In the ring, Charlison—his face covered in blood—slowly rose to his feet under the referee's count, glaring at Jason Luo with eyes burning with hatred.
For a professional boxer, getting your nose broken or dislocated was nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, if you hadn't suffered an injury there, you'd hardly be considered a real pro. Even Jason Luo himself had had his nose smashed in before.
But for Charlison, it hit differently. He was in his prime, and his good looks were one of his trademarks—an important part of his public image. Jason had gone straight for that prized feature with ruthless precision, and it infuriated him beyond words.
Because of the heavy bleeding, the referee stopped the fight after Charlison got back up, allowing the ring doctor to stop the bleeding. A nosebleed was easy to treat, and within moments Charlison was eager to continue. His overall condition seemed largely unaffected.
As soon as the match resumed, Charlison lunged forward with fiery rage, unleashing a storm of heavy punches. Jason, however, remained calm. He knew this wasn't the time to exchange blow for blow. Instead, he moved lightly around the ring, forcing Charlison to expend his Stamina.
But the second round had already run long—first due to Jason's earlier incident, then Charlison's knockdown—so before long, the bell rang.
Jason held a slight advantage this round, which made Coach Brown grin. "Excellent work! He's hurt now, so he'll be cautious with his defense. Use that to your advantage—stay in control. Jason, next round, fight for the center ring. Force him outward and make him burn energy!"
Jason nodded, understanding clearly. Charlison was still strong; taking him down in one go wasn't realistic. Playing it steady and smart was the right move.
As the third round began, Jason and Charlison once again clashed fiercely, fighting for control of the center ring.
Jason's attacks focused on Charlison's face, expecting to force his guard upward. But Charlison, stubborn to the core, ignored the pain completely and kept swinging.
Seeing this, Jason showed no mercy. "If you won't defend," he thought, "don't blame me for the consequences!"
Combination punches rained down relentlessly on Charlison's head." Charlison, taking repeated hits to the face, turned his pain into raw aggression, firing back with relentless fury.
The fight had evolved into something else entirely—
A test of pure will and bloodlust.
Charlison's attitude was clear: "Don't think a little blood will stop me. It's you or me tonight—let's see who drops first!"
At Jason's age, surrender wasn't in his vocabulary, especially when he held the upper hand. And so began the second round of blood-soaked combat.
Neither fighter held back. Every punch carried full power. Jason's rear-hand strike slammed into Charlison's face just as Charlison's hook crashed into Jason's cheekbone. They traded blow for blow, refusing to yield an inch.
Fist met fist—pure Strength clashing, thunderous and earth-shaking.
St. Mary's Stadium exploded with excitement!
Over thirty thousand spectators roared in unison, the air thick with adrenaline. British fans tore off their shirts, waving them wildly as they chanted, "Long live the English knights! Fight to the death!"
Jason's supporters were just as fierce—nearly ten thousand shouting, "The decisive battle is now! Those who follow us live, those who oppose us die! Forward!"
"Attack! Attack! Attack!"
"Fight! Fight! Fight!"
...
Charlison's nose was completely crushed. His face was swollen and bruised, the skin beneath turning a deep purplish red.
Jason wasn't much better off. The edge of his right ear was split and bleeding. A lump the size of a baby's fist had risen on his left cheekbone, and his ribs and abdomen throbbed from Charlison's constant penetrating punches. His internal organs were starting to ache.
But Charlison had gone completely berserk, attacking without pause—truly fighting as if his life depended on it.
Seeing the madness before him, Jason knew that backing off now would mean losing face forever.
"To hell with it!"
With a furious roar, he activated his Intermediate Offensive talent, cutting off any path of retreat and committing to a full-on death match.
The battle turned savage.
One man fought without regard for his life; the other, as if he no longer cared to live.
At ringside, Runa watched Charlison's face—barely recognizable beneath the blood—and burst into tears. She ran to the edge of the ring, begging his coach to throw in the towel, but security quickly escorted her away.
Still, that emotional outburst shook Charlison's resolve. When he realized Jason had no intention of backing down, he stopped trading blow for blow and began blocking and dodging—though he still refused to retreat.
To the audience, however, that shift looked like surrender.
Jason's supporters erupted in deafening cheers, as though victory was already theirs, while the British fans fell silent in frustration, some muttering curses under their breath.
Jason noticed the change immediately and felt a surge of satisfaction. "Morale must never falter," he thought. "If you won't fight to the death, you don't deserve the center ring!"
Fueled by the roaring support of the crowd, Jason pressed harder, driving Charlison out of the center circle.
But Charlison refused to yield. Gritting his teeth, he pushed back in, and the two men fought savagely for every inch of ground in the middle of the ring.
The June heat inside St. Mary's Stadium was sweltering. Sweat poured, blood flowed, and the two men clashed—red-eyed, unstoppable.
Once Charlison started dodging more actively, Jason tightened his guard, especially protecting his midsection.
He had no choice. His internal organs ached, and another clean shot could cause serious internal damage.
The tug-of-war continued. Boosted by his Intermediate Title, Jason had better Stamina, stronger bursts of power, and greater Strength, giving him a slight advantage.
But Charlison, only 178 centimeters tall, kept hammering at Jason's abdomen. Continuous upward strikes cost less energy and gave him the best chance to break through.
After Jason finished a combination, Charlison switched from defense to offense in an instant. A rapid series of hooks and swings pounded Jason's midsection. Jason blocked the first blow and prepared to sidestep the heavy follow-up—
—but disaster struck.
After such an intense back-and-forth, the canvas was slick with sweat and blood. Jason's sidestep became a slip. His foot skidded out, throwing him off balance, and at that very instant, Charlison's hook smashed hard into his abdomen!
The blow had real power behind it. Jason couldn't regain his footing and fell flat on the canvas.
The British crowd went wild. Over twenty thousand spectators jumped to their feet, waving shirts and screaming in ecstasy.
Jason's supporters, however, were furious. "That was a slip! Not a knockdown!"
But the replay told the story—Jason had been hit before he fell. The slick floor contributed, but by the rules, it counted as a knockdown.
The ruling gave Charlison two free points—and his momentum roared back to life.
...
(40 Chapters Ahead)
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