They blew two hours at lunch, and by the time night fell hard, they finally rolled into Philly.
City lights shimmered on the rain-slick streets like a hazy dream.
Milly got on the horn with Apollo's manager right away and pinned down the spot.
"Tomorrow, 10 a.m. sharp at Apollo's gym."
She hung up, rubbed her temples. "He made a point to say his buddy Rocky'll be there too."
Apollo Creed—former heavyweight champ of the world. Rocky Balboa—former heavyweight champ. Tight as brothers.
The crew grabbed a hotel, crashed safe and sound.
Next morning, they hit the gym on the Philly outskirts.
Victor shoved open the heavy soundproof door. The stench of sweat, leather, and bleach slammed into him.
Inside, the thump of fists on heavy bags mixed with ragged breathing.
Apollo Creed was on the ring, sparring with a wiry Black dude.
His moves flowed like water—every punch timed perfect.
Down below, a stocky guy in a gray hoodie watched like a hawk, barking tips now and then. Rocky Balboa, the Italian Stallion himself.
"Hey! You made it!"
Apollo spotted them at the door, hopped off the ring, and came over with a big grin.
Sweat rolled down his chiseled chest, catching the lights.
Rocky ambled up slow, sizing Victor up. Clearly, just like folks said Rocky was too scrawny to be champ, he figured a guy this fat had no business in boxing.
Their eyes locked. Silent showdown, right out the gate.
"Heard you punch at a thousand pounds?" Rocky rumbled, voice low like distant thunder. "Wanna come up and play?"
Victor raised a brow, glanced at Apollo. "I spar for four hundred a round."
Rocky pulled out five crisp hundreds.
Apollo watched, amused. Ethan pocketed the cash without blinking. Victor let out a deep laugh. "Let's do it!"
He shrugged off his black wool coat. The lead weights strapped to his limbs hit the floor with a clang that killed every sound in the gym.
371 pounds of pure muscle and fat stacked on a 6'1" frame—like a war machine carved from granite.
Every inch of skin hid the kind of destructive power that made pros flinch. Victor always trained with 55 pounds of lead on his limbs for strength.
"Jesus, he's a knight in plate armor."
A newbie sparring partner whispered. His buddy elbowed him. "Ten centimeters of fat under those ribs—what's the difference between that and armor?"
Victor ignored the whispers.
He rolled his shoulders—muscles bunched like twin hills, spine cracking like firecrackers.
Those black training gloves—each the size of a normal guy's two fists—tapped once, then he lumbered to the ring. His eight-pack abs peeked through the soaked tank top.
Every sound in the gym died.
Bags stopped swinging. Jump ropes hit the floor. Everyone dropped what they were doing and crowded around.
The air got thick—raw, dangerous, like the calm before a storm.
"Old Jack really sent me a gift! This is gonna be good!"
Apollo rubbed his hands, gold tooth flashing. "I got five hundred says Rocky don't last two rounds."
Rocky laughed. "I'll take him!"
Round one started fast and brutal.
Victor didn't waste a second feeling out. He charged like a tank—legs driving, then a lead right that flashed like lightning at Rocky's face. He kept his old power habit: no tell on the wind-up.
The whistle of the punch made front-row guys lean back.
BOOM!
Crazy thing—this punch could crack concrete, landed clean, and Rocky's head just… wobbled. Like a scarecrow in a breeze.
A few drops of sweat and blood flew from his split lip, arcing under the lights. Unreal!
"Not bad."
Rocky grinned, teeth white. Voice deep from the chest. "But it ain't enough to drop me."
Victor's eyes narrowed.
That shot wasn't full power, but over 600 pounds—and nothing?
No wonder they called him the lock-blood king.
He clocked Rocky's stance—knees turned in, center of gravity sunk low, like an old oak rooted deep.
The next two minutes turned the gym into a collective held breath.
Victor let it all loose—hooks, uppercuts, jabs pouring like a storm.
Every blow carried over a thousand pounds—enough to shatter a normal skull like an eggshell.
But Rocky stood like a hundred-year oak in a hurricane—just swayed, never fell.
"What the hell, is his chin made of titanium?"
Michael's eyes bugged out. His notepad hit the floor.
Ethan, used to wild stuff, just shrugged. "How else did he become champ? Lang beat on him till his arms gave out and never KO'd him!"
As Victor's fake coach, he'd never seen anything like it. He always thought heavy punches solved everything.
When the bell rang for round two, Victor's breathing hitched for the first time.
Not from tired—from something new: confusion.
His eyes scanned Rocky's scarred body: caved ribs, crooked nose, mangled ears—a walking medal case of a boxer's life.
But under those scars, muscle fibers twisted in ways that broke every rule—like steel cables braided tight.
