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

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He thought for a moment, then suddenly said, "Listen, I need a sparring partner every week, $20 an hour, interested?"

Viktor suppressed his inner elation and pretended to be flattered: "Really? That's wonderful! I can learn a lot of skills from you."

Reggie looked at his agent, Foucault.

Foucault looked at Reggie and nodded: "You do need a heavyweight sparring partner."

"Don't be late tomorrow at 3 PM."

Reggie left those words behind and rubbed his ribs as he turned to leave.

When only Victor and old Jack remained in the locker room, the old man couldn't help but laugh out loud: "A clever performance, kid. Flattering that megalomaniac and getting yourself a job."

Viktor wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, his eyes gleaming. "It's not just a job, Jack. This is an opportunity. I need to learn in real-world situations, and he's the perfect role model right now."

Old Jack nodded thoughtfully: "You're smarter than I thought. But remember, a sparring partner isn't a punching bag; protecting yourself is the top priority."

Viktor smiled and said that the phrase had become his motto: "Then fight back."

That night, Victor meticulously recorded every detail of the match in his notebook, analyzing his own mistakes and Reggie's weaknesses.

On the last page, he wrote: "Day 1: Training session, $20 per hour."

·······

The next morning, as dawn broke, Viktor began his five-kilometer brisk walk, his feet glistening with dew.

He deliberately chose uneven suburban paths to allow his ankles to adapt to various terrains and to get his legs used to changing speed.

Sweat trickled down his temples, soaking his faded gray vest.

Viktor thought he could run, but after only trying 500 meters, his lungs felt like a furnace and he had to stop the dangerous idea—it would take at least two months of endurance training before Viktor could jog 5 kilometers.

After returning to the penthouse, he went straight to the makeshift balcony in the backyard, constructed from old tires and planks.

Sunlight streamed directly onto the uneven wooden floor. Victor took off his shoes, stood barefoot on the rough surface, and began practicing boxing footwork.

His feet moved with the lightness of springs, sometimes sliding forward, sometimes shifting to the side, the wooden floorboards creaking rhythmically.

During the practice of combination punches, his fists pierced through the morning mist, each straight punch accompanied by a whooshing sound, and the twisting of his waist and hips during hook punches was almost perfect—the result of Old Jack's repeated corrections.

The Foucault Boxing Gym was filled with the smell of sweat and leather in the afternoon.

Victor put on the thick helmet that was used for sparring partners and became a moving target for Reggie, the star pupil of Foucault's boxing gym.

The burly man, weighing only two hundred pounds, bruised him every time he threw a punch, but Victor always remembered Reggie's teachings:

"When you're getting hit, you should tuck your chin into your collarbone."

After training, old Jack pressed Viktor's shoulder with his calloused hand: "Kid, your dodging has improved, but your counterattack is still a beat slow."

As he spoke, he stuffed a slice of lemon into his mouth—a traditional remedy used by old boxers to prevent their jaws from clenching.

The evening sun shone obliquely through the high windows of the boxing gym like molten copper, casting a long shadow of Viktor.

Ten more days passed, and Viktor was able to keep up with Reggie's boxing rhythm. Reggie's punches could no longer hit Viktor's head, and Viktor could return a punch every three or five punches.

It was evening, and Victor was preparing to go back for a big meal before heading to the gym for heavy weight training. He was stuffing the last ten-pound dumbbell plate into his backpack, the metallic clanging sound particularly crisp in the empty gym.

Sweat dripped down his taut jawline, leaving dark dots on the dusty wooden floor.

A gust of cold air blew in as the glass door was pushed open, and Victor looked up to see a figure that seemed out of place in the boxing gym.

The middle-aged white man was wearing a well-tailored dark gray suit, but paired it with a pair of crocodile skin cowboy boots covered in mud.

The man's silver-gray sideburns were meticulously trimmed, and the jade ring on his left ring finger gleamed faintly in the setting sun.

"Mr. White!"

Old Jack's voice suddenly became as obsequious as a waiter's. He jogged over to greet him, wiping the already clean stool with his sleeve. "What brings you here?"

Viktor squinted.

He knew old Jack and had never seen this hot-tempered Northern Irishman's old coach bow and scrape to anyone.

"Is this the Chinese kid you were talking about?"

Mr. White did not take the towel that Old Jack offered, but instead took out a Cuban cigar from his inner suit pocket.

He used the gilded cigar cutter with the elegance of playing a musical instrument, lit it, and blew a perfect smoke ring in Victor's direction: "I've watched his match video with Reggie, not bad."

The smoke rings twisted and rose in the sunset, like transparent snakes.

Viktor's thumb unconsciously rubbed the crack in his boxing glove.

That was from Reggie's hook last week; he remembered the chorus of boos from the stands when the referee announced his defeat.

Old Jack rubbed his hands together and leaned closer: "Victor is currently the most promising heavyweight boxer."

"Green Forest Bar needs fresh blood."

White interrupted him abruptly, flicking a bit of ash from his cigar as he pointed it at Victor. "The boxing match is on Thursday and Saturday. A base salary of one hundred dollars plus a cut, plus two percent of the betting pool."

