Ruddock came out swinging, throwing a quick jab straight at Victor's face.
Victor slipped it, catching a whiff of rosin mixed with blood off the guy's gloves.
Ruddock ducked low and ripped a left hook from a nasty angle.
Victor blocked with his forearm—BAM—a dull thud that made his bones rattle.
"Counter now!" Frankie bellowed from the corner.
Victor saw the opening as Ruddock pulled back and fired a flat hook into the guy's ribs.
The leather-on-meat smack made the front-row crowd gasp.
Ruddock grunted, stepped back half a pace, sweat flying off him in shiny arcs under the lights.
They fell into a brutal slugfest. Victor had dragged the slick technician Ruddock into an ugly body war—heavyweight fights usually go that way. Technique takes a backseat; knockouts don't always end it.
Now it was about who could squeeze more power out of the pain, whose will would melt first.
The bell felt a million miles away.
Victor's fat was melting off him, body temp skyrocketing. The crowd's roar faded in and out like a bad radio.
A Ruddock uppercut grazed his chin, splitting the inside of his mouth against his mouthpiece. Blood flooded his tongue—pure iron.
Victor spat a red mist that bloomed on the canvas like a tiny rose. That wasn't shaking him.
Then it happened—Ruddock blinked sweat out of his eyes and his chin hung open for a split second.
All the pain vanished. The world went quiet. Victor saw a golden line running from his fist straight to Ruddock's jaw.
Muscle memory took over.
He twisted from the hips, right leg screaming but pushing him forward, and unloaded a right uppercut like a cannon shell.
The crack of leather on bone made teeth hurt ringside.
DING!
The bell saved Ruddock. Victor's fourth knockdown didn't finish him.
The ref checked Ruddock over, asked the same questions twice, and finally waved them on.
Round six. Frankie had nothing left to say—just "Hang in there, hang in there!"
At 1:38, Victor spotted it: Ruddock's right hand hanging half an inch lower—shoulder fatigue.
That gap lasted maybe 0.3 seconds. Plenty for a pro.
Victor coiled from ankles to hips to shoulders and exploded.
Another textbook right uppercut sliced clean through.
The feel was like punching a wet sandbag.
Ruddock's jaw made a sickening crunch. The Jamaican folded like a cut oak tree and crashed to the mat.
The arena erupted. Some fans covered their eyes.
Victor backed to the neutral corner, lungs on fire, sucking air while he could. He knew Ruddock wasn't staying down—he'd already eaten one and popped back up. The real punch hadn't even landed with full power, maybe 300 pounds at most.
The ref knelt and started the count. Spotlights turned the sweaty canvas into a rainbow.
"One… two… three…"
The numbers cut through the blood rushing in Victor's ears.
At five, Ruddock's fingers twitched.
"Six… seven…"
At seven, the man pushed up on shaky arms.
He spat out a bloody tooth that left a red streak across the canvas.
When he stood, his eyes reminded Victor of a guy he once worked construction with—335 days a year on the site, went home once a month, put on thirty pounds just to burn it off the next year. All for his kid's tuition. No quit.
"Box!"
The ref waved them on.
Ruddock's feet were steady again, punches still sharp.
They traded. Victor's arms slowed a hair from the pain, and Ruddock tagged his nose with a stiff jab. Hot blood poured into his mouth.
Tasting it, Victor flashed back to fifteen, hauling cement bags with old-timers under a moon just as pale. Kid refused to lose.
The fight was blowing up on TV. Trump was cracking up somewhere. Tyson stared at the screen, unblinking. Tyson's trainer muttered, "Both these guys are gonna be problems."
Round seven flipped the script.
Ruddock changed rhythm, faked high, then ripped a hook.
Victor was late. The punch landed flush on his forehead.
Colors vanished. His thick neck rippled, the shockwave rolling all the way to his waist. Church bells rang in his skull.
Victor dropped to both knees. His mouthpiece shot out with a spray of blood, bounced twice, and landed in a puddle of sweat.
The broadcast guys lost it—one yanked off his tie and screamed into the mic: "Lord have mercy! That's the wildest comeback I've ever seen! Ruddock just turned it around!"
Victor heard the ref's lips moving through water. He grabbed the ropes, stood, and realized his left glove strap had come loose—blood dripping between his fingers.
The overhead light was the only color left in the world, a beacon in the dark.
"You good to go?"
The ref stared into his swelling left eye.
Victor nodded. A drop of blood splashed on the ref's shiny shoe.
Across the ring, Ruddock was sucking wind, chest heaving.
Round eight. Both corners went crazy with ice bags.
Victor's left eye was nearly swollen shut. Ruddock couldn't lift his right arm to full height anymore.
Old Jack jammed an adrenaline swab into the cut above Victor's brow. The sting jolted him awake.
"Listen up!" Jack rasped. "Stay sharp! Stay sharp! Lose a fight this epic and you're the winner's background prop for life!"
The bell drowned the rest.
They charged like gladiators.
Every clash made the crowd flinch. Photographers' fingers cramped from nonstop shutters—no one dared blink.
