"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Two seconds. That's all it took. Three hard punches later, one man backed off. The crowd at Sao Fort Stadium erupted the moment they saw who it was—Iron Mike Tyson stepped back.
Zhao Dong, stuck deep in the corner of the ring, had nowhere to retreat. So it wasn't him. Tyson gave ground.
"Ohhh!" The crowd roared. The undefeated beast, Tyson, got shook.
He moved back to the center of the ring instead of going in with his usual straight-hook combos. Why? Simple. Zhao Dong's punch, clocking in at over 600 pounds—even though it didn't fully connect—left him dizzy. He needed a moment to recover.
"What the hell? Why is this guy's punch stronger than Foreman's?" Tyson cursed in his head. He couldn't make sense of it, but one thing was clear—if he ate another couple like that, he was done. He had to play it smart now.
"Iron Mike's left eyebrow is swollen and he's got a cut on the corner of his mouth—he's bleeding!" shouted Kevin, his voice booming from the ESPN booth.
"Zhao Dong's nose is also bleeding. Left side of his mouth is puffed up, and he took a hit to the right brow! He's bleeding too!" Teddy added with a feverish grin.
From the VIP section, Karl Malone stood up, yelling over the media heads, "Let's go, Tyson! Smash him!"
"Get his ass!" roared Jordan beside him.
Zhao Dong, seeing Tyson back up, banged his chest with both fists and waved him forward.
"Whoa! Zhao Dong's not even leaving the corner. He's taunting Tyson! Man's straight-up challenging the world champ. Is he insane?" Kevin blurted.
"But Tyson's not winning this exchange," Teddy snapped back.
"Ouuuugh!" Tyson grunted, low and guttural like a pissed-off animal, then stumbled forward again.
Same old play—jab to bait, fake to shake, draw out a counter, then strike. That's Tyson's bread and butter.
But Zhao Dong wasn't playing along.
No guard. No defense. Just standing there with that calm, crazy look.
That wasn't just guts—that was the biggest disrespect Tyson had ever seen. And it lit him up.
"Grahhh!" Tyson growled. The man was seeing red now, instincts fully taking over.
He stormed in, launching bombs.
Exactly what Zhao Dong wanted.
If Tyson stayed calculated, using footwork and feints, Zhao Dong would get exposed. His skill just wasn't there yet. He'd get picked apart. But if Tyson went wild?
That's where Zhao Dong lived.
He was built for war, not chess. Body tougher than iron, gas tank for days—he could take the hits and keep swinging.
He wanted a slugfest. That way, it was a battle of survival. And he bet everything that he'd be the last man standing.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Down in that tight corner, it got violent. No dancing, no slipping—just fists and willpower.
Tyson's combos were smoother, quicker. He hit more. But Zhao Dong's fists carried raw power—every one of them felt like a car crash.
The fans were frozen, mouths open.
Five seconds later, Tyson staggered back again.
Four solid hits landed, including a clean one on the chin. A gash tore open—blood poured like a faucet. Another slice opened on his cheek. Half his face was a red mess, blood trailing down to his chest.
Not even Iron Mike Tyson could eat shots like that forever. His balance was off. That chin shot rattled his cerebellum.
He needed to reset.
Meanwhile, Zhao Dong? He took seven punches. His face looked like it went through a blender—right brow cut open, chin bruised, blood dripping.
But he was still standing tall.
Not even dizzy.
Tyson's bombs couldn't phase him like his punches phased Tyson. He was still working with nearly full power—at least 98%.
Zhao Dong was learning just how scary his durability really was.
This time, when Tyson stepped back, Zhao Dong didn't give him the space. He lunged forward, pressure rising.
Tyson had been the aggressor the whole match—until now.
"AHHH!" The crowd finally snapped out of the trance. Deafening cheers rained down.
This wasn't just for Tyson anymore. They were hyped for both men.
"YEAH! YEAH!" Lindsay jumped up in the VIP seats, clapping and cheering wildly.
Her bodyguards exchanged glances. The Lindsay they knew—the cold, untouchable boss? This wasn't her. She was glowing like a kid at a concert.
"Zhao Dong just did it again! He pushed back Iron Mike a second time!" Kevin shouted.
"He's not just holding his own anymore—he's leading the charge now!" Teddy fired back like a machine gun.
Zhao Dong kept coming. No fear. No chill. He marched after Tyson, beating his chest like a lion staking its territory.
The low growl in his throat echoed over the ring.
A lion challenging another lion.
The ref glanced over but said nothing.
If this were an amateur bout, he might've given Zhao Dong a warning for provoking. But this? This was war.
People always said Tyson was a beast—just attack, attack, and attack once he stepped into the ring. But that wasn't the full truth.
