The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

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Upon hearing this, Rocky was filled with rage and wanted to step forward, but Victor stopped him with a gesture.

Viktor did not back down and even took a step forward. The two were almost nose to nose, their eyes clashing fiercely in the air as if sparks could fly.

Viktor's voice was calm yet powerful, "Then I'll be waiting for you. Wait until you get past Rocky before you start talking big. But don't blame me for not warning you, underestimating the heart of a champion is the biggest mistake you'll ever make."

He paused, then said, word by word, "Whether in New York, Moscow, or anywhere in the world, the boxing ring is the boxing ring. The rules there are determined by determination and will, not by politics or the laboratory."

Drago stared intently at Viktor. After a few minutes, he snorted coldly, said nothing more, and strode away.

The official glared at Victor and Rocky, then hurriedly followed with the translator.

The room fell silent again, but the brief exchange had only made the atmosphere more tense.

Loki watched Drago's departing figure and said in a deep voice, "Did you see that, Victor? He's a cold-blooded monster."

Victor's expression, however, was unusually serious. He shook his head: "No, Rocky, I saw something else. He's not just a monster... He's angry. Because my words just now touched a nerve."

He may have been a tool to be molded, but deep down, he longed to be seen as a real, respected boxer. This, perhaps... is his weakness.

Victor turned around and pressed down hard on Rocky's shoulder: "Rocky, remember this feeling! Use it! He's not invincible! I'll be watching you the day after tomorrow, watching how you shatter this 'Iron Myth'!"

The cold Moscow wind howled outside the window, and Viktor couldn't wait to see how Rocky could defeat Drago!

Chapter 105 Oceans Cover 71% of the Earth's Surface

On Christmas Day in 1985 in Moscow, the cold air seemed to freeze, the huge stadium was bustling with noise, and the bright lights were focused on the center of the boxing ring.

Red and gold Soviet flags hung everywhere, and the air was filled with an almost fanatical sense of national pride.

This is a contest that transcends sports; it is a symbolic clash between two worlds under the Iron Curtain of the Cold War—the invincible Soviet boxing machine Ivan Drago versus the American "Blue Cobra" Rocky Balboa.

Drago stood in one corner of the boxing ring, like a statue cast from marble and steel.

His face was expressionless, his eyes were empty yet sharp, and his taut muscles gleamed coldly under the light.

His Soviet coaching team surrounded him, whispering final instructions in Russian, with a small computer terminal even placed in a corner, its screen displaying cold, impersonal data.

On the other side, Rocky appeared relatively calm. His face was etched with the marks of time and past battles, but his eyes burned with an indomitable flame.

His friend and coach was vigorously rubbing his shoulders, his face full of worry—Victor was helping him.

“Listen, Rocky,”

Victor's voice was low, almost drowned out by the noise of the crowd, "Their data, their computers... they all say you won't last two rounds. That guy's punches are said to weigh two thousand pounds! You can't just tough it out like before, you have to move, you have to dodge!"

Rocky slowly turned his neck, making a slight clicking sound, and turned his gaze to the humanoid weapon opposite him.

“Victor,”

His voice was hoarse but firm, “He’s very strong, I can tell. But the data can’t measure this.”

He tapped his chest with his boxing gloves.

"It's also impossible to measure how much a person can endure."

"He'll beat you to death!"

Viktor had almost forgotten how Rocky had taken his attack before. "Look at him! He's not even human!"

"Then let's take a look,"

Rocky grinned, revealing a near-mad smile. "Will he break my body first, or will I shatter his will first?"

The first bell rang, like a signal that the gladiatorial combat had begun.

Drago immediately approached Rocky with steady and extremely imposing steps, like a heavy tank starting up.

His wingspan advantage is astonishing, allowing him to control the optimal distance with almost no effort.

It was merely a probing jab, yet it felt as heavy as a regular boxer's punch, striking Rocky's raised arm with a dull thud.

Rocky tried to move, but Drago's precise movements blocked his path.

"Move! Rocky, move!"

The coach was yelling from the sidelines, and Victor's palms were sweaty.

However, Rocky seemed to ignore it.

After taking two jabs, he made a decision that surprised everyone—he abandoned large-scale dodging and only made minimal blocking, turning his body into a punching bag to attract fire.

"What is he doing?!"

