The bell for the third round rang out like a last-second pardon for a death-row inmate. Both fighters shuffled back to their corners for a quick breather.
Tuck's coach was screaming in his ear: "Don't let him drag you into a war of attrition! Use your jab to control the pace! You're letting him hang around too long!"
Old Jack, cool as ever, gave Victor his orders: "Stay patient. Wait for his burst to end. I counted—he's got a half-second pause after his combos. That's when you jump him!"
Victor wiped the blood and sweat off his face with a towel and nodded.
His eyes cut across the ring and landed on the front row—Caroline was sitting there, hands clasped tight over her chest, worry all over her face. Damn, she's selling it hard.
The bell for the round hadn't even finished echoing when Tuck came out like a caged tiger finally let loose. He cranked the pressure up to eleven.
His jab was relentless, coming down like a cold, stinging rain—pop-pop-pop—each one slicing through the air with a sharp hiss.
His combos got faster and faster. Those red gloves turned into a blur. Tuck's height and reach were a nightmare—Victor didn't have a clean shot to trade with him and kept getting pushed back.
But Victor's feet were dancing on hot coals, sliding and pivoting in tiny bursts. One second he'd surge forward like a cheetah, the next he'd slip back like the tide going out—every move balanced on a razor's edge.
Then, after weathering the early storm, Victor did the unthinkable: he stood toe-to-toe and traded bombs with Tuck. The thud-thud-thud of fists on flesh echoed like war drums.
His arms were screaming from the punishment—every block felt like hoisting a car engine. His muscles were howling in silent agony.
In one heart-stopping exchange, Tuck unleashed a slick combo:
Left jab feint like a snake's tongue, right cross crashing in like a battering ram, followed by a left hook whipping in like a scorpion's tail.
Victor barely slipped back half a step, sweat flying off him in a glittering arc.
That's when he saw it—Tuck's fatal half-second pause after the flurry. His chest heaving, mouth guard slipping as he sucked in air, like an overheating engine needing a reset.
Now.
Victor's body moved before his brain caught up. A lightning-fast sidestep let Tuck's tired jab graze his cheekbone, the windburn stinging like hell.
At the same time, Victor exploded forward. His right arm coiled like a steel cable, every ounce of power surging from his toes to his fist—like a spring compressed to the breaking point and let go.
A right cross loaded with every damn thing he had ripped through the air like an armor-piercing round, threading the needle through a split-second gap in Tuck's guard, and CRASHED square into his chin.
BANG!
The impact cut through the roaring crowd like a gunshot—sharp, sickening, unmistakable.
Tuck's head snapped back. You could almost hear the jawbone shift.
His eyes went blank, like someone yanked the plug on a TV. He froze mid-ring, legs locked.
But "TNT" wasn't just a nickname for show. Right as the lights were about to go out, pure champion instinct kicked in—he clinched like a drowning man, arms wrapping Victor in a desperate bear hug, buying himself a second to stay upright.
Victor wasn't having it.
He twisted his hips, broke the clinch like snapping a branch, and unleashed hell up close. Left and right hooks rained down like a Chicago typewriter.
- First left hook to the liver—Tuck folded like a lawn chair.
- Right hook to the jaw—mouthpiece went flying.
- Left hook to the temple—Tuck started swaying, eyes glassy.
The crowd went dead silent. All you could hear was flesh on flesh—thump, thump, thump.
Victor's onslaught was surgical, cold, nonstop. Every punch carried years of blood, sweat, and getting back up.
Final blow: a right swing that caught Tuck flush on the cheekbone. He toppled like a pine tree under an axe, crashing to the canvas in a heap.
The ref jumped in to count, but Tuck was done.
When he hit "10," the arena froze for a split second—then exploded into chaos.
Victor threw his arms up. Sweat poured off him, soaking his hair and shorts, chest heaving like a bellows.
He scanned the crowd—shock, awe, bitterness—then locked eyes with Tuck on the mat. Three-round KO. Bet 100K to win 780K.
Medics rushed the ring. Tuck came to slowly, staring up with that "what just happened?" look.
Victor's team swarmed him, screaming nonsense in his ear, hugging him like he'd just won the lottery.
But inside? Victor was calm. Not euphoric—just… relieved. Another test passed. The road never ends.
Under the lights, he looked past the chaos, already seeing bigger monsters and bloodier wars.
Two months. Two former world champs flat on their backs. He'd announced himself to the heavyweight division in the loudest way possible.
But to him? This was just the opening act.
Vegas nights never sleep. Victor Li's eyes were already on the horizon—where the real beasts waited.
---
Locker room, post-fight
Frankie was losing his mind, slapping Victor's shoulder: "Unbelievable, man! You did it! WBO rankings are gonna shoot through the roof! We're one step from a title shot!"
Victor wiped his face with a towel, cracked a small grin, but his eyes were somewhere else.
He thought about that whiskey the night he signed. Thought about Smith and Tuck eating canvas.
Crowd money's easy money.
---
Chicago – a couple weeks later
The sunset painted the sky in wild oranges and reds, but inside the gym, the air was thick with sweat, leather, and focus.
Victor had just finished a brutal core-smashing session—getting punched in the gut until he couldn't breathe. Sweat poured off his chiseled frame like a waterfall.
He grabbed the towel Ethan tossed him, wiped his face, and turned to his manager Lowell Hada and promoter Frankie, who were huddled in the corner, poring over a thick notebook.
