Early spring 1986—New York still had a bite in the air, winter clinging like a bad hangover.
Victor Li stood at the hotel's floor-to-ceiling window, looking down on Manhattan waking up.
His face still carried souvenirs from "training" a few days back—a fresh pink scar over one eyebrow, the bridge of his nose a little more stubborn, a little higher.
Rubber baton souvenirs.
But the real change was in his eyes. Deeper now. Sharper. A fire that had been tempered in hell.
The brutal beatdowns weren't just recovery—they'd forged him, body and soul.
"What you looking at, Victor?"
Frankie Dunn's gravelly voice came from behind.
Old-school promoter. Suit pressed sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes full of decades of ring wars—smart, cautious.
"The battlefield, Frankie."
Victor didn't turn. Voice calm. "Another one."
Frankie stepped up beside him, handed over a coffee.
"New York ain't the war today. This is just the pre-fight dance. Remember—say less, smile more. Cameras and questions are all on Fury. You're the side dish. After this? You won't be."
Victor took the coffee. Sipped. Still hated the bitterness.
"I get it. Hundred grand vs. two-fifty. Former WBO champ vs. 'the kid who can take a punch.' I know the spread."
No bitterness in his tone. Just cold clarity.
Demanding equal pay? That was Frankie's playbook—ask for the moon, settle for the stars.
Two-fifty large for a guy fresh off major injury, no elite belt yet? That was Frankie's max.
"Tyson Fury…"
Frankie mused. "He's a beast. But a smart beast. Don't buy the circus act. His fists? They kill."
Victor finally turned. That fire flickered.
"He won't take the win easy. Frankie, I've eaten punches so I'd know how to feed them back—harder."
Frankie eyed the kid in front of him.
Four hundred pounds on a 6'1" frame—built like a damn tank. Not the sleek heavyweight mold. Shoulders wider than Fury's. Waist thick. A fortress of muscle wrapped in fat.
He knew Victor was different.
But he also knew the road ahead was a minefield.
"Let's roll, 'Beastman,'" Frankie said, slapping Victor's slab of a back with a grin to cut the tension. "Time to meet the giant."
---
The signing was in a swanky hotel conference room.
Just like Frankie predicted—press packed in tight, cannons aimed at the mountain on the couch: Tyson Fury.
6'9", 280 pounds, built like a damn hill.
Flashy shirt, top buttons open, chest hair spilling out.
Grinning, waving, working the room like it was his personal comedy special.
Weight sat heavy around the middle, but those arms—tree trunks.
Everyone knew the joke: Fury had no waist. Hell, no neck. Dude could hike his shorts up to his chin.
Victor and Frankie walked in.
Small ripple. A few flashes. Whispers: "human punching bag," "fat kid," "newbie," "fifteen rounds."
Victor wore a simple track jacket—fabric stretched tight over 400 pounds of presence.
Shoulders broader than Fury's. Waist like a barrel. Built from stone and rubber. Every step heavy, oppressive.
They sat. Agents swapped contracts. Pens moved.
Cameras went nuts.
Fury signed, tossed the pen, leaned back. The couch groaned in pain.
Finally locked eyes with Victor. Smirk wide, pure contempt.
"So this is my next challenger?"
Voice booming, dripping mockery. "Hey, kid—Mom know you skipped school to play grown-up games? You get your milk money yet?"
Laughter rippled through the press.
Victor looked up. Calm. Locked in.
Frankie nudged his leg under the table—Victor's got a record.
"Fury," Victor said, voice low but cutting through the noise. "I care about winning a fight that matters. I've seen yours. Real 'grown-up' stuff—especially when Douglas put you on your back counting stars."
Room went dead. Then exploded.
Fury's grin twitched. Then went full clown.
"Whoa! Kid's got a mouth! Hope your chin's as tough, son. Hate to end this in round one—Vegas deserves a show."
"Don't worry," Victor fired back. "I won't let you retire early. Though at your advanced twenty-nine, maybe hanging it up's smart—before you start wobbling just walking."
He bit down hard on advanced.
Boxing's not just for kids, but ex-champs who lose their belt at 29? Rare.
Fury wasn't washed—but he wasn't prime either.
"Retire? Look at you, bro. They call you 'Beastman'? Spot-on. Walk into a zoo, chimps toss you bananas, gorillas see competition."
Fury laughed, scanning Victor's frame for ammo. "You sure you're here to box? Not sumo? Or powerlifting? Your waist is catching your height! We need a bigger ring?"
Cameras whipped back and forth—gold.
This was exactly what promoters and media wanted: bad blood.
"My body handles my power," Victor said, unfazed. Even cracked a small smile. "Yours? Looks like it's been enjoying life. Difference is—under my fat? A twelve-round engine.
Yours? Maybe just dinner souvenirs. Vegas gamblers will see clear."
He slid the spotlight to the fight's home—Sin City. Let the bettors decide who's real.
Fury leaned in. Playtime over. Eyes mean.
"June 17th, MGM Garden Arena—I'm gonna make that blubber quake. Hundred K? I'm worth more. Beating a heavy bag like you? Charity work."
"Two-fifty to challenge your last shot at the WBO belt? Worth every penny."
Victor didn't blink. "I'll make it the hardest two-fifty you ever earned."
Sparks. Actual sparks.
They ragged on each other hard—but neither went for the easy "fat guy" jab.
Because neither was slim.
Weird respect. Or strategy.
Weight wasn't just looks—it was warfare.
Frankie and Fury's guy jumped in with the canned lines: "great sporting event," "two warriors, different styles," blah blah.
Signing wrapped—polite on top, knives underneath.
---
Back in the hotel room, Victor peeled off the jacket. T-shirt stretched like it was painted on.
"Beastman…"
He muttered Fury's dig.
Insult. But accurate.
He didn't have the carved abs, the dancer's lines.
His power lived under armor.
That armor ate bombs.
But it cost speed. Stamina.
Facing Fury—6'9", reach like a bridge, core like iron—could the armor hold?
Could his bombs get through?
Fury saw a punching bag.
Media too.
Perfect.
Everyone obsessed over his chin.
Forgot his hands were evolving too.
He wasn't just a sponge anymore—he hit like a wrecking ball.
Frankie's plan: exploit Fury's arrogance, his rhythm drops.
"29 and done…"
Victor replayed his own shot.
Fury wasn't old.
But the seed was planted—doubt about age, recovery, peak.
---
Meanwhile, at Fury's private after-party, the clown mask came off.
He chugged a beer, turned to his crew.
"Kid's got a mouth. Balls too."
He mimed Victor's build. "Like a damn barrel. But his eyes… something in 'em. Not like the punks who piss themselves."
Publicly? Trash talk city.
Privately? Fury wasn't sleeping on him.
No idiots at this level.
Victor's chin was proven.
Fury's edge: skill, experience, frame.
Victor? A rock. You hammer till the hammer breaks—or the rock does.
What if the rock doesn't break?
"I need more weight," Fury growled. "June—I'll show 'em. Beast gets tamed."
But deep down, he knew: Vegas. Spotlight. Betting lines.
He had to crush Victor clean. No controversy.
That meant breaking the unbreakable.
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