The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

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That night, Kevin was still at the bar, Veronica went back to the room to take care of the children, Victor knocked on the back door, and then left after a pleasant hour.

Victor is gone, but Veronica still misses him:

"Fiona was right, it goes straight to the stomach!"

When Victor dragged his weary body back to the penthouse, moonlight streamed through the broken windows onto the dusty floor.

The apartment wallpaper was peeling off like an old man's cracked skin, and the sofa was riddled with holes from being chewed by rats.

He casually tossed his sweat-soaked training bag into a corner, startling a few cockroaches that were foraging for food.

After taking a quick cold shower, Viktor collapsed onto the creaking metal bunk bed.

The light pollution from the neon lights outside the window cast shifting colors onto his scarred chest through the curtainless window.

He stared at the mold spreading on the ceiling, wondering how he was going to manage such days, until his heavy eyelids finally closed.

At 4:30 a.m., his biological clock woke him up precisely on time.

As Victor rolled out of bed, the bed frame groaned under the strain.

He put on his faded training clothes and, while tightening his shoelaces, discovered that the sole of his left shoe had cracked again—his weight was simply torture for the shoes.

Buying shoes is a considerable expense, and Victor thought he could buy them from Mickey.

On the rooftop terrace, the morning breeze carries the smell of cooking fumes from the city's lower levels.

Viktor began two hours of high-intensity endurance training, walking and jogging slowly on the top floor. Sweat quickly soaked through his vest, rising as white mist in the early morning light.

The family living on the lower floor works the night shift and hasn't gone home yet.

However, Viktor discovered something: he was easily weakened, sweating profusely, and his legs were weak. Even Changshan Spear, which used to be able to fight all night, could only last for half an hour now.

Based on his experience working on construction sites, Victor knew that all he needed to do was wait it out.

Moreover, with his bulky physique and 400 pounds of punching power, he has more than enough to establish himself in the world of boxing.

After finishing breakfast, Victor was already standing under the faded sign of Old Jack's Real Men's Gym.

This gym, located in an abandoned garage, exudes a unique smell of engine oil, rust, and male hormones.

As the rusty roller shutter door was pulled up, old Jack's hoarse voice, accompanied by the clanging of barbell plates, rang out: "You damn brat, thirty seconds late! Ten seconds is enough time for me to finish you off!"

The gym was filled with the atmosphere of the 1980s.

The walls were covered with posters of boxing stars, and the dumbbell rack was made of welded car parts.

Old Jack—an American soldier captured during the Korean War—had his values ​​reshaped and was free from deep-seated racial prejudice, which is why he took a liking to Victor, a Chinese American—was adjusting the screws on a squat rack with a wrench.

"The devil's plan begins today,"

He spat out the cigar butt from his mouth. "Within six months, I will turn your fat into armor."

Victor confidently replied, "Don't worry!"

Old Jack lit another cigar: "This is a gift for you. After you finish the South District Thug Boxing Tournament, you can choose to let me train you for six months. But let me tell you, I need four thousand dollars, and you must follow my instructions completely for the next six months!"

Victor didn't rush to agree, but old Jack had already put the torture on him.

The training begins with the terrifying 'death squat'.

"I think you could try a weight equal to your body weight."

Victor clicked his tongue: "My tendons would rupture if you did that."

Old Jack nodded: "Indeed, you're running with a heavy load every day now."

So, Victor, who weighed 361 pounds, started squatting with a 100-kilogram barbell, five squats per set, with a one-minute rest between sets. Then Old Jack ruthlessly added 10 kilograms to each set until it reached about 200 kilograms.

Viktor's thigh muscles trembled like an overloaded engine under the immense pressure.

Old Jack timed Victor with a stopwatch, and whenever Victor's movements became distorted, he would tap the corresponding muscle group with a wrench.

"Core tightening!"

The wrench slammed into his stomach. "Are you fucking pregnant?"

Viktor gasped, "No, it's just filled with shit."

"You're fucking disgusting!"

Old Jack roared angrily, "You're not allowed to use the same things you used on Reggie yesterday to insult me! That's too filthy!"

Is your belly full of oil?

"Probably not. If it were all oil, it would quickly breed American soldiers."

"I love you, you damn fatso!"

At lunchtime, Old Jack tossed over a lunchbox with a boxing glove pattern on it.

It contains chicken breast, brown rice, and broccoli measured precisely to the gram, along with two scoops of metallic-tasting protein powder.

"Let me tell you how to become a professional boxer!"

Old Jack explained to Victor the knowledge he already knew:

"The six months wasn't intentional; it's necessary for you to become a boxer. Right now, you're just an amateur boxer, not qualified enough..."

"First, you need to join a professional boxing club. Choose a qualified boxing club, preferably a professional training camp affiliated with a national boxing organization, rather than a regular boxing class at a gym. They will also examine the qualifications of the coaches, including whether they have trained professional boxers or participated in professional matches. Although Foucault Boxing Gym has declined, it still has sufficient qualifications."

"Secondly, there's systematic training. You need to learn basic boxing techniques, such as the jab, right straight punch, hook, uppercut, and defensive skills. You also need to do physical training, including endurance, strength, speed, and reaction time, such as rope skipping, sandbag training, and long-distance running. Participate in high-intensity sparring to improve your match fitness. I will help with these."

"Finally, you can apply for a professional boxing license, which is issued by the state sports commission or a federal boxing governing body, such as the USA Boxing Association. Submit medical records (such as EEG, EKG, CAT tests) to ensure you are in good health, especially that you have not been knocked down or technically knocked down in the past 6 months."

