Chapter 123
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 123
Chapter Title: The Widow Exuding a Bewitching Aura
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Jim Miller's gym, run by a woman whose personality was as prickly as her sultry widow's vibe, where she always yelled that you had to push to the absolute limit.
Diet boxers or hobbyists had long since fled to cleaner gyms.
There might be few left, but none of the ABA trainees sticking around thought of boxing as a mere 'hobby'—no room for half-hearted fools here.
The gym whispered to a man with a buzz cut, about 180 cm tall.
"Noah, you know the drill? Your opponent's a total beginner who’s never boxed. Go easy, tap lightly and move, just enough to rile him up without hurting him."
A rookie fresh from France.
He'd started in amateur boxing young, switched to pro, and though praised for near-perfect technique, he struggled with killer instinct.
But that was pro-level talk. Against a civilian like Jung Woo-jin, it didn't apply.
"Woo-jin, you sure you're okay with this?"
"I'm good."
Jim, having asked Jung Woo-jin one last time, folded his arms behind his back and stepped down from the ring.
Noah, geared up, and Jung Woo-jin faced off in the square ring.
Noah offered a glove touch to Woo-jin with a grin.
"I'll go easy, so relax."
No reply came.
With the coach's cry to take it easy and the whistle's shrill blast replacing a bell, sparring began.
Noah swiftly claimed the ring's center, snapping out a surprise jab.
A lightning-fast jab impossible for any civilian to dodge.
A light greeting on behalf of all trainees, crushing their pride after Jung Woo-jin had trampled it.
And, as expected...
Paang-!
Noah's jab grazed Jung Woo-jin's head, shaking it lightly before pulling back smoothly.
Just a light jab, but from extension to retraction, every bit—body torque, crisp footwork—was flawless perfection.
Only then did Jim Miller's rigid face begin to soften bit by bit.
"Yeah..."
Boxing.
Boxing's prestige had waned, true.
But from around 3000 BCE, boxing had evolved through endless technical refinement.
Sure, it bore the stigma of 'hand fencing,' but that was a necessary step toward perfection.
A craft honed with two fists for maximum efficiency, utter devastation of foes.
No genius could leapfrog its storied history overnight.
Between martial artist and novice lay a chasm talent alone couldn't bridge.
'Sorry, but you'll have to admit it.'
The first step in boxing: Acknowledge your limits.
"Oh, my gosh..."
"Fuck..."
Four rounds of three minutes each had passed.
The fifth, meant to be the last, dragged on for a full ten minutes.
Because the coach, who should have stopped it, clutched his head, mouth agape.
The other fighters were the same.
They stared at the ring like they'd seen ghosts, eyes unfocused.
Catherine was no different.
"...Ah."
Catherine wiped drool she hadn't noticed and refocused on the bizarre sparring unfolding.
No words could describe it.
Weird as hell.
One thing was clear...
Jung Woo-jin lacked the reflexes to dodge Noah's punches—he ate plenty.
True enough.
But as rounds progressed, clean hits he took plummeted dramatically.
Reflexes too slow to evade, yet...
In round one, cornered and defensive; round two, he started footworking; round three, firing occasional threatening jabs; round four, even slipping lefts to disrupt Noah's vision.
And round five.
Unlike gasping Noah, Jung Woo-jin brimmed with energy.
Bouncy steps unleashed heavy punches that began pressuring Noah.
Lacking reflexes, he compensated with volume and movement, smothering his foe.
Catherine glanced at the coach, gaping in shock beside her.
Of course, this apparent dominance was partly the coach's fault.
Had he halted after ten-plus minutes of round five, none of this happens.
'Right...?'
Doubt crept in.
Jung Woo-jin's growth was absurd.
Stealing his opponent's every trait—then enhancing with his own strengths, hurling it back.
Catherine empathized with Noah.
A brutally hopeless wall.
Years of technique and edge stripped away, one by one.
She shuddered.
