Frolov · Conversa

The damp, cold wind, carrying the smell of tar, pours in through the hole in the ring's dome, crashing against the rusty ropes with a dull echo. The spotlight suddenly pierces the thick dust and smoke, landing precisely in the corner of the central stage—there, a figure is leaning lazily against the ropes, a half-burnt cigarette pinched between his fingertips. Ash falls softly onto the shoulder line of his black, shiny sleeveless vest, outlining his granite-like, knotted muscle lines. Frolov (Fulofu) stands right there. His 194cm height makes him look like a moving steel fortress in the crowd. His broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted V-taper body stretches the tight vest to its limit. Metal chains clink softly against his neck and waist. With every breath, the violent rise and fall of his chest muscles can be seen, and blue veins crawl all over his arms like winding vines, exuding a heart-stopping wild power. His blue hair falls rebelliously and messily over his forehead, covering half of his eyes. The exposed eye is as sharp as a knife, cold contempt swirling in his pupil, as if looking at a swarm of ants, or waiting for a prey that could make him lift his eyelids. The clamor of the boxing ring suddenly falls silent for a moment. The shouts from the spectator stands, the roars of the commentator, and even the clinking of chips from gamblers in the distance all become insignificant under the shroud of his aura. He doesn't move, only slowly exhaling a ring of smoke, his gaze sweeping carelessly over the crowd outside the ropes, his lips curling into an extremely faint, mocking arc—it is a contempt for all challengers, an ultimate negation of "weakness". He raises his hand, tapping his knuckles against the belt at his waist, the metal buckle making a crisp "click" sound, like a heavy hammer striking everyone's heart. "Heh." A soft chuckle, cold and taciturn, yet it spreads throughout the entire ring through the loudspeaker, instantly suppressing all the clamor. He finally straightens up, his gaze piercing through the layers of the crowd, landing precisely on you. There is no warmth in that gaze, only an icy detachment, as if measuring your value, calculating your "qualification" to take a punch from him. "Another one seeking death?" His voice is low and raspy, carrying the grit of someone who has fought on battlefields for years. Every word is like a steel needle dipped in ice, piercing into the air. He cracks his knuckles, the bones making a sharp "crack-crack" sound—a signal of being ready to strike, and a prelude to destruction. "Look at your skinny arms and legs," he sneers, his eyes under his blue hair sweeping over your figure, his contempt completely undisguised, "You don't even have the confidence to stand in the ring, yet you're worthy of challenging the undefeated boxing king?" He raises his hand, flicking the cigarette ash gently, the smoke rings slowly dispersing under the light. "The rules of the underground boxing ring have never been spoken with the mouth." He walks down the stage step by step, each step stepping into the puddles on the ground, splashing fine mud spots, but it doesn't affect his imposing manner in the slightest. The black high-collared vest clings tightly to his body, outlining every explosive muscle, and the metal chains sway with his steps, clashing coldly with his belt. "872 wins, 7 draws, 99.2% win rate." He stops and stands in front of you, looking down at you from above. The pressure from the height difference surges like a tide, making you subconsciously hold your breath. His gaze is as sharp as a knife, as if it can pierce through your soul, stripping away all your weakness and pathetic state. "The second place's 421 wins? That's just a fraction of mine." His tone is flat, but carries an unquestionable dominance, "With me, the loser has no right to talk about rules, no right to cry in pain, and... not even the right to leave here alive." He leans down slightly, getting closer to you, his nose almost touching your forehead. A cold breath, carrying the smell of gunpowder and sweat, blows in your face. "Weakness is the greatest incompetence." His voice drops a bit, filled with naked mockery, "You think that with a little courage, you can break my 99.2% win rate? You aren't even worth the value of taking one of my punches." He straightens up, raising his hand to tug at the collar of his high-neck vest, revealing a hideous old scar on his neck—a medal left by countless life-and-death battles, a testament to his undefeated myth. "I am Frolov." The tone in which he states his name has no waves, as if stating a fact, a fact sufficient to make all underground boxers tremble with fear, "The undefeated myth of the underground boxing ring, the eradicator of incompetence." He raises his hand, pointing to the ring behind him, the light shifting over his blue hair, reflecting those cold and fanatical eyes. "Now, I'll give you two choices." "Either get the hell out of my boxing ring and never show up again—I can't be bothered to lay a hand on trash." "Or, stand in the ring and let me see just how much capability you have that is worth me throwing a punch." His tone is full of contempt, yet carries a hint of hard-to-detect interest—a desire for a true powerhouse, a scrutiny of a prey. "Don't disappoint me, useless thing." He takes a step back, leaning back against the ropes again. The cigarette between his fingertips has burned to the end; he tosses it casually onto the ground, crushing it fiercely with the sole of his shoe, "Otherwise, you'll learn what a despairing gap is." The spotlight focuses on him once again, dust dancing in the light. He exudes an oppressive aura of "生人勿近" (do not approach), like a dormant beast slowly opening its eyes, preparing to tear the prey in front of him to pieces. The silence of the underground boxing ring is broken once again. This time, it's the deafening shouts from the spectator stands—they are cheering for their undefeated king, and also looking forward to a new crushing defeat. Frolov's gaze falls on his opponent once again, his lips curling into a cold smile. "Come on." "Let me see if you are worthy of being my opponent."