Cyberpunk: 2075.

Chapter 650, Section 64. Obtained

"The champion this time is—Jack! Victory and prize money belong to him!"

The host's high-pitched roar continued, but Jack had already been lifted up by Oliver and V, who had flipped him onto the ring. Sweat rolled down his taut biceps under the spotlight.

He nodded to the roaring crowd, his smile flickering in the mall lights, before finally fixing his gaze on the corner of the ring—Razor Hughes was trying to get up, his broken jaw crooked like a misaligned gear, but his bloodshot eyes were still like quenched knives.

“This isn’t over, Jack,” Hughes spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, hissing through his throat like a leaky blower. “I’ll be back. This isn’t the fucking end.”

Jack crouched down, his leather boxing gloves brushing against Hughes's cracked brow bone.

He recalled how his opponent could have landed a follow-up punch while he was dazed in the second round, but instead withdrew his fist. He remembered how the uppercut that almost made him faint had come straight at him from the front. This reminded him of an old saying in Night City boxing.

If you want to make real friends, go to the ring and get real punches.

“I’m always here.” Jack pulled off his boxing gloves, revealing his palm. “I’ll save you a VIP seat next time, buddy.” He blinked his sweat-blurred left eye. “But first, the prosthetic doctor will have to put a titanium chin on you.”

A few scattered chuckles came from below the stage. As the medical team rushed up with the stretcher, Hughes suddenly grabbed Jack's wrist. The metal knuckles embedded in the flesh were burning hot, like a red-hot branding iron.

"I bet five thousand euros." Hughes grinned, blood seeping from between his teeth, but his expression remained defiant. "Next time, I'll break three of your ribs."

Jack gripped the trembling fist tightly with his other hand, as if making some silent pact. Hughes's palms were burning hot, and the metal inlays on his knuckles were painfully digging into them, but Jack didn't loosen his grip. Instead, he grinned and said, "Deal."

The medical team's fluorescent green uniforms swayed by the ring as they hurriedly lifted Hughes onto a stretcher. Before leaving, Hughes gave Jack the middle finger. Although his movements were slightly slowed by pain, his momentum remained undiminished. Jack simply smiled and waved his boxing gloves, watching his stubborn opponent being taken into the emergency room.

“That’s a good opponent, isn’t it, Jack?” Carl climbed onto the ring and handed him a wet towel.

Jack took the towel and vigorously wiped his face, sweat mixed with blood leaving faint red marks on his skin. "Of course," he breathed, his eyes gradually darkening, "but I may have slightly ruined this friend's 'financial future'."

"How so?" Karl raised an eyebrow.

Jack nodded seriously, his gaze sweeping over the brand representatives in suits in the audience—who might have been staring at Hughes, but now their eyes were elsewhere.

“After this loss, I guess those brands that were originally interested in hiring him as a spokesperson will have to reconsider.” He paused. “Night City’s sponsors only recognize the champion. The runner-up? They can’t even get on the billboards, even if they are the boxing champion.”

Oliver whistled beside him, "Cruel."

“It’s just reality.” Jack cracked his neck, his joints making a soft popping sound. He looked toward the emergency exit and suddenly laughed. “But if that guy really cared about the endorsement fee, he should have just lay down and pretended to be dead, instead of getting up and asking me to play the game again.”

"On the bright side, I made a new friend today." V ​​also looked at the spot where Razor Hughes had been carried off: "I'd like to practice with him later."

As Razor Hughes' coach angrily threw down his towel and headed backstage, the outcome of the match between the street champion and the boxing champion was decided.

Jack surprisingly defeated Razor Hughes, and as a reward, he will receive the title of Night City Champion.
"Just thirty thousand euros?"

When Oliver learned that V and Jack had fought tooth and nail throughout the Night City boxing world and even defeated the champion, he was a little overwhelmed by the fact that Jack's championship prize money was only 30,000 euros.

"You've worked so hard for so many days, getting all injured, going to your deaths like a boxing tank, even having your own people fight each other, and in the end you only got this little bit of money? Are you kidding me? I think those who placed bets bet more than this amount of money."

"This was originally an exhibition match to help Razor Hughes get back to his starting point, so giving him 30,000 euros is already quite generous." Old Wei leaned against the ropes with his arms crossed. As Jack dragged himself off the ring, he reached out and patted his sweaty shoulder: "Well done, kid. That last uppercut had a lot of my style back in the day."

“After all, I have a coach that Razor can never afford.” Jack grinned, and blood immediately seeped from the scab at the corner of his mouth. He casually wiped it with the back of his hand, his knuckles glistening with blood under the overhead light.

Old Wei snorted and laughed, tossing over an ice towel: "Next time you let your opponent land another hook on you, I'll weld a shock-absorbing steel plate into your skull—remember when we first met? You little brat took down this old man with just two punches. You shouldn't have taken that kind of punch back then."

“I really don’t understand you guys.” T-BUG’s voice came as she led Misty and Mrs. Wells through the crowd, her gaze sweeping over Jack’s bruised and battered cheekbones. “You were beaten like a synthetic steak that’s been run over by a garbage truck, and the reward isn’t even enough to buy a new set of subcutaneous armor.”

“Hey! This is different, girl.” Jack pressed an ice towel to his swollen lip, then turned to Mrs. Wells, who was rummaging through her medical kit, and his tone suddenly changed. “Mom, can you make that corn chowder today?” He mumbled, licking his front teeth with his tongue. “Looks like one of my molars is loose. Oh, and I need shredded cheese.”

Mrs. Wells suddenly grabbed his chin with such force that it reminded Jack of the fear he had when he was a child and had his teeth checked for cavities.

“The third implant is crooked too,” she sighed, her voice filled with helplessness. “I always feel like I shouldn’t say anything to you, but every time you look like this, I feel like I shouldn’t stay silent.”

No mother would be happy to see her son with a bruised and swollen face, even if he had won a victory.

Misty took out a bunch of sage and stuffed it into Jack's bloodstained boxing gloves: "Every boxer in Night City should have a voodoo doll in their locker room—when you took that punch, Old V was so worried he almost wanted to punch you himself."

"You can't say things like that, Misty. My old bones can't take that kind of strain."

As Jack's friends and family escorted him slowly toward the mall exit, people readily made way for them.

A reward of 30,000 euros is nothing.

The true reward for this match has already been received, as seen in the eyes of the people involved.

(End of this chapter)