The commentator exclaimed, "Barboa has abandoned his agility! He's chosen to use his body to withstand Drago's attack!"

Drago's Soviet coach gave a sneer and nodded at the computer screen, where the data model was running perfectly, predicting when Rocky would collapse.

The real storm has begun.

Drago's combination punches rained down like hailstones.

Left hook, right straight punch, uppercut... each strike contained explosive power, accurately hitting Rocky's head and ribs.

The cheers from the Soviet spectators inside the stadium rose in waves, with deafening shouts of "Dragos! Dragos!"

Rocky was knocked staggering, his eye socket split open instantly, and blood blurred his vision.

He leaned against the rope, like a wrecked ship in a storm, as if he would be swallowed up completely at any moment.

"Fall down! Fall down!"

Drago's coach gave cold, commanding instructions in Russian.

But Rocky did not fall.

He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, and through the mist of blood, his eyes were fixed on Drago. There was no fear in his eyes, only an almost primal challenge and scrutiny.

"Loki! You have to change tactics! His punches are too heavy! Even if our previous estimate of 2,000 pounds of punching power was exaggerated, it's definitely over 1,000 pounds! You'll be killed by him!"

Victor roared, having witnessed firsthand the terrible blow Rocky had suffered.

Rocky was panting heavily, his chest burning with pain, and he couldn't speak.

Victor looked over and saw that Drago's eyes were still cold, but there seemed to be a hint of doubt in them—why hasn't this person fallen yet?

The game continues.

The scenes were almost identical.

Drago continued his relentless, storm-like attack, while Loki remained unmoved (or rather, barely standing) like a stubborn rock, battered by the waves.

His face was swollen beyond recognition, and blood stained his chest and shorts.

However, as time went on, the atmosphere at the scene began to subtly change.

The initial fervent cheers gradually subsided.

Every time Drago's powerful punch knocked Rocky off balance and people thought it was over, the American would always sway, struggle, and finally stubbornly straighten up.

His eyes remained open on his bloodied and mangled face, fixed intently on his opponent.

A complex emotion spread among Soviet audiences.

They are patriotic, and they want their symbol, Drago, to crush their opponents.

But Rocky's pure human willpower, that resilience that transcends nationality and ideology, began to touch something deep within them.

Applause began sporadically, hesitant at first, then grew louder and louder.

This wasn't an attack for Drago, but a testament to Loch's unwavering stance.

"Is this person... made of steel?"

Someone in the stands was muttering to themselves.

Why doesn't he fall down?

Viktor, standing on the sidelines, gradually went from disbelief to utter astonishment.

He watched as Rocky returned from the brink of KO time and time again, and watched as Drago's fists, though still heavy, seemed... no longer as destructive as they had been at the beginning.

"Two thousand pounds..."

Viktor muttered to himself, shook his head, and a ridiculous expression appeared on his face. "It's definitely fake... half of it is fake... This is so typical of the Soviet Union."

His anxieties did not diminish, but they were mixed with a sense of absurdity and a nascent, faint hope—perhaps, just perhaps, that Rocky's insane plan was not entirely suicide.

After halftime, the match entered the second leg.

Subtle changes begin to accumulate and gradually become apparent.

Drago's breathing was no longer as steady as it had been at the beginning.

His attack frequency seemed to be a fraction of a second slower, and the transitions between his combinations were no longer as precise as a machine's.

His jabs, which were once as deadly as whips, have lost some of their power.

More importantly, his eyes.

That cold, inhuman shell seemed to have developed a crack.

Doubt turned into frustration.

Why hasn't this person fallen yet?

He had clearly landed so many powerful punches, enough to knock down a bull!

Rocky's unwavering gaze began to scorch his nerves.

Rocky keenly observed all of this.

The physical pain was intense, but his mind remained unusually clear.

His "primitive tactics" are working. What he's expending with his own flesh and blood is not only Drago's physical strength, but also his seemingly invincible confidence built up by statistics and national honor.

"His punches went lighter... Now... it's our turn."

Drago continued his attack, but staggered slightly after missing his target with a punch.

Although she quickly recovered, everyone saw her vulnerability in that moment.

For the first time, Rocky made a truly effective dodge!

He dodged Drago's slightly slow right straight punch and instantly broke into the inner circle!

A heavy left hook slammed into Drago's ribs!