thefictionvixens Page 109
Page 109
The cheers from the crowd surged like a tide, but to Victor they sounded distorted and distant.
His tinnitus had not subsided, and it felt as if a million bees were fluttering inside his skull.
The joy of victory was overshadowed by extreme physical exhaustion. The only thing he could clearly feel at that moment was the stinging pain all over his body, as if his nerve cells had come alive!
Viktor took a deep breath, his mouth filled with the salty, metallic taste of blood.
He gritted his teeth and used all his strength to raise his hands above his head!
The action triggered a sharp pain in his ribs, but he maintained a victorious posture, waving to the swaying audience in all directions.
Sweat dripped from his taut chin, falling like diamonds under the spotlight.
Then, he dragged his heavy steps toward Razor Ruddock.
The boxer, known for his ferocity, was now standing up, gripping the ropes. The fighting spirit in his eyes had faded, and he had regained some clarity.
Radok's right eye was so swollen he could barely open it, and there was a deep wound on his left eyebrow. Blood flowed down his cheek and onto his neck, staining his white battle robe dark red.
Victor reached out his trembling hand and grabbed Radok's wrist.
He could feel the other man's arm trembling uncontrollably as well—a tacit understanding between two warriors who had exhausted all their strength.
"You're a real man!"
Viktor's voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible. He swallowed a mouthful of bloody saliva and raised his voice, "It was a pleasure to fight you!"
Radok paused for a moment, then forced a painful but sincere smile through his cracked lips.
He gently tapped Viktor's shoulder with his boxing gloves—the highest form of respect in the boxing ring.
"Next time I'll beat you to a pulp, Iron Boy."
Radok's voice was also hoarse, but his eyes shone with a sense of mutual respect.
The flash of the shutter captured this moment!
Dozens of white lights burst forth in succession, freezing the two wounded warriors in the frame.
Viktor could see the excited expressions on the faces of the reporters below the stage.
The initial boos from the audience, which were dissatisfied with Victor's skin color, turned into applause, and people stood up to pay tribute to this epic showdown.
Viktor felt an unprecedented sense of relief, as if all the pressure accumulated over the ten rounds was exhaled with that breath.
As paramedics rushed into the boxing ring to examine their injuries, Victor still held Radok's hand tightly.
The two wounded warriors supported each other like two oak trees that stood firm in a hurricane.
At this moment, winning or losing is no longer important; what matters is that they have all the courage and dignity a boxer can possess.
Chapter 88 Max and Ivan
The celebration in the locker room was interrupted by a medical check-up.
The doctor repeatedly examined Viktor's pupils with a cold light pen: "His concussion symptoms are obvious; he must be hospitalized for observation."
As he was carried on a stretcher past Radok's lounge, the Jamaican was speaking into his phone in Creole and suddenly gave him a thumbs-up when he saw him.
They were placed in adjacent wards.
Late at night, as the painkillers wore off, Victor was awakened by groans coming from the bed next to his.
Moonlight streamed through the blinds, casting striped shadows on Radok's bandaged face.
"Next time... I'll prepare your fat ass."
Radok suddenly spoke, his swollen lips giving his English a strange accent. But his outstretched fist remained firmly suspended between the two hospital beds.
Victor touched the other man's boxing gloves, the nylon fabric still stained with dried blood: "Ready anytime, Razor."
He paused for a moment, then added, "But remember to get a harder mouthguard next time."
In the morning light, Radok was taken to another hospital, while a nurse brought him a stack of newspapers.
The cover of Boxing Illustrated featured the moment of their clash, with the headline "A New King Crowned?".
Medical experts in Sports Illustrated analyzed that Victor's ability to maintain an offensive posture after suffering a blow that could cause an ordinary person to fall into a coma is related to his unique neck muscle structure.
But what truly made Viktor clench his fist was the footage on television—Mike Tyson had crushed his opponent in the first round last night, and the camera captured the "Iron Mike's" boastful words in the post-fight interview: "That Chinese kid? Let's see if he can survive my first combination."
The hospital room door was suddenly pushed open, and Frankie and Michael came in with a stack of documents: "ESPN wants an exclusive interview, HBO wants to film a training documentary..."
The old coach's voice abruptly stopped as he saw Victor grinning at the television screen, revealing his gleaming white teeth: "I really want to hit him!"
Michael Lee handed the test results to Victor: "Fractured jaw, concussion, fractured ribs, right leg muscle strain... You may miss the next two games!"
Victor tossed the checklist aside: "September 5th against Mercedes, October 9th against Donald Harpern, I think I can win!"
"I don't want you to feel it, I want me to feel it."
Michael was assertive: "Ruddock is in a worse state than you. He has a broken jaw, a broken forehead, a concussion, and broken ribs. He'll be in at least eight months!"