His first punch was more of a feeler, a warning shot. He didn't take it too seriously. But after Zhao Dong's second blow landed, he knew—this dude wasn't some sideshow attraction. He had serious, knockout-level power. If he wasn't careful, he might actually get slept by this Chinese guy who just disrespected him in front of everyone.
He knew clearly—this kind of power didn't lead to a technical knockout. It was KO or nothing.
From his corner, coach Minks started yelling, voice sharp and urgent: "Mike! Circle him! Don't get tangled up, don't go toe-to-toe! Keep your distance, use the straight and hook combo! His footwork's sloppy—don't let him near you!"
For the next ten seconds, Tyson followed orders. He began controlling the space, staying just far enough to make Zhao Dong chase. And true enough, Zhao Dong's footwork wasn't tight enough to close the distance fast. Whenever he did get close, Tyson slipped out like a shadow.
This shift in style frustrated Tyson's fans. They weren't used to this version of him. The Iron Mike they loved was the wild brawler, charging forward like a tank, swinging death from both hands.
"Booooo!"
Soford Arena erupted with boos. More and more joined in, showing their disappointment.
Tyson heard it. All of it. But he didn't care. He couldn't afford to lose—not to some amateur boxer or, worse, a basketball player. A loss like that would end him. No promoter would put him in the ring again, and no top fighter would risk their rep on him. So he stayed cautious.
"I wonder if the Tyson that bit Holyfield last year would be losing his damn mind watching this one just dodge all fight long?" Kevin joked on the ESPN broadcast.
"Wanna bet?" Teddy chuckled. "There's gonna be some hugging soon. The only question is—who's gonna hug first?"
"I'll be real," Kevin chimed in, "I didn't think Zhao Dong's punches would put Tyson in this kind of spot."
"What shocks me more," said Teddy, "is that Zhao Dong's eating way more shots, but it's like his chin's made of titanium."
"Right?" Kevin grinned. "That's why he's got another nickname."
"Iron Man?" Teddy laughed. "Yeah—he's the real Iron Man."
By now, the round had hit the one-minute mark. Tyson had been seriously fighting for maybe 20 seconds.
Zhao Dong, for all his size and strength, didn't have the footwork of a seasoned pro. He didn't have the experience to match a world champ like Tyson. On the basketball court, he could use that explosive first step to snatch the ball before his man reacted. But in the ring? As soon as he got close, Tyson would sidestep, and Zhao Dong would lose the angle again.
"Booooo!"
The booing got louder, echoing through the arena like a storm. Nobody wanted to see a defensive Tyson. They wanted the monster back.
And in contrast—every time Zhao Dong moved forward, every time he lunged in, every time he threw a punch—the crowd roared. Applause. Shouts. Whistles. They loved the challenger.
Bang bang!
After Tyson slipped away again, Zhao Dong pounded his own head twice, stared him down, and shook his head, pointing to his face—Hit me right here!
"Ooooh!"
The whole arena exploded.
"Asshole!" Tyson's eyes went blood-red.
That cocky, disrespectful gesture was like a knife to the heart. It cut deep. His pride, his rage—everything boiled over. The beast inside Tyson ripped through the surface.
He charged, launching a savage punch.
Zhao Dong didn't back down, not for a second. He didn't even try to block. As Tyson closed the gap, Zhao Dong fired off a brutal hook combo.
Why hooks?
Because unlike straight punches or haymakers, hooks were faster. They didn't need as much setup. If one missed, he could still throw another without missing a beat. Straight punches left you wide open. Hooks? Hooks let him tap into his raw core strength and go berserk.
"Third attack!" Kevin shouted on ESPN.
Bang bang!
The crowd heard it—a vicious exchange of fists echoing like thunder.
Tyson's left uppercut smashed into Zhao Dong's right cheek.
Zhao Dong countered with a left hook to Tyson's cheekbone. Both missed their follow-ups.
Tyson twisted, whipping another left uppercut straight into Zhao Dong's chin.
Tyson's technique was sharper, smoother—his combos linked like clockwork. That's what combos were all about. You didn't give the opponent time to breathe. Just kept pounding until their defense shattered.
But Zhao Dong's durability was next level. He didn't stagger. His combos came out just as fast.
Tyson threw a left uppercut.
Zhao Dong—same move, same time.
Bang!
Bang!
Two fists cracked two jaws.
Both heads snapped back. Blood and spit sprayed from both men's mouths.
Zhao Dong stumbled back two steps.
That uppercut finally broke skin—his jaw split open, blood running down his neck. But he didn't wobble. His balance held. He shook it off and charged again.
BOOM!
Tyson's whole world spun. His head rang like a bell. His vision twisted. He tried to step back—one, two, three—but couldn't steady himself.
With a loud crash, he hit the canvas.
"YEAHHHHH!!" Lindsay screamed.
"ROAAAR!!"
