaver.

Even ten centimeters of thick fat couldn't stop the pain from Victor's knee buckling for half a second. But taking advantage of the hug, he suddenly hissed indistinctly in Radok's ear, out of the referee's sight: "Go back to your dad!"

The grappling turned into a comical yet dangerous close-quarters battle.

The two exchanged punches while dodging, repeatedly striking each other's waist and abdomen, but because they were too close, they could not exert their full strength, and their performance was quite ugly.

An HBO commentator loosened his tie and roared into the microphone: "Look at the scoreboard! Both teams broke records for field goals made this round!"

"What a heated brawl! What ugly tactics! The Chinese American from Chicago used superb tactics, but with low-level and ugly techniques like shoving and grabbing, to keep both sides competing at an equal level! This is a complete victory of tactics!"

"Ladies and gentlemen! What we are seeing now is a strong American (Victor) using his wits to beat up the British (Canada belongs to Britain)!"

The medical supervisor on the sidelines nervously counted the spare mouthguards, while the Hollywood stars in the VIP seats stood up, their champagne glasses trembling slightly with each heavy slap.

As the broadcast camera panned across the audience, an elderly man with white hair was frantically pounding on the seat in front of him—he was a witness to the 1975 'Thrilla in Manila,' and now his cloudy eyes were shining with the same fanatical light:

"Halt! That's victory!"

Chapter 86: Three Knockouts and Two Razor Shots

When the bell rang for the third round, the roar of the entire stadium almost lifted the roof off—three knockouts in two rounds (one by Victor and two by Radok) and the audience's blood was boiling.

"Rudok! Use your razor! Use your razor!"

"Victor! Where's the Chicago Typewriter-like firepower?"

Supporters of both sides were shouting wildly and even fighting amongst themselves, as if they could contribute to their bets!

Viktor's coach was yelling something in his ear, but he could only hear the sound of his blood throbbing in his eardrums.

In the opposite corner, Radok was pressing an ice pack against his swollen left eye socket, while his team busied themselves like emergency medical personnel.

"Remember, don't let him lead you into a rhythm! Stay calm! Stay calm!"

Frankie patted him on the shoulder one last time.

Viktor nodded, spitting out his mouthguard and then clenching it again: "Where did Foucault go?"

Foucault poked his head out from the side: "I'm here!"

"Foucault, you didn't tell me this guy was so fierce! You didn't tell me he was a real man! I knocked him down twice!"

Viktor was furious: "You should know everything! Look at the rotten apples Tyson's promoters have found for him!"

He stared at the man opposite him, panting like a wild beast—Radock's chest heaved violently, but his eyes still burned with an unsettling flame.

Foucault spread his hands: "What do we do now? We can only finish the fight!"

Viktor roared, "Foucault, the score for this match needs to be changed!"

"of course can!"

Foucault held up two fingers: "You have nine, I have one."

bite----!

Victor stood up, pounded his fists in front of his chest, and charged forward like a tank starting up. His jabs were like radar probes, constantly testing Radok's reaction.

Radok adopted a different strategy than before. He abandoned his tight defense and let his arms hang slightly down, like a leopard poised to pounce.

"Come on, fatso!"

Radok taunted hoarsely, blood still clinging to the corner of his mouth.

Viktor was not fooled. His left straight punch suddenly accelerated, striking Radok's face like a viper striking.

Just as Radok dodged to the side, Victor's right hook came hurtling up from below!

The fist grazed Radok's chin, drawing blood, but Radok did not fall; the flesh wound did not reach the bone.

Using the momentum of his rotation, he delivered a vicious left hook to Victor's ribs; Razor Punch was indeed tricky.

Viktor groaned, feeling a sharp pain shoot from his side to his head.

"Liver Fist!"

The commentator exclaimed, "Viktor's weakness has been discovered! His ribcage doesn't have much fat to provide as armor!"

Viktor took a half step back, instinctively lowering his right arm to protect his ribs.

Radok pounced like a shark smelling blood, unleashing a barrage of punches.

Left hook, right straight, left uppercut—Victor's stance was smashed with a series of loud thuds, sweat and blood splattering under the spotlight.

"hold onto!"

Frankie's roar cut through the noise, and old Jack was even more cunning: "Hug him! Push him!"

Viktor suddenly changed tactics. In the gap between Radok's punches, he took a step forward and rammed his broad shoulder into Radok's arms. Taking a punch to the chest was no big deal.

The two men were locked in a struggle like bulls, and the referee quickly stepped in to separate them.