Boxing Stories Novels & Stories

His movements were disciplined, each punch thrown with enough power to break a man’s ribs. Walter stood a few feet away, his face a stoic as he checked the digital stopwatch in his palm. "Round five, sir." Damien didn't answer. He didn't even slow down. He drove his left hand into the leather bag, the apparatus swinging against its steel chains. Most men boxed to release their anger or escape their demons. Damien boxed for the exact opposite reason. He did it to regain control over every muscle, every instinct, and every unstable thought in his body.

After Zhou Bo stepped onto the ring, there was a hint of unconcealed contempt in his eyes. He didn't care even Samuel had defeated all the boxers, because he could do it with ease. These boxers in the boxing field were all from wild backgrounds. Except for being stronger than ordinary people, they didn't have any powerful skills. They were just a set of moves for the audience to see. They didn't have any practical combat ability. It was not a big deal to knock down these good-for-nothings.

That move had a name: Five Mountains into the Heaven. Bancha looked very disdainful, thinking that the idiot was so easily provoked. He had been practicing Muay Thai at a young age. He didn't fear any direct fist collision because there were no fists tougher than his in this world. Lei Bao was a tall guy with long arm reach, which made him very difficult to be avoided. Therefore, Baocha provoked Lei Bao, hoping he could get rid of the big guy within on punch. However, he didn't know that Eight Extremes Boxing was also known for its resistance and roughness. It was even more violent than Muay Thai.

He was related to Jason after all. Another photograph showed Derek mid-suplex, his opponent's body bent at an impossible angle. Yet another showed Derek standing over fallen bodies, his arms raised, blood streaking his cheek like war paint. A boxing ring dominated the center of the room, ropes taut, canvas spotless. Heavy punching bags hung in a row like silent soldiers. Speed bags, medicine balls, racks of dumbbells that looked too heavy for mortals. This part of the gym threatened to bring back bad memories, but I forced it down and moved on.

Richard's POV: Friday night arrived, and I was at the boxing center, getting ready to support my friend, Morgan Kingston, as he was preparing for the boxing match against the next opponent. Morgan was standing in the changing room, wearing his safety gear. His mouthguard to protect his teeth, gums, and jaw from impact. His headgear for protection of his head and face from punches and potential cuts or injuries (often used in amateur or sparring situations). He also wore padded gloves to protect both his hands and their opponent's face from injury. His hand wraps were for support and protecting his hands and wrists from sprains or fractures. Finally, he had his cup, which was a protective gea

My old equipment lay precisely where I had left it, infused with a sense of nostalgia. I carefully wrapped my hands, a ritualistic process familiar to any boxer. The wrap circled my wrists for support, weaved through my fingers, and covered my knuckles, creating a protective layer. Each methodical twist and turn of the fabric offered a comforting sense of routine, grounding me in a familiar practice. Approaching the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling, I began to throw light punches, mindful of Fisher's warnings and my own physical limitations.

"To wear her out until she's used up most of her strength and explore her weakness. I hope you can take a punch, wolf because that is all you're going to do when that fight starts." My heart skipped a beat when I heard him. I had been expecting him to teach me how to fight, to win against Gladys but all he seemed to do was train me on how to survive. It was something that I hadn't expected but I was willing to learn anything at this point. When I had done skipping the rope fifty times, Bodhi finally directed me to a boxing sandbag and taught me how to punch. "Alright, now it's time to learn how to punch," he said, positioning the sandbag in front of me.

And didn't argue. After the stillness of the weight room, the boxing area felt louder. The heavy bags hung still on their hooks, sweat stains on the floor, gloves and wraps arranged in near-military order. Posters of Lennox's past fights lined the walls: blurred moments, blood and victory, a steel gaze and a falling mouthguard. Now there was silence. Only the hum of the ventilation and the soft thud of footsteps. Lennox walked to his favorite bag—the old-school, worn black leather one. Sturdy. Responsive. Every punch he threw into it gave something back. You couldn't just wail on this bag. It pushed back.

I whispered to myself, shutting my eyes close. Flashback "Hit me," William challenged, raising both of his palms in front of me. The black boxing pads covered his large hands as I fixed my gym gloves. I braced myself to a boxing position, putting both my clenched hands beside my face. When I pushed my right fist forward in an attempt to attack, William hit my fist away and smacked my face with the boxing pad. I shook my head, ignoring the slight pain and extended my other fist forcefully. But it didn't land on his face, it was just simply slapped away and my face received another strike.