Zhao Dong's team—Charles Oakley, and Shawn Kemp—lost their minds, jumping and roaring from their seats.
"Ohhhhhh!" Kevin shouted as the whole arena stood, eyes wide.
Iron Mike Tyson had just been knocked down again.
...
The Mailman and Jordan stared at the fallen Tyson, dumbfounded.
"Stop!" the referee yelled, rushing between the two fighters, waving his arms. "Break!"
He motioned Zhao Dong to step back to the neutral corner.
"GO! GO!"
Zhao Dong backed off, adrenaline surging through his veins. He turned to the crowd and roared, pounding the ring ropes with both fists, letting out all that explosive energy.
"AHHH!"
The response was deafening. The arena exploded in cheers — louder than anything since the bell rang.
"I can't believe what I'm seeing! Zhao Dong just dropped the Iron Mike himself — Tyson is down! He went straight at him and floored him! Eighty-five seconds into the first round!" ESPN commentator Teddy Atlas shouted, voice cracking with disbelief.
"Iron Mike just got ironed out! Zhao Dong ate a punch, stayed on his feet, and countered with a bomb that rocked Tyson! That was a damn home run!" Kevin Harlan yelled, barely keeping it together.
"One... two..."
On the canvas, the ref counted over Tyson's body.
Tyson's chin was a complete mess. The gash that had opened earlier was torn wide again from the impact — a brutal four-centimeter tear. Flesh split open, jawbone exposed.
He didn't try to get up immediately. Instead, he focused on breathing — big, deep breaths, chest pumping like an engine, forcing oxygen into his brain to clear the fog.
Per the rules, if a fighter gets up before the three-second mark after a legal knockdown, the attacker earns just one point. After three seconds, it's two.
Tyson didn't beat the three-second mark.
Zhao Dong earned two points with that knockdown. But without a KO or TKO, those points wouldn't mean much — Tyson had landed more hits overall and was still ahead in the round.
Unless...
Unless Zhao Dong could knock Tyson down again in the same round.
Two knockdowns in a round meant the lowest possible score for the opponent would be 6, with a 10:6 minimum for the round, no matter how many punches they landed.
"Stand up, Mike! You're the strongest! Get up!" Tyson's corner screamed from ringside.
"Six... seven..."
At the count of seven, Tyson got to his feet.
The match didn't restart right away. The ref checked Tyson's condition first. If cleared, his assistant would enter the ring for wound treatment, and the ring had to be cleaned.
Ten seconds later, the ref gave the go-ahead.
Tyson's assistant climbed into the ring with Vaseline, quickly packing the chin wound to stop the bleeding, smearing his face with more to slow it down, and wiping off as much blood as possible.
"Mike, listen! Don't trade blows with him! His punches are too damn heavy. He hits like a truck. Use your skills! Don't let him land another clean one — stick and move! Don't go head-to-head!" Tyson's coach barked instructions.
On the other side, Coach John shouted toward Zhao Dong, "End it! Finish it! Don't let him breathe! React fast and knock him out before he recovers!"
Zhao Dong gave a quick nod.
But in reality, landing a clean hit on Tyson wasn't easy. The guy kept bobbing and weaving, and the Vaseline made his face slippery as hell. Zhao Dong wasn't a technical boxer either, which didn't help.
"Let's go!"
The ref hurried Tyson's assistant, then waved him off the ring. He called both fighters to the center, checked their gloves and mouthguards.
"Box!"
The fight resumed.
One minute and thirty-five seconds had passed in the round — 50 seconds since the knockdown. Only 45 seconds remained.
Zhao Dong exploded forward, using Hill's quick first step. He covered the distance fast, stepped into range, and threw two wide hooks — one from each side.
"Hoo! Hoo!"
Tyson ducked just in time. Zhao Dong's swings cut through air.
Tyson rose, pivoted inside, and got right in Zhao Dong's face.
Exactly what Zhao Dong wanted.
He had used those wide swings to herd Tyson into close range, cut off his angles.
"Bang!"
Tyson twisted and ripped a brutal right uppercut into Zhao Dong's chin. His head snapped back.
"Bang!"
A left uppercut followed immediately, cracking into the same spot. Blood poured down Zhao Dong's chin.
But he didn't go down.
Instead, Zhao Dong twisted his hips and launched a monster right hook to Tyson's midsection.
"Boom!"
It smashed into Tyson's ribs and abdomen. Tyson let out a grunt and stumbled back.
Too bad it wasn't accurate — the liver shot missed, or Tyson might've gone down again. Still, the 600-pound force behind the punch rocked him.
Tyson shook it off and charged forward.
Zhao Dong fired off a barrage of uppercuts.
But Tyson slipped — literally. He slid off to Zhao Dong's left side and circled around.
"Back off!" Coach John shouted.
Too late.
Tyson launched his counterattack from the side.
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