Cyberpunk: 2075.

Chapter 646, Section 60: Boxing Match
When Razor Hughes finally stood in front of Jack, Jack finally understood that the violent KO highlights that were repeatedly played in the Mewtwo videos, the exaggerated headlines that the media portrayed him as a "human meat grinder," and even the bloody, ferocious smiles painted on the street posters, were all just two-dimensional projections of this man.

At this moment, what occupied his entire field of vision was a body that was a perfect fusion of technology and professional violence: the carbon fiber skeleton gleamed with a cold light like surgical instruments under the overhead light, like a mechanical skeleton exposed to the air.
The dark brown artificial muscle bundles bulged out of biologically unnatural shapes, each fiber vibrating slightly with the rhythm of breathing, like hydraulic hoses that could burst at any moment.

What's most disturbing is his face—the nanoscale bionic skin perfectly replicates the texture of human skin, but at the brow bone and cheekbone, it is twisted and stretched due to the overdeveloped masseter muscles, turning what should be a smiling expression into the baring teeth of some kind of carnivore.

"Click."

As the razor moved forward, the titanium alloy knee joint made the sound of precise gears meshing, and Jack suddenly realized that the sound was exactly the same as the mechanical sound he had heard last month at some illegal prosthetic clinic when the doctor adjusted the speed of the bone saw.

“I will show you the difference between the street and the professional league.”

With a ferocious expression beneath his muscular face, the boxing bell rang to signal the start of the match between Jack Wells and Razor Hughes.

The moment the bell rang, Jack immediately lowered his center of gravity. The first lesson the streets had taught him was that only those who survived had the right to talk about victory. Faced with Hughes's cannon-like punches, all Jack could do was dodge first, judge his attack method, and then counterattack.

Almost the instant Jack moved, Hughes' left fist struck like lightning. This heavyweight boxer's punch was not only incredibly powerful, but also surprisingly fast, comparable to that of a lightweight boxer. If an ordinary person were to encounter this combination of power and speed, they would likely be knocked out in a single exchange.

However, Jack's low center of gravity ensured that he was not knocked out in the first round. Facing the thunderous punch, Jack turned his head to avoid it. Although his cheek was stinging from the wind of the punch, he successfully dodged Razor Hughes's opening KO punch, which could be considered a decisive blow in heavyweight boxing.

Jack's dodge didn't change Razor Hughes' expression at all. As a champion who had fought his way out of the streets to challenge him, it would be strange if Jack didn't have such skills. Razor Hughes' prosthetic eye flashed, and a series of data appeared.

In this era, boxing is no longer a contest of flesh and will—technology is the true referee in the ring. Razor Hughes was able to win three consecutive championships not only because of his well-trained body, but also because of the military-grade prosthetics implanted in every tendon of his body.

"Speed ​​parameters recorded."

A synthesized electronic voice rang in his mind, while his vocal cords vibrated in sync, producing a hoarse soliloquy.

The prosthetic eye contracted and focused, the edge of the iris glowing with a faint green light, breaking down the subtle tremors of Jack's muscles into a data stream: "Muscle reaction speed, 0.13 seconds."

Despite his origins in the Animals Gang—a group of anti-technology fanatics who glorify primal violence—Razor Hughes has long since etched steel and algorithms into his fighting instincts. His second punch comes faster than a nerve reflex: his right hook tears through the air, his alloy knuckles sparking as they travel along the trajectory of his punch.

But technology can never fully compensate for the shortcomings of biology. His left fist was still inside, the hydraulic joints were still repositioning, and a fatal gap had been exposed beneath his ribs—

Jack lunged forward like a viper, his fist striking upwards toward Hughes's jaw. "Bang!" The shock-absorbing gel beneath the nano-skin instantly dispersed the impact throughout the skull. The mechanically enhanced head merely tilted back slightly, and the bionic skin didn't even crease.

“Impact force 1240 pounds (562.45 kilograms),” Hughes’s voice seemed to be squeezed out from a synthesizer deep in his chest, without even a twitch of his lips, “not enough to trigger my cushioning system.”

The monsters he encountered in the championship fights—those madmen whose bodies were 70% military-grade cybernetic bodies—could shake the ring with a single punch. In comparison, Jack's punches were like a child's shove, not even making him take a step back.

