Cyberpunk: 2075.

Chapter 645, Section 59: Boxing Match
When Carl pushed open the door to Jack's private lounge, he was surprised to find it already packed with people.

Mrs. Wells was talking quietly with Misty, while old man Wes stood behind Jack, skillfully massaging his tense shoulders.

As Carl approached, he heard old Vieira's hoarse voice analyzing Razor Hughes's physical structure:
"A full-body carbon fiber skeleton, titanium alloy joints, a hydraulic transmission system, plus nanoscale bionic skin and impact cushioning devices. To be honest, that guy is practically a walking tank. Even if you swing a spiked club at his head, he won't even blink."

"That sounds pretty scary, Old Wei."

Oliver, leaning against the wall, said, "Are you trying to demoralize us? Jack hasn't even played yet, and you're already saying how strong the other team is."

"It's better than stupidly rushing up and punching someone, only to break your own hand while they just shake their head slightly."

Old Vieira continued massaging Jack's shoulders with a light touch. He hadn't said all this to explain how strong Razor Hughes was, but rather to prepare for what he was about to say:
"But I am a prosthetic doctor after all. I found out a little bit of information from my colleagues. That guy just had his abdominal prosthetic replaced last week, and the nerve conduction at the junction is definitely not fully synchronized yet. The fatal weakness of the three-time heavyweight champion is hidden under his shiny six-pack abs. If you hit there, I guarantee he will be begging for mercy on his knees."

"Don't worry, it's all written down here."

Jack lightly punched his temple, revealing his signature grin. At that moment, Carl rushed over and patted Jack's muscular back with a mysterious expression.

“Hey, big star, guess what I just saw outside?” Carl deliberately dragged out his words, and before Jack could answer, he couldn’t wait to reveal the answer: “The NCPDs outside are all eagerly waiting to make a fortune off you.”

"They're all waiting for me to lead them to wealth."

Jack was taken aback by Carl's words at first. After all, he was a boxing enthusiast who had been involved in boxing for many years. The next moment, he understood what Carl meant: "Ha, it seems I have quite a reputation."

Is that so?

Oliver said strangely, "No wonder I heard people arguing about odds and such outside just now."

He scratched his head in frustration: "I should have gone and seen if I could place a bet." As he spoke, he actually started reaching into his pocket, as if it was still not too late to place a bet.

This deliberate display in front of Jack was immediately seen through by T-BUG, who was standing nearby with her arms crossed. She complained, "That's so clumsy. That's not how you encourage someone."

Oliver chuckled, then suddenly became serious. "I've heard from those old coaches that a true boxing champion's muscles feel like the most expensive sex doll in Night City—soft yet bursting with power." He carefully poked Jack's taut biceps. "But our guy's as hard as concrete right now, someone has to loosen him up, doesn't he?"

Of the team, Oliver was clearly the one who loved to joke around the most. While everyone else was preparing for the intense battle for Jack, Oliver had to use his personality to help Jack relax and not be too nervous.

"I don't know if there's any loosening, but the way you put it, I do feel a bit more relaxed."

Jack, giving Oliver face, said, "When I take Razor Hughes down, I'll definitely remember your weird comparison of a boxing champion to a sex partner."

Just as Jack finished speaking, a short ringing sound came from outside.

"It looks like it's telling me I can go on."

Jack nodded to Old Vieux, then stood up and stretched. It has to be said that Old Vieux was a boxer in the past, and later switched to the profession of prosthetic doctor, which has an extremely deep understanding of the human body. Under his massage, Jack felt better than ever before and felt incredibly comfortable.

Seeing Jack get up, V also picked up a white towel. The tradition of throwing a white towel originated from a boxing match in the 18th century. A coach, during a match on the ground, realized that his student was no match for another boxer in the ring, so he placed a handkerchief on the wooden railing next to the ring to signify surrender. From then on, the tradition of throwing a white towel meant surrender.

In a formal match, throwing a white towel might be rejected by the referee, but in this kind of match, as long as one side displays a white towel, it means the outcome is decided. V and Jack don't have a coach, and in every match, they each hold a white towel for the other, but so far they haven't had to use it.

"I will personally throw the white towel into the arms of the opposing coach so that he can use it if he is unprepared."

V's words made Jack grin: "Then I'll trouble you. Make sure you throw it well, don't let him not even have a chance to grab the white towel before I take down his disciple."

The moment Jack pushed open the iron door to the lounge, the entire mall's lighting system suddenly went out, and the breaths of thousands of people condensed into a hazy white mist in the darkness.

“Ladies and gentlemen!!”

The spotlight suddenly blasted through the darkness like a cannonball, and the hoarse roar of the hired commentator pierced through the sudden explosion of sound.

The dust floating in the spotlight beams, like a startled swarm of bees, illuminated the referee unbuttoning his suit by the octagonal cage—his gold cufflinks flashing like an alarm in the bright light.

"Next up is—" the commentator deliberately dragged out the last syllable, his voice trembling from the stomping of the audience, "Three-time heavyweight champion, the human meat grinder, Razor Hughes!!"

Suddenly, a cylindrical waterfall of light cascaded down from the center of the arena, and a giant with dark brown skin emerged from the backlight. The audience in the front row leaned back at a 15-degree angle in unison. His granite-like deltoids gleamed with oil, and each step he took caused the ring springs to groan under the strain.

As the champion raised his right hand, clad in a green boxing glove, the spotlight illuminated the centipede-like old scars on his arm—souvenirs left by his opponent's teeth during last year's title defense.

"Razor!" "Let him experience a hellish left hook!" "I've staked everything on you!" Amidst the shouts, a woman's voice suddenly shrieked: "Tear that Haywood kid to shreds!"

The champion turned to the surrounding sound sources and smiled, his face filled with a fierce expression.

After the cheers subsided slightly, the commentator suddenly sped up his speech: "On the other side—" The lights flickered eerily twice, "Jack Wells from Haywood!" The last name was drowned out by another burst of cheers. Under everyone's gaze, Jack walked steadily step by step and stood in front of the champion, Razor Hughes.

Even though Jack's size was already quite large compared to the average person, he still appeared a head shorter than Razor Hughes when standing in front of him. However, Jack's demeanor showed no fear whatsoever. His eyes were sharp as knives as he stared directly into Razor Hughes's provocative gaze.

The noise of the arena seemed to vanish at that moment, leaving only a tense silence between the two. Jack slowly raised his fist, touched his boxing gloves, and the movement was crisp and clean, without the slightest hesitation. His muscle lines were particularly clear under the spotlight. Although not as exaggerated as Hughes's, they contained explosive power, like a cheetah ready to pounce.

Hughes grinned, revealing a row of gleaming white teeth, and deliberately leaned closer, growling in a voice only Jack could hear: "Heywood's buddy, don't cry later."

Jack didn't take a step back, but simply raised his chin slightly and curled a cold smile at the corner of his mouth: "I hope your fists are harder than your nonsense."

The audience erupted instantly. Some whistled, some screamed, and many more chanted the names of the two fighters. The commentator's voice rang out at the opportune moment, stirring up the atmosphere: "It seems the tension has reached its peak! Neither fighter is willing to give an inch; tonight's ring is destined to be bloody!"

The referee stepped forward and routinely read out the rules, but everyone's attention was focused on the stares between the two boxers—the hostility in their eyes was almost palpable. When the referee signaled for them to touch fists, Hughes deliberately slammed into Jack's glove with a thud, as if announcing the official start of the fight.

Jack withdrew his hand, flicked his wrist, his eyes remaining calm. He knew that the real contest had only just begun.

(End of this chapter)