Memories of the alley behind the laundry room suddenly flashed back. Last week, those three drunkards mistook him for a Vietnamese purse thief. He could have explained, but when the first punch landed on the leader's nose, the exhilarating jolt sent shivers down his spine—Victor was a man who enjoyed fighting, and he hoped for more opportunities to retaliate.

Victor swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Mr. White, all I know is boxing, I know nothing about bar management..."

White froze, then suddenly burst into laughter, revealing his gold-plated canine teeth.

He strode up to Victor, a strange scent of sandalwood mixed with leather emanating from beneath his suit: "God, did you think I wanted you to be a bartender?"

He pulled out a gold-plated business card and tucked it into Viktor's sweat-soaked vest pocket, the cool metal edge brushing against his chest muscles. "What I want is a beast that can ignite the audience."

He lowered his voice, the smell of tobacco wafting into Victor's ear, "You know what? Your yellow skin will make gamblers bet like crazy. Those rednecks will pay double to see an Asian kid get beaten up—or to see you beat the shit out of their tough guy."

Then we can make a fortune, but we'll only let you play two games. If you lose, you're worthless; if you win, no one will bet anymore.

Viktor's knuckles suddenly throbbed with pain; he was still no match for the madness of these people.

“I need to participate in the South District Thug Boxing Tournament in ten days, I need to think about it.”

"It's ok."

Mr. White glanced at Old Jack: "I know Old Jack's reputation. If he tells me this, it's basically a sure thing that you can make money. If you win at my bar, you'll be considered a seeded player in the South Division competition. The Northern Irish will definitely not treat you unfairly."

You have one day to think about it.

·······

On my way home, dusk had fallen.

The lights in the South District—oh, there are no lights in the South District.

Victor stepped through the puddles, each step causing the dumbbell plates in his backpack to rattle. White's business card stuck to his chest like a red-hot charcoal.

Uncle Joe's house was still lit. After Victor knocked on the door, Uncle Joe opened it, and then Victor saw his aunt, who didn't like him—a descendant of a Taiwanese official who had tried everything to stay in the United States.

"You've changed; you're very fit now."

"I've lost 20 pounds, and now I only weigh 361 pounds,"

Without wasting words or entering the room, Victor took out Mr. White's business card: "This man asked me to come and box with him. I wonder if I can participate?"

The situation is very complicated because both Northern Irish people and people of Chinese descent have gang backgrounds.

"Green Forest Bar? A high-end establishment in the South District."

After listening to the story, Old Joe frowned, took out a cigarette, and offered one to Victor—Victor knew this was his uncle's habitual gesture when he was thinking.

"If you don't want to go in, just wait in front of the door."

—Victor and Uncle Joe's wife had a very bad relationship. When Uncle Joe was away on a business trip for half a month, his aunt tried to drive Victor away and even called his two brothers to help. Victor went berserk and knocked one of the doors down, and was also injured. He never came back home after that.

As a result, Uncle Joe's four children disliked Victor, and his aunt even wanted a divorce, which resulted in Uncle Joe giving her a severe beating before things calmed down.

Uncle Qiao came in and made a phone call. While waiting, Auntie talked too much and was scolded by Uncle Qiao.

After the call connected, Old Qiao spoke a few words in Hakka, then remained silent for a long time.

Viktor only understood the words "Third Master" and "Irish Gang".

After hanging up, Old Joe stared at the yellowed Bruce Lee poster on the wall for a long time before coming out:

"Third Master said White is at least somewhat law-abiding,"

He finally spoke, the cigarette glowing intermittently in the darkness, "But that place is a money laundering den for the Irish gang."

Uncle Joe knocked heavily on the door. "You can go if you want, but remember two things—never touch the cigarettes or water they give you, and leave after you win a game."

Victor nodded, then suggested, "I'd like to invite two of Third Master's men to a bar for drinks."

Uncle Joe looked at him and said, "Very clever. I can help you invite him."

After expressing his gratitude, Victor wanted to leave, but Uncle Joe's words drifted out: "I know you don't want to get too close to the mob, but your dad trusted those white devils too much back then. In America, you still need some helpers."

"I know."

"I know you know, because you can use your brain now."

"Thank you uncle."

"No need to thank me, those two are the second and third brothers."

"They don't like me."

"What does it matter? I don't like you either, and they have no obligation to like you, but if they don't have income, they'll become gang members."

Viktor remained silent: "When did this happen?"

“Last month they were almost accused of involvement in gang activities.”

"why?"

"Because it's hard for Chinese people to live, the IRS makes it impossible for us to survive."

"I can only pay a small amount of money."

"They will help you with a lot of things, including communication, contact, and service, using 10% of your income. They charge you per appearance, and they are absolutely loyal and won't do anything wrong."

"You are my uncle."

Chapter 10 Impulse: To hell with it!

As Victor left Uncle Joe's house, he happened to run into Carl, who had a philosophical look on his face.

"Hello, Carl."