Mercenaries and boxers are ultimately different species.

Jack can't be like a professional fighter who modifies every muscle and nerve into a killing machine solely for throwing punches. His prosthetic body must be able to handle stealth, firearms, and close combat, which inevitably makes his punches seem too 'gentle' in the heavyweight division.

A piercing pain shot through Jack's knuckles; he felt as if he had punched a mountain of steel with his bare hands. He instinctively stepped back, but Hughes clung to him like a ghost—

"boom!"

A textbook straight punch landed on his abdomen, and Jack, at the last second, assumed a cross-shaped defensive stance. The instant his arms crossed, the subcutaneous nano-armor crystallized and hardened, forming a diamond-like protective net under his skin.

However, the impact still surged through his body like a high-voltage electric shock. Jack could feel his arm bones groaning, his muscle fibers feeling like rubber bands stretched to their limit. Even more terrifying, his hands were trembling slightly—a sign of nervous system overload.

The impact of this punch completely exceeded the scope of ergonomics—

Jack's feet left the ground instantly, and he was launched into the air as if struck by a battering ram. His defensive stance was as fragile as paper in the face of absolute power, and his 120-kilogram body was thrown into the air like a rag doll.

A wave of gasps and fear erupted from the stands. Some people instinctively raised their hands to shield their eyes, as if they were about to witness a scene of blood and flesh flying everywhere—in professional boxing matches, this level of knockback usually only occurs in brutal matches between lightweight and super heavyweight fighters.

But Razor Hughes’s very existence is redefining the 'heavyweight' class.

Every gram of his body weight has undergone military-grade modifications: his skeleton is a composite of carbon fiber and titanium alloy, his muscle bundles are woven with hydraulic transmission belts, and even his internal organs are wrapped in shock-absorbing gel. When such a body pours all its kinetic energy into a straight punch, what is produced is no longer a 'strike', but a human cannonball.

Jack's back slammed into the smart shock-absorbing ropes at the edge of the ring, and the nanofibers that could absorb three tons of impact creaked under the strain.

Jack's prosthetic retina instantly displayed seven damage warning lines, the most prominent one flashing blood red: [Hand bone fracture risk 87%]

This is indeed a formidable opponent.

Jack shook his numb hands, a slight smile playing on his lips. The stinging pain from his knuckles crept along his nerves into his brain, but he precisely segmented, analyzed, and filed it—like assessing the trajectory of every bullet in battle.

Razor Hughes remained expressionless, but Jack had already read the arrogance beneath that bionic face. A heavyweight champion should be like that; if he didn't even have that much destructive power, one would suspect that the organizers were throwing the fight.

Being knocked away? That's just a necessary price to pay.

Jack completed the data collection the instant he took off: Hughes' peak punch speed, angle of force, and delay of subsequent connections—all these parameters were jumping on the interface on his retina. Mercenaries are never afraid of being hit; what they fear is the fog of being unable to fight back. Now, that fog has dissipated.

He slowly straightened up, and the subcutaneous armor emitted a faint sound of nano-reassembly, indicating that the probing was over.

This time, Jack chose to take the initiative.

After a feint, he suddenly changed direction, his fist aimed straight for Hughes' abdomen. That was the opening Old V had told him about—a vulnerability left by Razor Hughes' recent prosthetic surgery. Attacking from there would be the most effective way to hurt Razor Hughes. But Hughes seemed to have anticipated this. He easily blocked the punch with his hand and simultaneously threw a swift punch straight for Jack's face, only to have Jack, as if expecting it as well, turn his head to dodge it.

'It wasn't that easy after all.'

Jack wasn't surprised that his sudden change of direction was blocked by Hughes. Hughes had recently undergone surgery, leaving an opening, and Jack was well aware of this, so it was only natural for him to be on guard.

"It seems you have a wide range of information channels."

As the attack suddenly changed direction and headed towards his vital spot, Hughes's eyes gradually became serious. He knew that he would never have been able to block it if he hadn't been prepared.

Razor Hughes had naturally heard of Jack from the KK Squad, but before this, he had never thought that a street mercenary could pose any threat to him in his area of ​​expertise. However, judging from the two encounters, Jack might be a bit more troublesome than he had imagined, and if he was not careful, he might really have a chance to lose.