"Just two counterfeit goods!"
"Those are professional boxers! And they're all much taller and bigger than you!"
Frankie disagreed: "If you lose, you'll lose the victory and glory you fought so hard for ten rounds!"
Viktor said he understood, but also considered the possibility of unforeseen circumstances: "I hope to do all the recovery training I can, and if I can play by the end of August, I don't want to back out!"
Frankie frowned: "Does fighting Tyson excite you that much?"
Viktor spread his hands: "The pleasure of defeating a strong enemy is more pleasurable than releasing protein on a woman. The moment I knock a tough opponent to the ground, I feel like the king of the world."
Michael laughed heartily, and Frankie laughed too, and they agreed to Victor's adventurous plan.
On the morning of August 16, sunlight streamed through the blinds of Atlantic City Medical Center, casting dappled shadows on Victor Lee's hospital bed.
The swelling all over his body had subsided—the rapid absorption of this small ability was exceptionally effective in drug absorption.
Even though the bones haven't fully healed, the mountain of newspapers piled up on the bedside table proves it was all worth it.
The headline of The New York Times sports section read: "Modern Gladiator: Victor Lee vs. Razor Rudock in a Bloody Ten Rounds";
The Washington Post used an even more sensational headline: "Eight knockouts! Atlantic City witnesses the most brutal boxing match of the century."
Viktor picked up Sports Illustrated with his still-functioning right hand. The cover featured a moment of confrontation between him and Radok in the seventh round—both of them covered in blood, yet their eyes remained as fierce as fighting beasts.
The entire six-page feature article provided a detailed analysis of every turning point in the match.
"Looks like you've finally gotten what you wanted, Mr. Chicago Typing Chicken."
A familiar voice came from the doorway.
Max Black leaned against the doorframe, his smile beneath his cowboy hat still nonchalant.
She was wearing a faded denim shirt and carrying two bottles of Tennessee whiskey; she looked travel-worn and had just gotten off a long-distance bus.
"Max!"
Viktor tried to sit up, but the sharp pain in his ribs made him gasp. "Damn it, how did you get here?"
"Come and see the new legend of Atlantic City!"
Max placed the bottle on the bedside table and carefully examined Victor's injuries. "Tsk tsk, did that bastard Radok gnaw on your face like a steak?"
Viktor touched his brow bone, which had two stitches: "Likewise, his whole body should still be protesting my punch right now."
Max burst into laughter, and his laughter echoed through the ward.
The nurse poked her head in to warn them to be quiet, but Max dismissed her with a charming smile.
She dragged a chair over and sat down, skillfully unscrewing the cork of the wine bottle.
"The doctor said I can't—"
"Fuck the doctor!"
Max handed over the bottle. "Back in the last century, this was the most effective painkiller."
Two hours later, the half-empty wine bottle and the peanut shells scattered on the ground bore witness to the joy of the old friends' reunion.
Viktor had forgotten the pain; they reminisced about the days of training, those mornings spent sweating profusely in the dilapidated gymnasium.
As night fell, Max suddenly stood up and stretched his shoulders: "Come on, champion, show me if your defense has improved."
"Are you crazy? This is a hospital! And I'm injured! I can't do anything strenuous!"
"so what?"
Max has already gotten into a fighting stance. "A real boxer is ready to fight anytime. I have experience up there!"
So, on that August night, a peculiar 'training match' took place in ward 307 of Atlantic City Medical Center.
Max used a pillow as a boxing glove, while Victor used his medical record as a mouthguard.
They moved, dodged, and punched silently, like two elegant beasts performing a deadly dance in a confined space.
By the time the night shift nurse finally discovered it, Victor had already been thoroughly defeated!
"Mr. Li!"
The nurse's face turned bright red with anger. "You're hindering the treatment!"
Max made a gesture of surrender, but winked at Victor as he turned away: "I just couldn't help it!"
At that moment, Victor felt a long-lost energy flowing through his body—more effective than any painkiller.
······
Three days later, when Victor received the $425 million check, all his good mood was brutally crushed by reality.
"The marginal tax rate is 48%, casinos 2%, there's state tax, and all sorts of other taxes, plus a special tax for professional athletes..."
Accountant Mary adjusted her glasses. "I actually received 191 million."
Victor stared at the final number, his throat tightening: "This is less than half. Why doesn't the IRS just rob us?"
Welcome to America.
The accountant said dryly, "The IRS has more firepower than a robber; Chicago has the most to say that."
To make matters worse, the doctor's recommended recovery period completely ruined the planned competition – even though Viktor had proven his speed of recovery.
When Trump arrived at the hospital room with his family, Victor was looking at his calendar with worry.