June 17, 1986. The Las Vegas Hilton fight arena was thick with cigar smoke and roaring voices.
Victor stood in his corner, stone-faced, staring down the Brit who towered over him by nearly eight inches.
Under the spotlights, Tyson Fury's blond hair gleamed. At 286 pounds, the guy looked like a Viking in boxing trunks.
The crowd screamed in English, Spanish, and Asian . Gamblers clutched their betting slips, waiting for this lopsided matchup to explode.
Victor took a deep breath. At 6'1", he wasn't tall for heavyweight, but 400 pounds of pure muscle made him a freak in the division.
His Asian face stood out in a sport dominated by white and Black fighters. That's why he needed a white girlfriend—no one believed a Asian guy could be American.
The bell cut through the chaos like a knife.
Round one.
Tyson Fury, the giant champ, moved with weird agility for his size. At 6'9" with an 85-inch reach, he prowled the ring like a leopard, weaving a web of danger from a safe distance.
Jabs snapped like snake strikes. Hooks crashed like sledgehammers. Combos rained nonstop on the silent figure across from him. The thud of gloves on flesh echoed under the lights.
"Come on, you yellow pig!"
Fury snarled between punches. Sweat flew off his blond hair. His smirk dripped with trash talk.
The cameras caught his lips. The crowd erupted—boos mixed with cheers.
Victor Chen just crouched low, arms like steel shields guarding his head and ribs.
Every shot numbed his arms, but his specially forged bones didn't budge. His eyes peered through the gap in his gloves, measuring every breath, every step, every opening.
Fury's attack came like a tidal wave. Victor was the cliff—silent, unbreakable, waiting for the shift.
It came.
An overcommitted right hook sailed wide. Fury's balance wobbled for a split second.
Now.
Victor exploded. Four hundred pounds launched like a freight train.
The ring groaned under his feet. Air screamed as he charged.
BOOM. Shoulder slammed into Fury's chest.
The Brit's blue eyes went wide—shock more than pain. He stumbled back. That flash of panic didn't escape Victor.
"Clinch him! Hug him!"
Fury's corner screamed, voices raw.
Fury instinctively reached to grab—a classic big-man stall tactic.
Too late.
Victor's right hook ripped through the air like a wrecking ball, crushing Fury's left ribcage.
Clean, sharp crack.
Before Fury could react, a left hook mirrored it on the right side.
Color drained from the Brit's face. Pain forced his mouth open—no sound came out.
He instinctively pushed away. That opened his centerline wide.
Victor didn't hesitate.
A short, vicious straight right blasted through the guard, dead center on Fury's forehead.
Time froze.
Fury toppled like a chopped oak, crashing to the canvas. The impact sent a ripple through the ring.
The ref jumped in, starting the count.
The crowd lost its mind—shock, thrill, disbelief. Camera flashes poured like rain.
"…Six, seven, eight!"
At eight, Fury's arm shot up. He pushed to his feet, wobbly but upright.
His eyes were glassy, but deep down, fire still burned.
The former champ's chin and heart were unreal.
Victor narrowed his eyes, steadying his breath.
Tougher than expected.
Then the bell rang—end of round one.
Fury staggered to his corner. His team swarmed.
Victor turned calmly, walking back to his stool like nothing happened.
The smoke from round one was clearing, but everyone knew—this war was just getting started.
"His waist is weak," Victor said to his coach Frankie, taking a sip from the water bottle. "His trunks are pulled too high. Kidneys are exposed."
Frankie nodded. "Test it, but watch the ref. WBO's got eyes everywhere. Don't go low."
Victor grunted. "Once he's down, nobody remembers where the punch landed."
The bell for round two rang.
Victor flipped a switch.
No more circling, no more feeling out. He charged straight in, feet planted like roots, every step shaking the canvas.
He dropped all feints. Pure war machine.
His combos came so fast they choked the air—whistles of gloves slicing through, thuds of meat on meat forming a brutal symphony.
Left hook to the right rib. Right hook to the left waist. Each shot meant to shatter organs.
The arena went dead quiet for a beat. Then gasps. Some fans covered their eyes.
Fury turned into a swaying heavy bag, pinned against the ropes.
Two sneaky uppercuts clipped just above the waistband. Fury arched in agony, face twisting.
The ref glanced—legal. Waved to continue.
Fury wheezed through his mouthpiece. Sweat mixed with blood dripped from his brow, glowing pink under the lights.
"Fall, you shit-stirring Brit!"
Victor hissed between punches, gloves still raining, targeting the now-red torso.
Suddenly, through the storm, Fury lifted his head. Bloody mouthpiece grinning: "Gonna take more than that, Fk**man!"
The slur hit like a hot spike.
Victor's eyes turned to slits. His assault got even wilder—hammers seeking cracks in the defense.
But in the chaos, doubt crept in.
Fury's guard kept protecting his right side. His pupils flared with every rib shot. So why was he still standing like an oak?
By now, at least one rib should've cracked.
Worse—when Fury took big shots, a ghost of a smirk flickered.
Not mocking Victor's power. More like a trapper watching prey step into the snare.
Victor's gut screamed: Something's off. A guy with busted ribs doesn't eat punches this clean.
The bell saved Fury.
Victor caught it—Fury's walk back was stiff, but too stiff. Like bad acting.
And his breathing—shallow, fast, wincing with every inhale. Classic broken-rib compensation.
But the rhythm was perfect. Rehearsed.
Victor slammed his gloves into the ropes on his way back. They hummed.
He never took his eyes off Fury's corner—coaches wiping, icing, hydrating.
A drop of sweat rolled down Victor's brow. Tasted like suspicion.
"He's faking," Victor muttered to Frankie, voice lost in the crowd noise.
Frankie pressed his shoulders. "What? You nearly broke him!"
Victor shook his head. Sweat flew.
Every wince, every breath—it was theater.
In a split second when the coach blocked the view, Fury's eyes snapped clear. Smug.
"He's hurting, but he's waiting for me to gas out after going all-in," Victor growled. "Right side's bait."
Frankie frowned, about to argue.
But Victor's stare went ice-cold.
Frankie wiped the sweat. "He thinks he can eat it. Go to the waistband. End him in three. Don't give the ref a reason to step in."
Victor nodded.
Bell for round three.
The clang still echoed as Victor shook out his neck. Sweat sprayed like diamonds under the lights.
He licked the bloody, salty edge of his mouthpiece. Eyes locked on Fury's corner.
There, Fury was being helped up—slow, dramatic.
A nasty cut over his brow, Vaseline and blood smeared into pink mush.
Chest heaving like a broken bellows. Every muscle in his face twisted in pain.
But his eyes—cornered animal, humiliated, defiant. Still burning.
Suddenly, Victor felt a jolt. Like a needle in his nerves.
He'd pegged Fury as a paper champ—hyped up in circus fights, exposed on the real stage.
Dead wrong.
This guy's will was forged on an anvil.
He rolled his shoulders. Deep ache bloomed in the muscle fibers—quiet protest.
His output the first two rounds? Below plan.
But Fury's punches weren't just heavy—they were sneaky, dancing on the edge of the rules.
"Don't get dragged into the mud! Don't dance to his song!"
Old Jack roared in his ear, jabbing a finger into his chest. "Fight your fight, not his! You hear me?! Clean and mean—put him away!"