allendalepharm Page 33
Page 33
Victor ignored the cheers and stared at the Canadian who was being helped back to the corner.
The guy was curled up in pain, and the coach was putting an ice pack on his side.
Viktor knew that kind of pain all too well—the excruciating pain of a severe blow to the liver could make even the strongest man cry like a baby.
Chapter 28 Competition and Negotiation: Wishing You a Bright Future
Three days later, the humid and sweltering air once again filled the roof of the 'Chicago Elite Boxing Club'.
The ceiling fan spun futilely, stirring the air—mixed with sweat, blood, and the smell of cheap tobacco—into a murky vortex.
Victor sat on a bench in the locker room, his thick fingers slowly and precisely wrapping around his wristbands.
His movements were focused with an almost ritualistic quality, each piece of fabric fitting perfectly.
Old Jack squatted down in front of him, examining the wrapped hand strap with his rough, sandpaper-like thumb.
“That Irish kid’s name is Sean O’Malley,”
Old Jack said in a low voice, as if squeezed out of a rusty pipe, “I worked as a stevedore at the docks for eight years and could lift a two-hundred-pound sack with one hand.”
Victor nodded and continued to wrap his other hand.
His gaze never left his wrist, as if it held all the secrets of the universe—and indeed it did, because the punching bag in his fist contained a little bit of lime that would solidify when it came into contact with sweat, but it wouldn't be detected during the pre-match check. This method made Viktor even more lethal in amateur matches.
Suddenly, a burst of laughter and whistling erupted outside.
The thin door of the locker room couldn't block out the shouting in a thick Irish accent: "Get that orange cat out here right now! I'm going to beat him back to China!"
Old Jack saw that Victor paused for half a second while wrapping the wristband, and that was all.
Upon seeing the white lime inside, the old man flew into a rage: "Is it really worth going to such lengths for an amateur competition?"
Viktor nodded, then shook his head: "I don't take this kind of match to heart, but I need to make a big profit after some maneuvering!"
Old Jack pulled a small bottle of whiskey from his pocket, took a sip, and continued, "He likes to show off. Before he throws a punch, his right shoulder will rise half an inch—like that damn beep before the dock crane starts."
Victor finally raised his head, his obsidian-like eyes gleaming strangely in the dim light.
He reached out and took the bottle, but only used the alcohol to wipe the unhealed wounds on his knuckles.
The stinging pain made the corners of his mouth twitch slightly, as if he were smiling.
As they emerged from the passageway, a burly, red-haired man, as thick as a fire hydrant, stood under the blinding spotlight.
Sean O'Malley was showing off his so-called 'plate abs' to the audience, his bronze skin covered with pale white scars.
The moment he saw Viktor, he suddenly made an exaggerated throat-slitting gesture, his tongue sticking out from between his teeth, just like a cod that had been caught and brought ashore.
"Look! The yellow-skinned monkey is here with his animal trainer!"
Sean turned to the audience, pointing to his well-defined abs, "I'm going to use these to take all his punches and make this fat guy as tired as a seal in heat!"
Old Jack scoffed: "Look at those impressive abs. In reality, all you need to do is punch those few centimeters of muscle and you can turn the intestines inside into a tangled mess!"
"Real armor has always been steel plates wrapped with a layer of sponge."
Victor silently climbed onto the boxing ring, the rubber surface groaning softly beneath his feet.
As the referee routinely read out the rules, Sean deliberately bumped into him with his shoulder, and Victor smelled the strong scent of beer and onions in his breath.
"I heard you like to punch your stomach?"
Sean lowered his voice, spittle seeping from between his yellowed teeth, "When you're crying for your mother later, remember it's because you angered her—"
The ringing of the bell cut off his foul language.
Less than ten seconds into the first round, Sean proved the legend of the dockworkers to be true.
His jab was as swift as a loading hook, and the third punch grazed Viktor's brow bone, immediately tearing a patch of skin. A bead of blood rolled down Viktor's round cheek, resembling a fallen ruby under the spotlight.
"Come on, orange cat!"
Sean patted his stomach, his defensive stance as loose as a drunkard's bow tie.
The Irish immigrants in the stands erupted in waves of cheers.
Victor suddenly lunged forward, feinting a left hook at the face, and in the instant Sean raised his arm to block, his right hook slammed into those proud abs like a cannonball.
The fist collided with muscle with a dull thud, but Sean only took half a step back, a ferocious smile on his face.
He burst into laughter, "Even my old lady's fists are bigger than yours—"
Viktor noticed a barely perceptible tremor in his right shoulder as he spoke.
As Sean's right straight punch came hurtling towards him, Victor had already dodged to the side, the wind from the punch lifting his sweat-dampened temples.
Old Jack's hoarse shout cut through the noise: "Seventy-five degrees! Seventy-five degrees!"
A minute later, Victor's white vest was soaked with blood and sweat.