"So you need six months!"

Chapter 17: The South District Thugs' Boxing Match Begins

Six days later, the South District Thug Boxing Tournament was held as scheduled, starting on September 15th. The first round took place in bars controlled by the four major gangs:

The Green Forest Bar of the Irish Mafia, the Blood Drops Bar of the Black Gang, the Warm Spring Breeze Bar of the Italian Mafia, and the Boxing Gym of the Chinese Gang.

Other smaller groups, such as those of Koreans, Japanese, Russians, Southeast Asians, and British, are often independent of each other.

No one will go against the legislator, after all, gangs need opportunities to launder their dirty money, and legislators need the votes from these gangs.

The competition is divided into two weight classes: heavyweight and cruiserweight. However, the weight class differs from the 200-pound limit set by the Boxing Association. Here, heavyweight refers to 220 pounds, or 100 kilograms. To participate in cruiserweight, one must weigh at least 175 pounds, or between 80 and 100 kilograms.

Because it was a district-level competition, the process was very simple; boxers only needed to present a weight certificate issued by a community hospital to register.

— Participating in this kind of event means you're responsible for your own life and death. You can boldly write down your weight as 500 pounds, then go up there and get punched to death. Anyway, free America won't pay for your free personal behavior.

Don't you see how many "freedom" fighters who participated in World War I and World War II couldn't even get pensions and disability benefits?

The competition consists of five rounds. The first week is a preliminary round where opponents are randomly selected, and the winners advance. A total of 80 people will be selected—these 80 people will enjoy boxing medical insurance provided 'free' by the senator and will receive $200 worth of meat and flour.

Each subsequent person who advances to the next round will receive $200 worth of meat and flour.

The 80 people selected in the preliminary round, along with 80 people recommended by various social organizations in the South District—gangs, companies, security, police stations, government departments, etc.—participated in the first round of elimination, with two advancing to the next round.

The second, third, and fourth rounds are all two-to-one elimination rounds, and these four rounds will end within a week, until only the top ten remain.

Then, a fifth round of round-robin matches will be held, with ten players competing in a round-robin format over the last two weeks to determine the champion and runner-up based on their win rate.

Victor didn't join any gang, so he had no choice but to honestly participate in the gang's open auditions.

Victor arrived at the Bajiquan gym in Chinatown, saw Master Zhao, nodded, and entered the gym. The Bajiquan gym was one of the twenty preliminary selection venues, with three rings.

There were over 170 people assigned here. Viktor looked at them and saw that there weren't many people. With only five spots for advancement, the selection process would only take seven rounds.

The first round of auditions didn't have many rules; it was a two-round competition.

So Victor arrived at the scene at eight o'clock that morning, with Jason and Michael helping out—paid $20 a day. Jason was responsible for tactical guidance and gathering information on the opponents, while Michael was responsible for treatment, logistics, and betting.

Thick fog blanketed the dilapidated streets of the South District, a sign that northerly winds were bringing moisture from the Great Lakes, and a harsh winter was on its way.

Viktor tightened the bandages and boxing gloves on his hands, his breath condensing in the cold air.

"I heard that the Green Forest Bar opens at five in the morning,"

Michael rubbed his hands and said, "When that big, dumb Polish guy was carried out, his intestines were spilling out all over the floor."

Jason sneered: "The Irish have never known what 'stopping at the right time' means."

Victor didn't reply; his gaze was fixed on the doorway ahead, watching the potential boxers one by one.

Dozens of burly men had gathered at the entrance. Some were doing push-ups to warm up, some were smoking, and others were secretly stuffing metal pieces into their boxing gloves.

The gym was filled with a mixture of sweat and blood odors.

Three makeshift boxing rings were arranged in a triangular pattern, each surrounded by a large crowd of participants and spectators—boxing in this world was incredibly popular.

Victor noticed several middle-aged men in suits talking quietly in the corner—they were 'headhunters' sent by the gang to scout for new recruits.

"Look over there,"

Jason nudged Victor with his elbow. "The one in the red shorts is the Russian's 'bulldozer,' who broke the spines of three stowaways with his bare hands at the docks last month."

There was a long queue at the registration desk, and the staff didn't even look up: "Weight certificate."

Victor handed over the documents. The staff member glanced at his 361-pound registration data and a mocking smile appeared on his lips: "Heavyweight, Group C. Remember the rules: no biting, no eye-gouging, everything else is up to you. If you kill someone, deal with it yourself."

This is normal. In this 'free' country, if someone without a powerful backer is killed in the ring, no one will care. However, those with many brothers will come seeking revenge, take a sum of compensation, and leave.

Suddenly, a commotion arose at the door.

Five burly Chinese men with blue dragon tattoos escorted a lean old man in, and the crowd automatically parted to make way.

"It's Grandpa Chen of Xingyi Quan,"

Michael lowered his voice, "The Chinese gang is in charge. It seems they're taking this competition very seriously."

The old man's sharp gaze swept across the crowd, lingering on Victor for a moment before looking at Master Zhao and walking inside.

Viktor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end—the look was like that of a butcher eyeing livestock ready for slaughter.

At noon, a piercing bell rang out, like a rusty saw ripping through the air.

Victor stood by the ropes, his black vest soaked with sweat, his 361-pound weight causing the wooden planks beneath his feet to groan under the strain.

He stretched his thick neck, and his cervical spine made a cracking sound.

"Remember, don't be intimidated by that guy's height."