Fight Night [3]

Bruno didn't talk much; his fists preferred to do the communicating. He smirked, revealing a set of teeth that looked like they could chew through steel. "Hope you got a good dentist, kid," he taunted, bouncing lightly on his toes.

"Jokes on you, Bruiser, my dentist is on speed dial," I shot back, trying to keep the mood light even though my legs felt like jelly. The ref gave the signal, and the bell rang—another round of survival against a walking nightmare.

Bruno came at me like a bulldozer with a vendetta. I ducked and dodged, my newly honed Fast Feet skill keeping me just out of reach of his devastating blows. "Who the hell scheduled me for a marathon beatdown session?" I yelled at no one in particular, weaving through Bruno's punches like I was trying to break the world record in the 100-meter dash.

The fight was brutal. Bruno was all power, each punch thrown with the intention to end the fight—and possibly my life. But thanks to the Iron Man skill, I could take a hit better than ever. The problem was, how many hits could I take before I started seeing stars?

"Hey, Bruiser! Ever heard of a break?" I panted, wiping sweat from my brow as we circled each other.

Bruno just grunted, a sound that I was pretty sure could scare a bear back into hibernation. He lunged, and I sidestepped, feeling the wind from his fist as it passed my face. "Close shave," I quipped, trying to keep the mood light despite the fact that my body was screaming in protest.

The rounds dragged on, and I could feel my energy waning. Each movement was becoming slower, more painful. It was like fighting in a dream where everything was in slow motion except for the guy trying to decapitate you.

As the final bell rang, signaling the end of the round, I staggered back to my corner, where Mark was waiting with a towel and a look of concern. "You look like shit," he said bluntly, handing me a water bottle.

"Feel like it too," I gasped, taking a long swig of water. "This is insane. Normal boxing tournaments take weeks. What kind of sadistic fight club is this?"

Mark shook his head, dabbing at the cut above my eye. "It's Long's show, man. He's making the rules. Just hang in there. You've got one more round. Use everything you've learned. Fast Feet, Iron Man, dodge and weave, and for fuck's sake, keep your hands up."

"Easy for you to say," I grumbled, standing up as the bell rang again. "You're not the one playing punching bag to a human wrecking ball."

Back in the center of the ring, Bruno was ready, that same unsettling smile plastered on his face. The crowd was louder than ever, the energy electric, feeding off our pain and perseverance.

"Alright, Bruno, let's finish this dance," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

He nodded, and for a second, I thought I saw a flicker of respect in his eyes. Or maybe it was just my imagination, fueled by too many hits to the head.

The round started, and it was clear Bruno was looking to end things quickly. But I had other plans. Using the last ounces of energy, I dodged his first swing, countered with a quick jab to his jaw, and when he stumbled, I threw everything I had into one final, desperate punch.

It connected, right on his chin, and for a moment, the world went silent. Bruno's eyes widened, and then he started to fall, slowly, like a tree being felled.

The crowd erupted as he hit the mat, and I stood there, panting, my arms hanging limply by my sides. The ref began the count, but it was clear Bruno wasn't getting up.

"One... two... three..."

I could barely believe it. I'd knocked out Bruno. Me, Damon Ashburn, the guy who used to think a tough workout was choosing original flavor over diet.

"Eight... nine... ten!"

It was official. I'd won. The ref raised my hand, and the crowd went wild. I turned, looking for Mark, needing to share this impossible moment with someone who'd believed in me from the start.

But before I could find him, Mr. Long's voice boomed through the arena once more. "Congratulations, Mr. Ashburn! A spectacular performance. But the night is not over yet. Your final challenge awaits."

It was like life had decided to run a clearance sale on hellish experiences, and I'd accidentally signed up for the newsletter. There I was, standing in the ring, drenched in my own sweat and the crowd's roaring approval, still buzzing from the adrenaline of knocking Bruno "The Bruiser" flat on his monstrous ass. But as the crowd's cheers washed over me, the ominous echo of Mr. Long's voice cut through the haze of victory, promising more "entertainment."