"Frankie. Lowell."
His voice cut through the silence—firm, no room for BS. "We need to talk."
Both looked up. Here we go again.
This boss wasn't like the others. The guy's brain moved at warp speed.
Take his business moves—he never undercut prices to kill competition. Instead, he used rebates, discounts, near-expiration deals to keep things cheap and fair.
He pulled in Black and Italian customers by making them want to shop at stores—not out of pity, but because the deals were fire.
Yeah, it worked his own people hard. But they were banking—average take-home over $20K a year.
Frankie knew Victor. This young boxer had ambition and power way beyond his years.
"Shoot, Victor."
"I want to know who the WBO's lining up for me next."
He stepped right up to Frankie, eyes sharp as a hawk. "No more games. Spill it."
Lowell took a deep breath, flipped open the notebook. He knew this was gonna stir the pot.
"Alright. A few options. One's James Toney—just came up from middleweight. Footwork like a damn flea. Another's 'Lil' Fat' Andy Ruiz—you know him. Hands like cinder blocks, chin like granite. And then…"
He paused, voice dropping. "There's a non-WBO possibility. The Soviet giant, current WBA champ Nikolai Valuev. Word is, his people are sniffing around a title defense against you. Huge hype potential."
"James Toney?"
Victor raised an eyebrow, half-amused, half-shocked. "'Lights Out' Toney? He's jumping from 160 to fight me?"
He had every right to be surprised. His last few KOs were electric—especially that 15-round slugfest with Tyson. Yeah, he lost, but he went toe-to-toe with the baddest man on the planet and walked away. Legend status.
Toney started in middleweight. Sure, he's a technical wizard—shoulder-roll defense, slick slips, laser counters. One of the few to win titles in middle, super middle, and cruiser. A slippery, iron-chinned legend.
But now he's stepping into heavyweight—200+ pounds—facing a 6'1", nearly 400-pound wrecking ball with one-punch KO power.
"He's either brave as hell… or cocky."
Frankie chimed in: "He thinks skill beats size."
"Then let's do it."
Victor didn't blink. A fighter's grin spread across his face. "I don't buy that his chin can eat my shots. Tyson couldn't put my lights out—I wanna see how he turns out the lights in heavyweight. This is perfect. Warm-up and a statement. Tell the world: even the slickest technician ain't safe."
Frankie was already scribbling. "Toney fight—twenty days out. September 30th. Vegas again. Market loves you here."
"You hit your last two round bets—casinos are eating it up!"
Lowell looked at Victor. "Twenty days to adjust for his style. You good?"
"Plenty."
Victor nodded, confident. His body was peak, his learning curve steep.
Then he circled back. "What's the deal with Ruiz? WBO really trying to slow me down? I just beat a technician, now they throw a banger at me?"
Lowell sighed, real talk: "Victor, you gotta get it. A guy on the heavyweight throne? A lot of people don't want that picture.
They won't block you outright—but stacking the deck with tough matchups? That's their game. Keep you at risk."
"Technicians, bombers, giants…"
Frankie didn't sugarcoat it. "And even if we dodge, Valuev's fight might get pushed by certain… interests. That's your real problem."
He laid it out: "Nikolai Valuev. Soviet monster. 7 feet tall, 330 pounds. Eleven inches taller than you!
His reach is insane. Your power and durability are elite—but against him? You might be at a total disadvantage. His spear-like jab and suffocating clinch could be the only thing that shuts you down."
Victor walked to the heavy bag and unloaded—the bag groaned like it was in pain.
"I'm not worried about losing, Frankie."
His eyes blazed. "Someone once said—the bigger the waves, the pricier the fish. Higher the risk, bigger the reward. If I beat Valuev—even just challenging him and winning? The fame would be insane."
His voice crackled with youth and fire. "If I win, I'm the youngest champ ever! I don't turn 20 till November! That's history."
"Victor, I never doubt your skill or heart."
Frankie was all in—but cautious. "But Valuev's a wild card. He just outpointed Holyfield two months ago, defended his WBA belt.
Normally? He wouldn't take a dangerous fight like you this soon. His team plays it safe."
"Then we make him jump in."
Victor spun around, a sly glint in his eye. "I've got an idea. Might be crazy. Might be over the line."
Lowell leaned in, curious. "What?"
Victor dropped his voice like they were plotting a heist: "I want Horizon Betting to open a special line. The bet? Who's the first pro fighter to KO Victor Li?
Any official fight, anytime—anyone who does it splits a million-dollar bonus. Funded half by my promo company, half by the sportsbook."
Frankie's jaw dropped. Then he slapped his thigh—glasses nearly flying off, eyes lit up like Christmas.
"GENIUS! Victor, you beautiful maniac!
This is a bounty on your head! A million bucks? Every heavyweight bomber's drooling! Valuev's team can't say no—defend the belt, and get a shot at a million, and global fame? They'll beg for the fight!
Media's gonna lose their minds. Fans too!"
He was grinning ear to ear. "And if you go two years without getting slept? Horizon becomes the betting authority."
Victor clenched his fist, smirking like a hunter who just set the perfect trap.
"Let's do it.
First—put James Toney's lights out in twenty days.
Then—we reel in the Soviet beast.
I want the world to know: my spot at the top? Earned. Not luck."