Hughes struck again, this time with a clear change in strategy. His attacks were more precise, each blow aimed directly at Jack's facial triangle: the bridge of his nose, temples, and jawbone. This was not boxing, but a systematic dismantling.

Jack was forced to retreat continuously, his boots leaving scorch marks on the ring, until his back hit the shock-absorbing ropes, which immediately emitted a humming sound under pressure—this should have been a desperate situation.

Seeing that Jack had nowhere to dodge, Razor Hughes seized the opportunity and threw a punch, but this was exactly the moment Jack had been waiting for.

In the split second before Hughes's powerful punch was about to land, Jack's legs suddenly kicked off the ropes. Those shock-absorbing ropes, capable of absorbing three tons of impact, became the perfect launch device. His body shot forward like an electromagnetic cannonball, his fist leaving a trail of afterimages in the air—

In boxing, it is illegal to use ropes to attack or to use the rebound force of ropes to attack. However, that was the rule in the past. In today's era where even technology has entered the ring, using ropes is never a foul. On the contrary, it is a perfectly normal means of attack.

However, this offensive tactic is rarely seen in the heavyweight division, because heavyweight boxers nowadays often rely on muscles and prosthetics to bombard each other in the ring until they knock their opponent down. This kind of skillful maneuver is simply not suitable for heavyweight boxers. So when Razor Hughes saw Jack using the ropes to bounce back and accelerate towards him, he was somewhat caught off guard.

Jack's fist struck Razor Hughes hard in the chin, the sound of metal shattering was clearly audible, Hughes' head snapped back, his nano-skin ruptured, revealing the carbon fiber skeleton beneath.

"That punch was powerful, wasn't it!"

In the instant that Hughes's brain briefly lost control due to the sudden impact, Jack threw another punch, this time hitting Razor Hughes's vital spot precisely—his abdomen, which had recently undergone prosthetic surgery.

Hughes felt his internal organs tremble under that punch, and a mouthful of blood welled up in his throat.

But before he could spit out the blood, Jack's right fist had already drawn a deadly arc from bottom to top—

"boom!"

The second uppercut landed precisely on Hughes' already damaged jaw joint, causing his prosthetic eye to malfunction and his balance system to completely collapse.

The three-time champion, like a cherry tree felled by an axe, crashed heavily to the ground amidst the deafening gasps of the audience.

"Knockout! It's a knockout!" The commentator's voice was distorted with excitement. "Jack has taken down Championship Razor Hughes!"

The entire venue erupted in cheers.

The gamblers who had bet on Hughes were pale-faced, while those who supported Jack were waving their electronic tickets wildly, their faces beaming with excitement.

Jack stood there, his chest heaving violently. Fragments of Hughes's nano-skin were still stuck to his knuckles, shimmering like mercury under the lights. The referee stepped between them and began a ten-second countdown.

"Is this your limit, champion?" Jack whispered, his voice drowned out by the roar of the crowd as he watched Hughes's trembling prosthetics—the multi-million dollar military-grade implants were smoking, like a dying mechanical beast.

Jack knew the rules. In this age of rampant technological advancement, boxing still retains the oldest dignity: when your opponent falls, you must give him a chance to get back up. This is the difference between a thug and a warrior.

Hughes' prosthetic eye flickered suddenly, his pupil refocused, and he pressed his hands firmly against the ring floor, his hydraulic joints emitting a shrill scream as if on the verge of collapse. Then, amidst the cheers of the crowd, he slowly stood up.

“This is just the beginning,” he said.

At the same moment, the boxing bell was rung.

"Time's up, round one is over. One minute break!"

The referee separated the two players and then got back into position, ready to continue the match.

A round of boxing lasts three minutes, and now that time is up, the two fighters need a one-minute break.

Hearing the familiar chime, Hughes shook his head. In those three minutes with Jack, he had fought so hard that he had forgotten even the time it takes for a round to end, which a boxer should remember as instinctively.

"You are a good opponent."

After leaving Jack with a message, he turned around.

"You too."

Jack said the same thing and turned around, where V had already prepared a towel to wipe his face.

(End of this chapter)