"You tired yet, big man?"
Rocky spat blood, eyes blazing. "My turn."
The next sixty seconds were the longest in Victor's pro career.
Rocky's punches didn't carry Victor's wrecking-ball power, but every one landed perfect: liver, temple, diaphragm.
Worse—they never stopped. Wave after wave, like the ocean smashing rocks.
Victor felt sharp stings in his right ribs—pain from punch after punch.
They weren't heavy—maybe 500 pounds max—but his guard tightened on instinct. Never happened before.
Before round three, Victor caught Apollo's face change.
The always-smiling ex-champ was frowning, eyes darting between them, lips moving like he was calculating nightmare odds.
"Come on, let's end this game."
Victor growled, voice from the depths.
He pulled out his ace—a two-punch combo cloned from pre-fame Tyson.
Chance came at 47 seconds into round three.
Rocky slipped—guard opened just enough. Victor's hook smashed the liver, chin wide open.
His right leg coiled like a spring, then exploded. All his weight and twist poured into the fist, arcing up from below.
CRACK!
Bone-on-bone sounded like a toothache.
Rocky's feet left the canvas three full inches—back of his head nearly touched his own spine.
The gym exploded in gasps. A couple female sparring partners covered their eyes.
But what happened next burned into everyone's memory forever:
Rocky hit the mat, popped back up, shook it off—and smiled bigger, like a kid on Christmas.
Victor damn near freaked.
"What the hell is this guy made of?"
Michael's voice shook. His hand trembled picking up the notepad.
A cold shiver crawled up Victor's spine.
For the first time, he doubted his own power.
Rocky's chin didn't just break human limits—it laughed at physics and anatomy.
"Enough!"
Apollo vaulted into the ring, thick arm between them. "Keep going and somebody's dying. This ain't a real fight, damn it!"
Sweat pooled on the canvas, reflecting two heaving giants.
"Herma! Get over here and check Rocky!!!"
Apollo roared. "I pay you eleven hundred a month, not to flirt with the ring girls!"
But Rocky wiped the blood from his lip, stuck out a calloused hand—scars crisscrossing like war stories.
"Been a long time since I had this much fun, kid."
His voice was rough but warm, like a winter campfire.
Victor grabbed it—felt insane grip strength, not a flex, just steady, real power.
He noticed weird scars on Rocky's knuckles—not boxing cuts. Burn marks?
They locked eyes and grinned. Something bigger than words grew in the blood and sweat—respect.
Victor realized: this "random" spar wasn't to test Rocky. It was to test him.
"Same time next week?"
Victor let go, hearing excitement in his own voice he hadn't felt in years.
Rocky winked his good eye, smile pulling at the cut. "Bring everything you got, Far East Fat Tiger!"
As Victor stepped off the ring, something woke up inside—not fear, not doubt, but pure, raw thrill.
The kind you only get facing a monster—and wanting to bury him in the canvas.
Apollo was waiting at the exit, wearing that I-know-something look.
"Now you get it?"
The ex-champ said soft, tossing him a towel.
Down below, Milly scribbled fast, eyes sharp. "This tournament's gonna be a war."
······
The training room lights were harsh and cold, bouncing off Apollo's sweat-slick skin like metal. Black skin had the edge under fluorescents.
He stood dead center, wrapped fists tapping with a dull thud.
Rocky leaned in the corner, brow furrowed, eyes flicking between Apollo and the crew walking in.
Victor matched Apollo's height but had shoulders like a wall—silent, looming like a mountain.
Miguel was leaner, cut sharp, eyes like a hawk.
Tony walked to the little blackboard in the middle—already plastered with Drago fight stills and stats.
"We're short on time."
He tapped Drago's close-up with a marker. "Ivan Drago—Soviet 'perfect weapon.' Built with drugs and tech. Punch power tested at… 1,850 pounds!"
"What?"
"That's insane!"
Victor's jaw dropped. 1,850 pounds!
That's over 800 kilos!
Rocky whistled. "Lord, that's more than double you, Apollo. Fighting him's suicide!"
Apollo's lip twitched, but he stayed cool.
He stared at Drago's dead eyes in the photo—not human, more like a machine.
"Victor's gonna train your chin with heavy shots."
Tony pointed at the giant. "He's near 1,000 pounds—can't match Drago, but enough to get you used to that level."
Then to Miguel: "You handle footwork. Drago's a monster, but slower—that's our edge."
Victor stayed quiet.
Apollo noticed his knuckles—huge, like they'd been shattered and rebuilt a dozen times. Made his throat tight.
"First live spar this afternoon."
Tony clapped. "Apollo, brace yourself. This'll be harder than anything you've ever done."