Still ended

From the very start of the match, Leslie felt an undeniable connection to Tyson. It was as if they were tied together by an invisible thread, each movement mirrored in the other's responses.

With a determined stance, Leslie launched a straight punch, meticulously gauging the distance. He let the force of his arm propel the back of his hand directly into Tyson's jaw.

Tyson, ever calm and collected, raised his fist to block the incoming strike, showing an impressive defensive skill that only heightened Leslie's respect for him.

Leslie's explosive power was commendable. He realized that with training and dedication, such raw energy could legitimately carve a path for him in the world of professional boxing.

But Tyson was no slouch; he countered with a punch of his own, striking back with precision.

Leslie hesitated for just a moment, but the pause was fleeting, and he immediately followed up with a series of punches—a combination of straight hits and hooks designed to keep Tyson off balance. However, Tyson's reflexes were sharp; he deftly sidestepped the onslaught, landing a punch to Leslie's abdomen that hit with palpable force.

Receiving two blows at once made Leslie's brows knit together in frustration. He could feel discomfort settling into his muscles, an unwelcome reminder of the challenge he faced in the ring.

It was clear that he needed to adjust his strategy; he had to incorporate more probing punches, shots intended to gauge Tyson's defenses. Joins were often followed by other combined strikes, forming a rhythm meant to disarm his opponent.

Yet even this tactical pivot proved futile. Tyson's evasiveness was exceptional, and Leslie found that each jab and hook he attempted was met with a deflection or an evasive maneuver. As if choreographed, Tyson danced away from Leslie's strikes while simultaneously hammering away at his midsection.

Leslie needed to control the distance, but with each retreat, it felt as if he was allowing Tyson to gain more ground. It became a dance of sorts, with Leslie falling back, only to be met with a punch or a hook that sent him reeling.

The atmosphere pulsed with excitement; spectators recognized that Tyson had secured an advantage, a shift in momentum that could dictate the remainder of the match.

Still, neither fighter showed signs of impatience. Leslie remained composed, channeling his focus inward as he observed the ebb and flow of the fight. When pushed against the ropes, he launched a quick two-punch combo, hoping to regain some control before swiftly pivoting away—an instinctive maneuver that kept him alive in the bout.

However, he was painfully aware of his overworked abdomen, the series of hits had begun to hinder his breathing, a sensation that made each movement feel more arduous than the last.

As the clock ticked down on the first round, Leslie couldn't shake the feeling that he had yet to make a significant impact in the match.

Then, out of nowhere, Tyson surged forward once again, intent on asserting his dominance. In what might have been a moment of desperation, Leslie extended his arm, delivering a punch that struck Tyson on the shoulder, a tactical jab aimed to disrupt his rhythm. It worked—Tyson momentarily wavered, his focus faltering as he shifted his weight.

Seizing this opportunity, Leslie leaned into his left hook, the movement fluid and desperate.

In that split second, Tyson, too, reacted, unleashing his own left hook in response.

The arena held its breath as their fists collided; it was a moment that felt suspended in time.

"Oh my God, they just hit each other!" exclaimed the two commentators, astonished by the simultaneous strikes.

The audience erupted, their cheers mingling with gasps of awe.

Leslie's punch had power behind it, enough to send a shiver through Tyson's frame. Despite not being known for his left hook, Leslie had proven he could deliver a danger-laden blow.

However, Tyson, hardened by experience, absorbed the impact. Leslie only managed to momentarily rattle the beast of a man before Tyson countered with a left uppercut that struck like lightning.

The force of Tyson's blow contorted Leslie's face, and his excellent physical condition became life-savers—his muscular neck helped disperse some of the shock from the hit, preventing him from collapsing instantly.

But even with that advantage, he stumbled back, his vision hazy, like fragments of a dream slipping through his grasp.

He felt it then—a dizzying sensation, a telltale sign of a concussion encroaching upon his senses.

As Tyson advanced with ferocity, Leslie braced himself, instinctively preparing to strike back.

But clarity eluded him, and his attack was little more than an opening gesture.

Tyson's agility allowed him to evade the lackluster swing effortlessly, and he retaliated with an uppercut driven by raw power.

It was as if time itself slowed as Tyson's fist ascended, a force capable of dismantling the strongest of boxers, Leslie included.

In that moment, all of Leslie's determination felt insignificant, crushed under the weight of Tyson's blow.

His body, unable to respond adequately, tilted awkwardly as he faltered, crashing against the ropes, which offered no solace. The impact sent him crumpling to the canvas, sprawling right in front of the two TV commentators.

"Oh my God, Leslie's gone down! I swear, it felt like a statue has just fallen in front of us!" one commentator gasped, clearly shocked. "My heart is racing; I can barely breathe!"

"The Beast, Tyson, has finished Leslie with that overwhelming uppercut! Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to have to pause the broadcast. Medical personnel are rushing in for assistance. We need to clear the area for them," the other commentator added, urgency lacing his words.

Duke and Brent, along with their crew, began maneuvering the commentary booth, desperate to make way for the medics.

As the crowd charged with adrenaline, two TV screens replayed that explosive moment over and over, evoking gasps and applause with each viewing.

The uppercut was electrifying—a defining blow that would echo long after the match concluded.

As the first round drew to a close, the referee frankly had the simplest job imaginable. With no scoring decisions to be made in such a lopsided affair, they simply stood by, steering the match's progression.

Tyson, meanwhile, shed his gloves, aided by Teddy, his corner man.

He raised an index finger triumphantly, announcing to the audience that he was indeed the top dog tonight.

The massive screens around the arena captured Tyson's gesture, broadcasting it for all to see.

With a humble nod and a wave, Tyson exited the ring to the roaring approval of the fans, a hero stepping back into the shadows.

"Mike, you still have two more matches ahead, and with these results, you can make the challenge to go for the Gold Glove Champion," Kus encouraged, his excitement palpable as he recognized the path ahead.

The circuit of regional events kept previous champions in place until they voluntarily relinquished their titles or transitioned into professional boxing. If a contender aimed to take that coveted championship, they needed to defeat the reigning titleholder.

In America, many champions plotted their course strategically, defending their titles a few times before opting to go pro.

Kus's vision for Tyson was clear: secure the national title and then aim for Olympic qualifications. If everything fell into place, perhaps he would return to defend his title before stepping into the professional ring.

But Tyson wasn't interested in that path.

In his mind, extended defenses were merely a waste of time; the clock could not be turned back.

"Even if I defend my title, it will only be once. The moment I turn eighteen in June, I'll be stepping into the professional arena," he resolved, unwavering in his ambition.

Yet, the future never promised to remain static.

After returning to the hotel, Tyson didn't think to rest. Instead, he immersed himself in training, his mind racing with the possibilities of what lay ahead.

The following day, with a steel determination, he ventured to a local boxing gym, where sweat and effort mingled in the air, a smell he found invigorating.

"Mike! I reviewed your match, and it was nothing short of phenomenal! You crushed your opponent," Lawson greeted him, a grin spread across his face.

In the gym, a group of young boxers had been whispering among themselves, their conversations fading into silence as they spotted Tyson walking in.