Now, the two men met again in the center of the ring, gloves touching without a sound.
A flicker of surprise crossed Fury's eyes—he could tell Victor had changed.
His footwork wasn't probing anymore; it moved with a cold, relentless rhythm.
Victor's attack tempo shot up like a sudden downpour—fiercer, faster than the suffocating "Chicago typewriter" barrage in the second round, yet cleaner and more surgical.
Every punch was calculated to the millimeter, coldly avoiding anything controversial, landing only on textbook-legal spots—a brutal, perfect display of violence.
The lead left jab ripped through the air first, like a poisoned bee sting, so quick it left afterimages.
It flashed out again and again—not to knock out, but to humiliate and dismantle, smacking Fury's forehead and bridge of the nose with sharp pops.
This wasn't just offense; it was stealing rhythm. Fury's momentum got shredded, his gathered sharpness dissolving under the pinpoint taps.
The pressure didn't stop there.
The instant the left retracted, Victor's right rear hand detonated like a cannon shell, the dull whoosh slamming into Fury's tight high guard over and over.
Boom-boom echoes bounced around the arena—not glove taps, but Siege hammer on fortress walls.
Fury's arms went numb from the barrage, his rock-solid defense cracking bit by bit.
"I'll outlast this… I'll get you later…"
In a forced clinch, Fury pressed his sweaty, blood-tinged chin hard into Victor's shoulder, voice raspy and low like a curse.
His arms looked limp but were secretly clamping down like iron shackles on Victor's neck and shoulders, trying to bleed the younger fighter's stamina and explosiveness in the quiet grind.
Classic veteran survival trick—the crowd couldn't see, and even the ref's view might be blocked by the massive frame.
But Victor didn't bite.
His calm was as scary as his offense.
The second Fury thought he had control, the air seemed to freeze.
Victor's core exploded with stored power—like a volcano waking up.
His torso twisted—not a brute yank, but a smooth, savage python strike that tore Fury's grip apart.
The break was almost artistic in its cruelty.
Space opened—maybe six inches, but for Victor, plenty.
Counter came with zero delay.
A short, vicious uppercut shot up from the shadows like a viper fang, nailing Fury's gut.
"Pff—"
A muffled, gut-punch thud cut through the noise—the unmistakable sound of a diaphragm getting crushed.
Fury, caught off-guard, let out a choked grunt from deep in his throat.
His body folded instantly, like an invisible boot to the ribs, every defensive instinct shattered by the pain.
But the storm never pauses.
The moment Fury bent, Victor's left was already waiting.
A flat hook—like a heat-seeking missile on the shortest, deadliest path—blasted the same damaged ribs again!
"Urgh—!"
This time the scream broke free.
Fury's face went ghost-white, pain twisting his tough features.
He staggered, knees wobbling, totally exposed.
But Fury's a proven warrior—random heavy shots don't drop him.
Victor's eyes held no mercy, just icy focus.
He stepped in hard, one hand shoving the crumbling giant aside to clear perfect distance.
Then the finisher.
Right foot stomped the canvas, power surging from heel through steel-cable legs, hips snapping, core exploding, all of it funneling into shoulder—arm—fist!
The right cross launched like a fully drawn longbow, carrying body weight and momentum, ripping air with a chilling whistle.
"Save your last words for my fist!"
Victor's roar detonated with the punch.
BAM!
A deep, meaty thud that hit everyone in the chest echoed through the suddenly silent arena.
The glove landed clean on Fury's jaw—Victor at 6'1" reaching the highest point he could.
Fury's head snapped back, neck vertebrae screaming under the impact.
His eyes glazed in a millisecond, focus shattered into blank nothing.
The giant swayed like a tree axed at the roots, staggering, rocking backward until the ropes caught him, barely holding him up.
Then bounced him forward—right into the end.
The ref jumped in, arms between them, one hand ready to push Victor back, eyes locked on the teetering Fury, starting the count loud and watching for consciousness.