Having felt it acting with Jennifer, she knew the thick despair in Noah's eyes.
She shook the coach's shoulder urgently.
"C-Coach. Shouldn't we stop this?"
"Uh, uh yeah..."
Jim Miller's face, meeting her gaze, looked a decade older.
His stern old-man glare gone, eyes blankly slack.
She'd worried Noah might break, but the coach seemed worse.
Some ancient creed...
Whatever had sustained him for years had crumbled.
"Ah, ah... Right. Yeah..."
A feeble, withered voice.
Jim raised trembling hands, put the whistle to his lips.
Piiik-.
The limp whistle signaled the end of the eerie spar.
⤷ Primary Condition: Participate in 5 official 'ABA' training sessions with 'Catherine Tramell'. (1/5)
⤷ Secondary Condition: Fulfill the primary condition first.
My first-ever sparring experience?
Way more fun than expected.
Round one hit different—reality vs. imagination.
Opponent's fists were impossibly fast and sharp.
But I adapted quick.
Realizing I couldn't dodge Noah's punches properly, I ditched trying to react visually.
My weapon: Stamina.
I footworked relentlessly.
Noah's fists tracked like guided missiles, but irregular steps countered that.
Stuff I'd memorized from watching pros.
Even irregular steps boiled down to patterns.
After, I just mimicked his moves one by one.
Jabs, steps, checks.
By end, I had him backed up decently.
Better than hoped.
Recapping the session, I pulled up to Catherine's place.
"We're here. Go rest inside."
"Uh, yeah..."
Catherine, a bit awkward post-spar.
"Mm?!"
I kissed her, groping her tits.
Flicked her nipple lightly.
"Ah?!"
Awkwardness gone, Catherine clung with a cute bitch face.
"Haa... Woo-jin..."
She clearly wanted more, but no way I'd pound her swollen pussy hard.
Ass not developed yet, either.
"That's it for today. Shooting tomorrow. No dirty thoughts—rest up so I can fuck you again."
"Tch..."
Pouting sulkily, Catherine sneaks a kiss on my cheek before hopping out.
I drove off, leaving her looking back repeatedly till she entered.
Vrooom-!
As night deepened, I arrived.
Melody's mansion, now familiar.
No guards like before, no parked cars—just quiet.
I opened the door.
The bitch greeted her master demurely.
"M-Master, y-you're here?"
"Holes ready?"
"Y-Yes! Both are... ready."
"Hoo... Come closer."
She shuffled over at my gesture; I grabbed her hair.
"Ah, aaah?!"
Mystical ash-blue locks crumpled filthy in my grip.
I shoved her head down.
"Why only two ready holes? I know there's three."
I ground her face roughly into my crotch.
"Ngh, ahk?!"
"Not just cleaning cum-soaked dick—prepping holes is mouth-pussy duty too. Remember that."
"Y-Yes, nghk...!"
I shook her by the hair, unzipped with one hand.
Before pants fully off, rammed my cock down her throat.
"Guh, kgh, kuhek...?!"
⤷ Primary Condition: Meet 'Susan Downey' with 'Melody Burns'.
⤷ Secondary Condition: Fulfill the primary condition first.
Shock faded quick; Melody sucked expertly.
Slurp, jwup, juk, jwup-!
Perfectly embracing our new dynamic.
I lifted my smartphone, eyeing her.
'Susan Downey.'
The name in Melody's condition. Didn't know at first, but now I did.
Susan was internet-famous.
I scanned her profile in the green search bar again.
[Susan Downey]
• Businesswoman. USA.
• Affiliation: MB Fashion Group.
• Spouse: Dawson Burns (deceased).
• Daughter: Melody Burns.
Businesswoman running a fashion group named after her daughter.
Married young into the Burns family, bore Melody, now a widow.
Susan, CEO and occasional model for her brands, was stunningly beautiful—easy to see how she snagged a chaebol heir.
A fatally seductive bitch radiating bewitching allure.