The bell for the third round rang out, and the arena damn near exploded—two rounds, three knockdowns (Victor once, Radok twice), and the crowd was losing their minds.
"Radok! Give him the razor! Give him the razor!"
"Victor! Where's that Chicago typewriter power?!"
Fans on both sides were screaming their lungs out, some even throwing punches down in the stands like they were fighting for their bets.
Victor's corner was yelling something in his ear, but all he could hear was the blood pounding in his skull.
Across the ring, Radok had an ice pack pressed to his left eye socket while his team scrambled around him like medics in a war zone.
"Don't let him set the pace! Stay calm! Stay calm!"
Frankie gave Victor's shoulder one last slap.
Victor nodded, spat out his mouthpiece, then clamped it back in. "Where the hell's Foucault?"
Foucault popped his head in. "Right here!"
"Foucault, you didn't tell me this guy was this tough! You didn't say I was fighting a real damn man! I've dropped him twice!"
Victor snarled, pissed. "You're supposed to know everything! Look at the garbage Tyson's promoter feeds him!"
He glared across at the beast breathing heavy in the opposite corner—Radok's chest heaving, but those eyes still burning like hellfire.
Foucault threw up his hands. "What now? We gotta finish the fight!"
Victor roared, "Fine! But the split's changing!"
"No problem!"
Foucault held up two fingers. "You take ninety, I take ten."
"Deal!"
DING!
Bell rang.
Victor stood, pounded his fists into his chest, and rolled forward like a tank coming to life. His jab shot out like radar, testing Radok's reflexes.
Radok switched gears—no tight guard this time. Arms low, coiled like a panther ready to strike.
"Come on, fat boy!"
Radok hissed, blood still smeared on his lip.
Victor didn't bite. His left jab snapped forward like a viper's tongue, aimed at Radok's face.
The second Radok ducked, Victor's right hook came screaming up from below!
BAM!
The punch grazed Radok's chin, spraying blood—but he didn't go down. Just a flesh wound. Didn't hit bone.
Using the spin, Radok fired back with a vicious left hook straight into Victor's ribs. That razor punch lived up to the name.
Victor grunted as a hot spike of pain shot from his side to his brain.
"Liver shot!"
The announcer screamed. "They found Victor's weakness! No fat on those ribs to cushion the blow!"
Victor stepped back half a pace, instinctively dropping his right arm to guard his side.
Radok smelled blood and charged—a flurry of combos rained down.
Left swing, right jab, left hook—Victor's guard rattled like a machine gun, sweat and blood misting under the lights.
"Hold on!"
Frankie's voice cut through the noise. Old Jack was sharper: "Clinch! Push him off!"
Victor flipped the script. In the gap between Radok's punches, he lunged forward, shoulder-checking into Radok's chest. Took a shot to the ribs—didn't matter.
They locked up like two bulls, referee rushing in to break them.
The second they separated, Victor slipped a sneaky right uppercut between Radok's arms—crack—right on the chin!
Radok's head snapped back, but in his stumble, he threw a wild right swing.
SMACK!
Glove scraped Victor's brow. Blood poured instantly.
It ran down his lashes, blurring his right eye.
Victor shook his head, blood splattering the canvas.
"Son of a…"
He muttered, wiping his eye with his glove.
Radok wasn't doing much better.
Left eye swollen shut, right eye corner split open, blood running down his neck, glowing dark red under the lights.
But that creepy smile was still there—like pain was just fuel.
"You like the taste of blood, big man?"
Radok rasped, voice deep and ragged.
Victor laughed. "Love it! Gonna put your head in a jar and admire it!"
But Victor felt his gas tank dipping—arms heavy like lead.
Still, he knew Radok was fading too. Breathing shallow, punches losing snap.
Victor decided to gamble.
He faked protecting his bloody eye, leaving his left side wide open.
Radok took the bait—a monster right swing came howling in!
At the last second, Victor dropped low. The punch sailed over his head.
Radok stumbled forward, off balance. Victor exploded upward with a perfect left hook—BAM!—dead on the chin again!
Radok folded like a puppet with cut strings—but at the last moment, caught himself with his hands!
The entire arena gasped.
"OH MY GOD! HE REFUSES TO GO DOWN!"
The announcer's voice cracked.
Radok on one knee, shaking his head—blood and sweat arcing through the air.
Referee started the count: "1… 2…"
Radok shoved the ref aside, ignored the warning, and forced himself up.