"Your final challenge awaits," he had said. That phrase hung in the air like a bad smell in a small elevator. I mean, what in the actual fuck? Hadn't I done enough for one night? Apparently not.

As the ring cleared and the noise settled into a thick, anticipatory silence, I caught Mark's eye. He had that 'brace yourself' look, which usually meant something between mildly disturbing and outright catastrophic was about to happen.

The announcer's voice boomed, shattering the brief lull. "Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for the final round of 'The Dragon City Beatdown Bonanza'! Let's welcome Damon's last opponent for the night!"

A spotlight swung to the entrance, and out stepped a figure that made my recently healed ribs ache just from looking at him. It was none other than Viktor "The Viking", a fighter whose reputation for leaving his opponents with more bruises than an overripe banana preceded him. The guy was a legend in underground fighting circles, known for his brutal strength and a beard that probably had its own social security number.

"Ah, shit," I muttered under my breath, my heart sinking to my taped-up toes. Viktor was a giant, a literal Viking throwback, complete with the kind of intense stare that could make a seasoned tax auditor uncomfortable.

Viktor didn't bother with trash talk as he stepped into the ring; his fists were probably eager to do all the communicating. He simply cracked his knuckles—which sounded suspiciously like someone stepping on a pile of dry twigs—and nodded at me, his icy blue eyes devoid of anything resembling human warmth.

"Ready, kid?" he rumbled, his voice a deep bass that vibrated my skull.

"Born ready," I lied spectacularly, bouncing on my toes and trying to shake the nerves that were multiplying like bunnies in my stomach.

The bell rang, and it was like someone had pressed play in a movie where I was the unfortunate protagonist. Viktor came at me like a freight train with a grudge, and every dodge I managed felt like a small miracle. My Fast Feet skill kicked in, thank God, allowing me to move like I was on fast-forward while the rest of the world was stuck on normal speed.

"Who the hell schedules me for a marathon beatdown session?" I yelled at no one in particular, managing to duck under a swing that would've surely rearranged my dental records.

Viktor didn't respond; his fists kept up a relentless barrage, each punch thrown with the kind of force that suggested he wasn't interested in a judges' decision. He wanted a knockout.

The crowd was a distant roar, their cheers and gasps ebbing and flowing like the tide as we traded blows. For every hit I dodged, Viktor landed one, each thump a brutal reminder that I was way out of my weight class.

By the time the bell rang to signal the end of the round, I was gasping for air, each breath a fiery reminder of Viktor's power. I stumbled back to my corner, where Mark was ready with a cold towel and a look that said, 'This is bad.'

"You're holding up better than I expected," he offered, which I guessed was his version of encouragement.

"Feels like I'm being used as a human piñata," I gasped out, taking the towel and pressing it against my throbbing face.

Mark's grimace told me all I needed to know about how I looked. "He's strong, but you're faster. Keep moving, use your skills, and for God's sake, try to hit him harder. You've got to make him respect your punches."

"Respect my punches?" I laughed bitterly, the sound more a wheeze than anything jovial. "Pretty sure he respects butterflies more than my punches right now."

As the break dwindled down, I took a deep breath, my chest heaving as I braced for the next onslaught. The bell rang again, and I pushed off from my stool, my legs feeling like they were made of something significantly softer than flesh and bone.

Viktor was waiting for me, a small smile playing around the edges of his beard, as if he found my attempts at boxing amusing. And maybe he did. But I wasn't about to give up. Not when I'd come this far.

The next round was a blur of motion. My Fast Feet kicked in again, and I danced around Viktor, throwing punches that, miraculously, began to find their mark. Maybe it was desperation, maybe it was the primal part of my brain that handled survival kicking into overdrive, but whatever it was, it started to work.

Viktor's smile faded as he realized I wasn't just there to be his punching bag. I landed a solid right to his jaw, followed by a quick left that cut across his cheek. The crowd's roar grew louder, their energy feeding my own.

Then, the system pinged in my head, a welcome intrusion. [Iron Mike activated! Double your strength for the next thirty seconds!]

"About damn time," I muttered, feeling a surge of power coursing through my veins. It was now or never.