Kuss's voice blared above the buzzing audience, but it couldn't drown out the palpable excitement in the air.
Luke took the stage, and the crowd erupted into warm applause, their enthusiasm electric.
Last time Luke participated in the Golden Gloves competition, his unique combat style earned him a devoted fan base. So when he stepped into the spotlight this time, those same fans were on their feet, clapping and cheering with fervor.
In an atmosphere like this, it was easy for others to get swept up in the excitement—when the applause grows, everyone tends to join in.
Luke's entrance was a stark contrast to Tyson's impending arrival.
Kuss grumbled, "They're blind, just like their hearts."
Tyson paid no mind to the crowd's reaction; he knew their opinions would shift once he emerged victorious—just as it had before.
When Luke came onto the ring, he removed his coat, revealing a chiseled upper body. His muscles were defined, reminiscent of a seasoned bodybuilder.
"Maybe after boxing, he'll give bodybuilding a shot," Tyson thought to himself, a smirk creeping onto his face.
As Luke circled the ring, he extended his arms and acknowledged the fans, exuding the confidence of a seasoned champion. The crowd loved it, chanting his name in unison, their adoration palpable.
Beside him, Tyson recognized that Luke thrived on this attention—immersed in the adoration, he soaked it all in like a star relishing the spotlight.
Finally, the referee stepped into the ring.
Under the referee's guidance, Tyson squared off against Luke, his gaze steady. They pierced through each other's defenses with unyielding eyes, trying to undermine the other's psychological edge.
In Luke's eyes, Tyson recognized the fierce determination and unrelenting spirit of a warrior ready for battle.
The referee delivered his usual safety speech, reciting the familiar guidelines as routine dictated.
Once their fists touched in mutual respect, the bout was officially underway, initiated by the referee's commanding gestures.
TV commentator Duke chimed in, "And we're off! The intensity is palpable as both fighters are eager to make quick work of one another. Luke appears to be going low with his right hand—maybe he's aiming for a first-round finish. He's charging forward just like in his previous bouts—such an electric competitor! A true warrior ready to take on any opponent with his fists."
"Look at Tyson's speed! Luke's backhand didn't land, but—wait, what's this? Oh my, Tyson just caught Luke with a devastating hook! I swear I can hear the impact echoing. Is his fist made of steel? That punch is incredible! Luke is down—I can't believe it!"
"Unbelievable! Just half a minute into the fight, and it might all be over for Luke. The audience is stunned—he's unconscious on the canvas. This is a miracle of brutal efficiency!"
"Tyson is a beast! That punch could potentially end Luke's career!"
Tyson's right hand had cleanly delivered the knockout blow, leaving Luke sprawled on the mat, motionless.
The crowd fell into stunned silence, grappling with what they had just witnessed.
As the massive screen replayed the moment, gasps turned into gasps of appreciation.
Tyson's powerful uppercut was not just a show of strength—it was an artistic display of boxing mastery. Luke had been unceremoniously felled by one blow.
Everyone in the arena began to recall Tyson's formidable nickname.
"The Beast, Tyson."
"The Beast, Tyson."
Rallying shouts filled the stadium, uniting the audience in a rhythmic chant.
Kuss watched from the sidelines, unable to contain his excitement, hollering, "Mike, you've done it!"
Teddy rushed to the ring, lifting Tyson in joyful celebration.
Even as they left the arena, the eyes of the crowd followed Tyson, aflame with admiration.
Back in the lounge, Kuss paced, muttering to himself in elation.
"This is incredible! I knew we were on the right path; my decision was sound, just like before."
"This day was destined to arrive. I'll show those self-righteous detractors how my fighter has risen to become a champion."
Teddy and Tyson engaged in light exercises, warm-ups that kept them poised for the victories ahead.
In the two hours post-fight, there were already media requests flooding in for interviews, but Kuss turned them all down.
He understood the media's game—if Tyson dazzled, they'd gleefully cover him, but if he faltered, they'd abandon him. These moments were too crucial to waste on superficial engagement.
This wasn't merely a high-level amateur contest; Kuss had bigger aspirations for Tyson. He believed in climbing to the pinnacle rather than getting sidetracked by media distractions. This approach was worlds apart from his previous television interview experiences.
At six o'clock that evening, Tyson was set for his second match of the day.
This time, cheers erupted from all corners of the arena as the crowd roared "Beast!"
TV commentator Brent noted, "This is a formidable boxer—one of a kind. Tyson possesses an explosive power that decimates opponents in record time, paired with blistering speed. Just look at how quickly he dismantled Luke in that first match—such a lasting impression!"
Duke added his perspective, "Absolutely, he's a force to be reckoned with. Last time, I may have misjudged him, but he's proven us all wrong. No one can judge the strength of a fighter solely by their appearance."
Kuss smiled, pleased with the palpable energy across the arena, and called out to Teddy, "Did you see that? This is how you welcome a champion!"
"Of course, Mr. Kuss," Teddy responded with a nod.
Standing in the ring, Tyson awaited his next challenger.
Soon, a powerful figure emerged from backstage—a tall, muscular black man named Randy Barry, flanked by his coach.
Randy stood at six foot three and weighed close to 240 pounds, his physique built for power, though his lower body appeared somewhat underrated compared to his hulking upper frame.
Brent, the commentator, asked, "Duke, what are your insights on this matchup?"
"Randy Barry is a boxer hailing from Alabama, boasting an enviable track record that includes a Junior Olympics gold medal! He's also recognized as the regional champion of Alabama with an impressive 27 wins—there's no denying his skills, but I worry his talents might fall short against Tyson's ferocity."
Duke continued, "Alabama may not have the best reputation, but Randy carries himself with undeniable flair and charisma. Look at that colorful entrance attire! If he had added feathers, he might just have stepped off a carnival float."
Upon entering the ring, Randy discarded his flashy shirt, met with a chorus of whistles from the audience.
His shorts were equally striking—a blend of colors and adorned with eye-catching decorations that jangled with every move.
"Wow, Randy is quite the spectacle," Brent remarked, trying to articulate the vibrant display of personality.
Once settled, Randy shot Tyson a cool glance.
However, Tyson couldn't keep his eyes from lingering on Randy's unique fashion choices, particularly those flamboyant shorts.
As Randy began to limber up, the referee prepared the fighters for battle.
From the instant the match commenced, Randy adopted a cautious approach, using rapid jabs to gauge Tyson's reach.
Tyson attempted to find openings, but each strike felt like hitting a wall—Randy was intent on avoiding substantial damage.
Yet Randy soon realized the painful reality of trying to block Tyson's punches; while he successfully stayed on his feet, the power behind Tyson's blows was undeniable.
Randy and his coach had scrutinized Tyson's previous fights and devised a strategy aimed at leveraging Randy's height and reach to score points before the final judgment.
It seemed like a sound tactic. Yet Tyson was no ordinary opponent.
Throughout the fight, Randy sought to maintain distance, throwing straight punches to score points. When he landed his first, he felt elation. Hitting Tyson twice in quick succession, he thought he was onto something—much like twisting a screwdriver to pop open a bottle of wine.
However, with each successive strike, Randy soon realized that Tyson seemed to be anticipating his every move...