Victor stood center ring, legs shaky.
He couldn't believe this guy—nearly 100 pounds lighter—had eaten three of his knockdowns and was still standing.
Radok's eyes were glassy, but his body moved on instinct. At "5," he grabbed the ropes, pulled himself up—and his eyes snapped back into focus. Victor swore he saw Rocky Balboa staring back at him.
Are they handing out plot armor in bulk now?
"Fight!"
Ref checked Radok and waved them on.
Victor charged—but Radok slipped sideways and buried another liver shot into Victor's old wound!
Pain folded Victor in half, vision going black.
Radok followed with an uppercut—razor strike two. Victor's jaw exploded in pain, mouthpiece nearly flying out.
But Victor stayed up.
Neck thicker than a tree trunk soaked most of the impact. Chin forged in steel.
He staggered back two steps, leaned on the ropes, shook his head, and grinned through the blood.
"IRON CHIN! VICTOR'S IRON CHIN HOLDS TRUE!"
Announcer going wild: "That's two clean razor shots to the jaw!"
Disbelief flashed across Radok's face—years perfecting his killer punch, only for this fat guy to tank it with triple-chin armor?
In that split second of shock—Victor struck.
Right straight down the pipe—CRACK—dead on the nose!
Radok's head snapped back, blood spraying like a fountain. He fell backward—but at the last second, grabbed Victor's shoulder. Both men crashed to the canvas!
Victor on top, hammering body shots into Radok's gut. Radok too weak to fight back—fully suppressed.
Referee jumped in, pulled them apart, sent Radok to the neutral corner.
Victor stepped back, breathing like his lungs were on fire.
He looked over—Radok was trembling, trying to stop the nosebleed. His corner frantically icing his neck.
"Get up! You got this!"
His coach screamed in his ear.
Radok's eyes refocused. He spat a mix of blood and spit, wobbled to his feet.
Victor steadied his own breathing, ready for the final push.
Then—salvation.
"End of round!"
Referee raised both hands.
Victor shot Radok a frustrated glare and headed to his corner.
Vision blurry with blood, ears ringing with screams—but one thing was clear:
Next round, this guy goes down for good.
Radok collapsed onto his stool, his team working like ER docs.
But when he looked up at Victor across the ring, those eyes still burned.
"Not over…" he whispered, barely audible. "I'm gonna be champ… NOT OVER!!!"
---
The bell for the fifth round hit, and the air in the arena went still.
Dust floated frozen under the spotlights. The crowd's roar turned into a low hum.
Victor could hear his pulse hammering in his temples, mixed with the squeak of the ref's shoes on canvas.
He and Radok dragged themselves up from their corners. Gloves heavy as bricks, but the fire in their eyes burned hotter than at the opening bell.
Victor flexed his right hand—now swollen like a dinner roll. Knuckles screaming.
That straight punch to Radok's concrete forehead earlier? Nearly broke his own hand. Maybe did.
Sweat and blood painted the canvas in brutal streaks. The ref kept wiping it down.
Victor glanced at a dark patch—Radok's nosebleed from the third, splattered like abstract art.
Edges dried black, center still wet and sticky, dragged into long tails by their footwork.
"Move! Move! Don't let him plant!" Frankie's voice was shredded.
Victor blinked through sweat-stung eyes, the edges of his vision red.
Everything hurt—and he couldn't tell from where.
Torn rib muscle? Bruised pec? Lungs burning from oxygen debt?
He bit down on his mouthpiece. Tasted copper and salt.
300-watt lights roasted his back. Sweat crawled over cuts like ants.
The gash on his triple chin reopened—warm blood sliding down his cheek to his chest.
He smeared it with his glove. Leather bloomed red.
Across the ring, Radok iced his brow—that three-centimeter split from Victor's second-round punch.
Victor noticed Radok's right hand trembling. Even the razor was running on fumes after four rounds of war.
"Go to the body! He can't take it like you!"
Frankie kept yelling, half-coaching, half-pumping him up: "That fat's your armor! It eats his punches! You're untouchable!"
Victor glanced at his gut—the same one Frankie cursed daily. Now it was a built-in shock absorber, protecting his battered organs.
Bell rang.
Victor stepped forward—and his right thigh seized.
That fourth-round fall had torn his inner thigh. Every shift felt like a blade scraping bone.
This fight had carved its name into his body—broken nose, mangled knuckles, ribs out of place.
But every wound fueled the fire in his eyes.
He was ready to end it.