Sean, like an enraged bull, began to frequently unleash large, sweeping punches.
Each of his punches was accompanied by a torrent of profanity, as if verbal violence could amplify physical damage.
At 1 minute and 03 seconds, Viktor deliberately revealed a weakness.
As Sean's right hook came hurtling towards him, he abruptly crouched down, hearing the whooshing sound of the fist passing overhead.
In that instant, he saw clearly the subtle indentation at the very bottom of Sean's right ribcage—the junction of the abdominal muscles and the costal arch, like the only gap in armor.
Victor's right hook pierced the gap from an incredible angle.
This was not a brute-force blow, but a precise strike like a surgical scalpel.
The moment the fist touched his skin, he felt his knuckles sink into soft tissue and heard Sean's 'uh' sound as the air in his lungs was violently squeezed out.
Then, Victor delivered two powerful punches to his liver and an uppercut to his chin.
When Sean O'Malley knelt down, his expression froze between arrogance and confusion.
His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he only spat out a mouthful of foamy saliva.
When the referee counted to eight, the audience noticed the dark water stains spreading on his light-colored shorts.
"The victor! Victor! The Far East Fat Tiger!"
The referee raised Viktor's arm high, but in the dust swirling under the spotlight, no one noticed the Chinese fat man's gaze as he stared at his own fist—it wasn't the gaze of a victor, but rather that of a bomb disposal expert looking at a bomb that had just been defused.
The audience was stunned; Viktor's punch might not have been that powerful.
In the locker room, old Jack pressed a cotton ball soaked in whiskey onto the wound on Victor's brow bone.
"The sixth rib,"
The old man suddenly said, "You're aiming at the lower edge of the sixth rib, the projection point of the liver area."
"What do you mean?"
"You don't need to be obsessed with precise strikes. Your strength is enough. Just break through his defense step by step, and then you can finish him off. Don't worry about how good it looks! Don't worry about how confident you are!"
"I made another three hundred!"
Michael was counting his money in the locker room. “Victor, you should change your name to ‘Kidney Collector’.”
Viktor applied an ice pack to his swollen brow bone without saying a word.
Foucault's warning echoed in his mind: "Amateur matches don't care about overly violent knockout statistics."
But the referees at the South District thugs only care about whether the game is exciting enough and whether the audience is satisfied.
After Old Jack left, Victor stood up, threw the blood-stained bandage into a trash bag and took it with him, then said to Jason, "I only have three games left. What did Franky and the others say? Are they going to set up a trap?"
······
Sweat trickled down Viktor's brow bone, stinging his eyes.
He blinked, but instead of reaching out to wipe it, he continued to stare at the training schedule on the wall.
The 40-kilogram dumbbells seemed to come alive in his hands, bobbing up and down, and with each curl, his biceps bulged like steel.
"Viktor, you don't need to do this. Deliberately losing is a despicable act, and people might use it to attack you!"
Frankie's voice came from the sofa, tinged with impatience.
My cousin, dressed in a smart suit, was picking his teeth with a toothpick, his legs crossed, and the tips of his leather shoes gleaming under the light.
Viktor did not answer immediately.
He gritted his teeth, feeling the muscle fibers tear and rebuild under the pressure.
The fourth group, the final move.
His arms began to tremble, but his eyes remained resolute.
Sweat trickled down his well-defined abs, dripping onto the training room floor with a soft "plop" sound.
"Third Master's idea is to create an invincible Far Eastern Tiger, so that when he enters professional boxing, he can earn millions of dollars in just one or two matches."
Franky continued, his voice sweet but sharp, "You know Third Master never does anything that doesn't make a profit."
The dumbbells were slammed back onto the rack, the clanging of metal echoing in the empty training room.
Viktor grabbed a towel hanging on the equipment and wiped his face and neck.
His skin was unhealthy and pale, and although his muscles were well-defined, they lacked the luster expected of a professional athlete.
"I care about Third Master's advice, but Third Master doesn't understand boxing."
Viktor finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse, as if he hadn't had a proper drink of water in a long time, "I don't need to win every battle, I just need a reward that's more than $50,000."
Franky frowned, twirling a toothpick between his fingers like a revolver: "Victor, to put it bluntly, you know I haven't read many books."
Victor walked to the backpack in the corner, pulled out two documents, and threw them on the coffee table in front of Franky.
The paper slid across the smooth glass surface and came to rest beside Frankie's hand.
The hospital's logo was clearly visible, and the words "severe malnutrition" on the test report were circled in red, glaringly like a wound.
"I need a lot of food, and very high-quality food, plus twice-daily nutrient solutions to recover, so I need money."
As Victor spoke, he pointed to another spot on the report with his finger. "The millions of dollars in the future are not my option. What I'm thinking about is getting a hefty reward."
Frankie glanced at Michael, gesturing for him to check the authenticity.
Michael retorted angrily, "Frankie, I'm not your underling, I'm not a gang, I won't help you."