The moment the first round ended, David Morell knew the situation was dire. He had completely lost control of the close-range exchanges and was forced onto the defensive.
Though his defense remained tight, he knew it couldn’t last forever. Holding on like this wasn’t a long-term plan... Back in his corner, Morell glanced across the ring at Jason Luo, feeling a dull ache build behind his eyes.
On Jason’s side, morale was sky-high. Coach Brown’s face was glowing with excitement. “Excellent work, Jason! Now you just need to break through his defense. Be careful—David Morell might change tactics next round. But as long as he can’t counter your close-range pressure, keep pushing forward!”
Jason nodded. “The main problem is that he’s reading my rear-hand punch too well—it’s hard to land cleanly. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Yeah, that’s your old issue. Your front-hand punch still doesn’t pose enough threat, so you’ve got to make up for it strategically. Don’t rush—use your jab to cover and keep looking for openings.”
From below the ring, Hoya watched closely. “See? His technical foundation still has gaps, but his physical strength makes up for it. He’s explosive, adaptable, and maintains good pressure. His distance control and reaction are excellent—he’s already a real danger.”
Carl Frazier nodded slightly. “Exactly. That’s what excites me. He’s the kind of opponent who brings out your best. But his rhythm’s predictable. If I can shut down that rear-hand punch, the threat drops a lot. I’m confident.”
Hoya laughed. “You’re something else—complaining your opponent isn’t strong enough?”
Carl kept his gaze fixed on the ring. “I fight to test my limits. Last time, that guy beat me in an amateur match with his raw power and willpower. Honestly, I still can’t accept that. This time, I want to beat him fair and square—and find a rival who can truly push me.”
Hoya went quiet. Carl’s words pulled him back to his own prime—the days when he’d competed with Tyson for ticket sales, when Mayweather and Pacquiao were his rivals before they became friends. But the one he’d never forgotten was Mosley...
Carl was right. Dominating was satisfying, but meeting a worthy opponent—that was what defined greatness. True rivals forge legends. That was the essence of boxing.
...
“Ding!” The bell rang for round two. From the start, David Morell shifted strategy—no longer contesting the center, he began to move, retreating and using hit-and-run tactics.
A smart choice. Since he couldn’t handle Jason’s close-range power, standing toe-to-toe was suicide.
Jason immediately recognized it—a classic kite strategy, meant to lure him into a chase.
This time, he applied the pressure techniques he’d learned from Siham. Instead of charging recklessly, he advanced methodically, shrinking the distance step by step. His eyes stayed locked on Morell’s legs, not his upper body—making feints useless.
Morell’s expression tightened. The pressure was suffocating. If this kept up, he’d soon be cornered.
Desperate, he burst forward, using a sudden sprint to break free. But Jason was ready—tracking his legs, he jabbed to block the escape path and forced him backward again, trapping him against the ropes.
The moment Morell’s back touched the ropes, a chill ran through him. And sure enough, Jason unleashed a brutal offensive!
For two rounds, Morell tried everything—clinch after clinch—to slow him down. But their physical strength wasn’t even close. He couldn’t match Jason’s power.
He reached out again, arms wide for another clinch—but Jason saw it coming. With precise movement, he slipped aside and hammered a heavy shot into Morell’s ribs. The champion covered up fast, blocking the impact, then tried to pivot away to the side.
Jason saw the attempt to escape and lunged forward, stepping in hard. His fists fired in rapid succession, left and right, a barrage that gave Morell no breathing room. Stumbling under the assault, Morell’s foot caught on the mat—he lost his balance and went down hard onto the canvas!
Though it wasn’t a heavy knockdown, it was still a knockdown. Before the referee could even count, Morell was already scrambling back up—but everyone could see it: he was done. His confidence had collapsed.
Some fans sighed, but the crowd quickly erupted in cheers. The chants began echoing through the arena—
“Jason Luo! The title belongs to Jason Luo!”
“Victory forever!”
“Haha! It’s over—total domination!”
...
Morell wasn’t badly hurt, but his will had cracked. He had no way to stop Jason’s momentum, yet this was a title fight—he couldn’t quit. All he could do was grit his teeth and hang on.
When the fight resumed, Jason pressed harder than ever. Morell could only retreat, dodging and blocking as best he could. The audience roared, voices blending into a single wave—
“Attack! Attack! Go for the win!”
Fueled by the energy, Jason cornered Morell again. Left hooks, right hooks, uppercuts, and crosses rained down in a relentless storm. Morell’s defense stayed tight, but Jason’s rhythm was becoming too predictable, giving him no way to break through.
Then, in a sudden flash of clarity, Jason shifted angles and drove an explosive uppercut straight into Morell’s forehead. The punch landed clean—Morell’s body froze, his eyes unfocused.
Jason pounced. A vicious body hook sank deep into his midsection, dropping his guard. In the same instant, Jason unleashed a blinding double-handed assault to the head!
Morell’s defense shattered.
Blow after blow crashed against his skull, sending him staggering. In panic, he shoved Jason with all his strength, trying to create distance—but Jason was relentless, closing the gap and launching another furious combination.
Seeing Morell was no longer defending himself, the referee jumped in, wrapping his arms around Jason and waving it off.
It was over.
In just two rounds of a twelve-round championship bout, Jason Luo had claimed victory by TKO—with absolute dominance.
The arena exploded in thunderous applause. Firecrackers erupted across Chicago’s Chinatown as crowds poured into the streets, celebrating in euphoria.
Jason climbed the ropes and raised his fists high, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Coach! I did it! I made it!”
Tears mixed with sweat streamed down his face. Though the system had guided him, every step of his journey had been fought with blood, grit, and sacrifice.
In that moment, all the pain, pressure, and exhaustion melted away—leaving only the deep, overwhelming joy of triumph.
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