The ringside doc hovered at the ropes, ready to stop what looked like mutual suicide.
In the corner, a soaked reporter scribbled: "Round 8, 2:15—Victor traps Ruddock in the corner. Ruddock's counter grazes Victor's ear, blood droplets sparkle like rubies under the lights…"
His pen snapped. Ink bled across the page like a dark flower.
At the same moment, Victor buried a body shot into Ruddock's ribs.
Ruddock's howl got swallowed by the crowd. He stumbled back, bumped the ref, and nearly knocked him over.
Victor surged forward but slipped on sweat.
That half-second let Ruddock breathe. He leaned on the ropes, sucked in air, and flashed a bloody grin—like lightning before a storm.
Round nine bell about to ring. Victor slumped on the stool, sweat pouring off his swollen face like a waterfall.
Blood from his brow blurred half his vision. Every breath tasted like pennies.
"Drink!"
Jack shoved a straw between his lips—electrolytes and sugar sliding down.
"His left hook's dead. You see how short he's swinging?"
Ice water hit Victor's face. He jolted.
Jack slapped his cheeks with calloused hands. "Wake up! He's more beat than you! Remember why you're here! He loses, he's still a hero. You lose, kiss that eighty-grand purse goodbye!"
The crowd noise crashed in like a wave.
Through the ropes, Victor saw Ruddock across the ring getting Vaseline stuffed up his broken nose—shattered back in round three.
Bell.
Victor stood. Ruddock's movement was sluggish now. The spring-loaded dodger from earlier had lead in his legs.
But Victor knew a wounded beast is the most dangerous.
"Move! Don't plant your feet!"
Jack's voice sounded miles away.
The opening came at 1:47.
Ruddock missed a left swing and over-rotated.
Victor smelled blood and charged.
His head still rang from that seventh-round bomb, but muscle memory was faster than thought.
First shot to the liver—Ruddock grunted like a wounded animal.
Second clipped the mangled nose, spraying red.
Third uppercut lifted Ruddock's chin.
The crowd hit tsunami levels.
Victor screamed inside—Go down!
His follow-up right hook arced perfectly, split the guard, and chopped into Ruddock's forehead like an axe.
Time slowed.
Victor saw Ruddock's eyes vibrate, then the six-foot-three frame toppled like a redwood.
The ref's count echoed from underwater, syncing with Victor's heartbeat.
Each thump in his temples felt like another punch. Low blood sugar made black ripples creep at the edges of his vision.
He stood dead center, legs concrete yet floating.
"Nine!"
Second-to-last count. Dizziness hit hard.
Sweat and blood slid off his brow, stinging his eyelids.
Through the blur he saw Ruddock half-up, gasping.
"Ten!"
The final call.
Victor tried to raise both arms. They shook too hard.
Shoulders felt crushed by invisible weights. Twelve rounds of war had his muscles twitching nonstop.
He barely lifted the right to chest height; the left hung limp, fingers jerking.
Under the lights, the ref grabbed his wrist and raised it.
Ruddock spat out his mouthpiece—coated in blood, one cracked molar stuck to it.
It hit the canvas with a wet thud.
Ruddock wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, spat pink foam. The dude had just eaten a monster shot and still cleared his head that fast.
"Winner—Victor 'Fat Tiger' Li!!!!"
The arena exploded, but to Victor it sounded warped and distant.
Tinnitus buzzed like a beehive in his skull.
Joy got drowned by pure exhaustion. Every nerve ending screamed awake.
Victor took a deep breath—salty, metallic.
He clenched his jaw, summoned everything left, and forced both arms overhead.
Ribs shrieked in protest, but he held the pose, turning slowly to every section of the roaring crowd.
Sweat dripped from his clenched jaw like falling diamonds.
Then he shuffled over to Razor Ruddock.
The feared destroyer was pulling himself up on the ropes, fight gone from his eyes, clarity returning.
Ruddock's right eye was swollen shut, left brow split deep, blood running down his neck and turning his white robe dark red.
Victor stuck out a trembling hand and grabbed Ruddock's wrist.
He felt the same uncontrollable shakes in the other man's arm—warrior to warrior.
"You're a real man," Victor croaked, barely audible. He swallowed blood and yelled louder, "Honored to share the ring with you!"
Ruddock froze, then cracked a painful, genuine grin through split lips.
He tapped Victor's shoulder lightly with his glove—the ultimate boxer's respect.
"Next time I'm putting you on the canvas, Steel Boy."
His voice was shredded, but his eyes sparkled with mutual respect.
Camera flashes popped like fireworks, freezing the two battered warriors in time.
Victor saw the reporters losing their minds.
The early boos from racist fans had turned to a standing ovation—everyone on their feet for this instant classic.
A weight lifted off Victor's chest, like ten rounds of pressure just exhaled.
Medics rushed the ring to check them.
Victor kept gripping Ruddock's hand.
Two broken, bloody fighters held each other up—two oak trees still standing after the hurricane.
In that moment, winning or losing didn't matter.
They'd both shown every ounce of heart and dignity a fighter can give.
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