The old warhorse was scary tough—he shook, knees buckling, but refused to drop.
With his last shred of awareness, he even crooked a trembling, taunting finger at Victor, trying for a smirk that only let a thread of bloody drool slip.
Victor's pupils narrowed.
The ref didn't stop it—fight resumed.
Victor charged like a shark smelling blood!
Left-right combos rained—two vicious body shots hammered Fury's midsection again.
The killing pain finally broke the guard; Fury's arms dropped for a fatal second, torso twisting in agony.
Now!
Victor sank his weight, legs exploding upward—one razor-sharp uppercut tore through the air, landing flush on the unprotected jaw and mouth!
"Guh!"
Mouthguard and blood spray shot out in a weird pink arc, landing limp in the corner.
Fury froze mid-motion, body like a puppet with cut strings—stiff, heavy, crashing backward onto the cold canvas with a thud, dust puffing up, motionless.
The ref waved it off instantly.
The bell's frantic ring drowned in the arena's roar.
Medics rushed the ring with kits, crowding Fury.
Victor stood off to the side, chest heaving like bellows, breathing thundering in his ears.
Sweat soaked his hair, dripping down taut cheeks.
He stared at the unconscious opponent, a rush of bone-deep exhaustion, release, and victory adrenaline flooding his skull.
Facing the chaos, the out-cold Fury, he bellowed in a hoarse voice:
"Talk some more!"
Victor knew what it meant: I beat the words right out of you!
…
But at the post-fight press conference, Victor showered Fury with praise: "He's one of the toughest guys I've ever faced. His recovery is unreal—this was a war."
Quickly, though, a reporter pivoted: "Mr. Victor, you bet two hundred grand on yourself off the floor. As a pro athlete, doesn't that cross ethical lines? Could it mislead kids into bad values?"
"Kids are the president's and every level of government's job—that ain't on me. Everyone here is an adult or with adults."
Victor's eyes went cold: "And my private life outside the ring is none of your business. I fight in Vegas, I gamble in Vegas. I could lose all two hundred fifty K next hand and it's fine. It's my money—how I spend it a problem?"
"Some say it could affect your ring performance, or even involve…"
The reporter trailed off, but the hint was clear.
Victor leaned into the mic: "Listen, I just beat one of the toughest challengers out there in three rounds. If I wanted easy, I'd pick easy, right?"
Laughter rippled through the room.
Right then, a WBO official walked over to Victor's promoter Frankie, whispered a few words.
Frankie's face lit up; he hustled to Victor's side.
"Good news!"
Frankie grabbed the mic: "WBO just confirmed—if Victor wins his next two scheduled bouts, he gets the Inter-Continental belt and cracks the world top fifteen!"
Cheers and applause erupted. Victor forced a thin smile—WBO was stingy as hell.
But it was a huge career step—closer to the world title dream.
Then Victor did something that stunned everyone.
He took the mic and said clear as day: "Thanks for the shot, WBO, but I've got my own plans. Before your scheduled fights, I want James Smith and Tony Tucker next. Everyone here, pass the message—I'm coming to beat them!"
The room exploded.
Smith and Tucker were top-fifty killers—way riskier than whatever the WBO had lined up.
Frankie panicked, trying to snatch the mic: "What Victor means is he's open to all options…"
"No, those two wanted shots at me too!"
Victor cut in, firm: "I'm calling out Smith and Tucker. Real fights or no fights—let's see who's got the guts!"
After the presser, in the hallway back to the locker room, Frankie lost it: "Are you insane? Smith'll take your head off! Tucker's speed'll make you look like you're in slow-mo!"
Victor didn't answer—his eyes locked on a figure at the end of the corridor.
A middle-aged man stood there, flanked by two huge bodyguards.
The casino boss wore an icy smile, clapping slowly.
"This is Mr. Chen from Hong Kong—one of our shareholders here."