Victor got his feet moving again, slipping back into that rhythm of control and distance.
After the earlier fireworks, the fight settled into a brutal stalemate.
Smith got cagier, but more obsessed with closing the gap.
His jab started landing; nothing like his bombs, but with his height and reach, plus that bulldozer pressure, it kept messing with Victor's vision and footwork.
Victor played it like a ship slicing through a storm; tiny slips, slides, and back-steps to keep the perfect range.
Smack!
Victor's jab pops through.
Thud!
Smith's body shot eats Victor's elbow; dull, meaty impact.
Whoosh!
A wild hook skims Victor's hair.
Sweat flies under the lights. Every breath burns.
Victor's arms are going numb, lungs on fire; he wants to trade, but Frankie drilled it in: If you want a long career, don't get hurt.
So he stays locked in, reading Smith like a book: shoulder twitch, weight shift, eye flick.
There; Smith dips his right shoulder; swing or fake?
Victor starts to slide left.
But in that split-second before committing, he catches it; Smith's left heel turns in; not a right swing setup. Left hook coming!
Liver or chin?
Lightning decision.
Victor cancels the slide, hops back a hair, and clamps his right guard tight over jaw and ribs.
The exact moment he locks in, Smith unleashes a sneaky, vicious left hook; skims the edge of Victor's glove with a hiss of wind.
The force shifts Victor's guard an inch.
Perfect read.
No hesitation.
While Smith's still pulling the punch back; that micro-stiff moment; Victor's counter fires like clockwork.
One! Two!
Two lightning right straights; crack right back on Smith's busted nose.
"Ugh!"
Smith groans. Blood finally pours; down his lips, chin.
Crowd loses it.
Smith turns dangerous.
No more one-punch hunting; combo city. Left-right heavies, crude but crushing, pure pressure.
He's hell-bent on the coach's plan: corner Victor, end him.
Victor sticks to block-and-counter, footwork smoother than ever; a ghost Smith can't pin. Every miss burns the tank.
Smith's corner looks sick. Old Jack screams: "That's it! Move! Move!"
Bell for the break. Smith collapses on the stool, sweat spraying.
Coach in his ear, finger jabbing his temple: "NOW, damn it! Stop screwing around! Get in his face! We're DONE if you don't! Think about the money!"
Fourth-round bell; for Smith, it's a war horn and a countdown to doom.
He explodes off the stool, all-in rush.
Tactics? Gone. Just primal destruction.
Left-right bombs, no gaps; a metal storm.
Crowd thinks Victor's done; trapped in the corner, guard up, eating leather, ropes at his back.
BOOM!
CRACK!
Body shots rattle organs. Victor waits.
Stadium on its feet, screaming; they see the crush they bet on, that 200K insane bet, blood in the water.
"BONECRUSHER! RIP HIM!"
"KO! SMITH!"
"MY MONEY! FINISH HIM!"
Smith smells blood, eyes wild; pours everything into a kill shot.
Monster right hook; all his weight, all his rage; screaming at Victor's head.
Fast. Massive.
But chasing power tips him way forward.
That's the opening.
In the corner's chaos, Victor's brain is ice.
Compressed spring at the edge of death.
The hook grazes his glove.
Smith overextends; balance gone; guard wide open for a heartbeat.
That's all a killer needs.
Victor moves.
Lightning duck-and-slip; perfectly dodges Smith's desperate follow-up left.
Then; explosion.
Power surges from planted feet, twists through hips like a drawn bow, all of it into the right arm.
Right uppercut; textbook, surgical, vicious.
From the depths, a shark finally biting; up through the middle, ripping past Smith's raised, wide-open guard.
Short, brutal arc; connects flush on the chin; nerve central.
BANG!!!
A sick, wet crunch; like something snapped inside.
Smith's charge stops dead.
Fury in his eyes; blank.
Body freezes.
Victor doesn't wait; Chicago typewriter; two more shots to the cheeks.
Then; like a redwood felled by a chainsaw; Smith timbers.
Straight back, no hands, slams the canvas. Bounce. Out cold.
Ref dives in, counts; but it's theater.
Bonecrusher is broken.
Arena goes dead for one heartbeat; then detonates; disbelief, ecstasy, despair.
Victor center-ring, chest heaving, sweat and blood dripping from gloves.
Glances at Smith; smirk.
Arms up. Soaks in the tidal wave of cheers and curses. Lights stretch his shadow long and unbreakable.
Fourth round. KO.
Smith's team rushes the ring. Victor? Cashes his 200K bet, plus the 200K stake, plus his own cash; over three million now.
Next day, he checks the last name off his revenge list:
Chicago South Side High School board member Mr. Williams.
······
Chicago mornings always carry that industrial haze; even at dawn, the sun fights through the smog.
Victor Li stands at the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the waking South Side, black coffee in hand; bitter as the past.
Today the air tastes different; sweet, metallic; the end of a long hunt.
A smile cuts across his face; cold as winter steel.
Destruction doesn't always need guns or bombs.
The best revenge is legal; slow; eats them from the inside, using their own rules; until they fall, still thanking the man who handed them the noose.
It all started with a routine bathroom beatdown.
Williams; smug, sanctimonious school board prick; casually crushed kids like Victor and Nick, stripped their futures like trash.
That day, the seed was planted.
Now? A poison tree, fruit ripe.
August 18, 1986. Victor attends Mr. Williams's funeral; suit sharp, face solemn; more mournful than the family.
He steps to the casket, leans in for a "final farewell."
Whispers; so only the dead man hears; each word dipped in ice:
"Old man, you seeing this? This is the price. Not just your death; I want your family shattered, your kids tearing each other apart, your bloodline stained forever."
His eyes flick to Mark Williams; the second son; sitting nearby.
"Your boy? He'll live; barely. Every day in pain and shame. That's my gift to you."