manynovel Page 22
Page 22
"You won, that's the point."
Without looking up, he said, "But I just spent sixty dollars and got some not-so-good news."
Victor understood what he meant: "I'll reimburse you for the sixty dollars!"
That's one good news and one bad news!
Ethan wanted to keep him in suspense, but Victor wasn't in the mood; he just wanted to relax at Veronica's house.
"The bad news is that our odds are now only 1:1.05, meaning our $10,000 investment will only bring in $500!"
Ethan spread his hands: "And this $10,000 was put in under my brother Frankie's name."
Michael was troubled, then came up with a crooked idea: "How about Victor loses a match?"
"Shut up! People are just following along with the betting now. My brother told us we can't bet anymore. We're only making money from the gang now."
Jason delivered some truly bad news—because it meant Victor would have to spend his savings to pay the two men's salaries.
"My next opponent is Clark, a black veteran. He's 1.9 meters tall, has a 1.96-meter reach, and weighs 225 pounds. He's an amateur boxer with a record of 27 wins and 3 losses, all by points."
"Expert in attrition warfare."
Michael spat, "The worst type."
Viktor stood up, the bench groaning under its weight.
He walked to the mirror and stared at his bronze reflection: "My weight will be a problem."
"This has always been a problem!"
Michael walked over to him and gestured with his finger on the mirror. "Clark will swarm around you like a mosquito, slowly reaping points when you're tired. We have to change our strategy. All three of his losses were knockouts."
The three sat around the tactical board, and Jason pulled up Clark's game video.
The Black man on the screen moved with the fluidity of a dance, each dodge precise to the centimeter, and his counterattacks as swift as a viper's flick of its tongue.
"Look here,"
Michael paused the video. "Every time he retreats, he veers to the right first; it's a military combat tactic. Victor, your explosiveness is our trump card."
At 10 p.m., the boxing gym had long since closed, but they used the administrator's connections to continue practicing in the empty ring.
Victor watched the two of them practice.
Michael, wearing protective gear, kept changing positions. "Don't chase him, let him get into your shooting range!"
Ethan was panting heavily, his lungs felt like they were on fire.
"Our wingspan is longer than his, which is an advantage, and we can go toe-to-toe with him!"
At 11 p.m., the tactics were finally finalized:
Apply full pressure for the first thirty seconds to disrupt Clark's rhythm;
If you fail to knock out your opponent, pretend to be exhausted in the second round to lure them into close combat.
He finished the match with a series of hooks.
The following evening, the boxing gym was bustling with noise.
Victor stood in the red corner, listening to the sporadic boos from the stands—clearly, no one believed this big Asian guy could defeat the skilled veteran.
This meant that Victor could also place a bet, so Victor bet half of his savings, $10,000.
Viktor charged toward the center of the arena like a beast unleashed from its cage, his left shoulder slightly lowered and his right fist poised to strike.
Clark, however, glided to the right with the ease he had anticipated, his eyes frighteningly calm—the eyes of a sniper assessing the enemy's weaknesses on the battlefield.
Halfway through the first round, Victor almost got a nosebleed.
Clark's jabs were like a viper's tongue, hitting the same spot three times precisely—his nose—but fortunately, Victor had a long reach, and his opponent was unwilling to exchange blows.
Every time Victor throws a powerful punch, it only tears through the air, without even touching the hairs on his opponent's head.
"Damn mudfish!"
Victor cursed inwardly. He tried to force a physical confrontation, but Clark always managed to slip away from blind spots like a ghost, whispering in his ear, "Slow as a lame pig!"
Jason roared from the sidelines, his voice cutting through the cacophony of voices, "Execute Plan B!"
Clark was questioning what 'Plan B' meant.
But in reality, there was no Plan B.
Viktor suddenly stopped chasing, stood still, panting heavily, his fists drooping a few centimeters down.
Clark immediately noticed this subtle change. A calculating glint flashed in the black athlete's eyes, and he began to cautiously close the distance, like a shark smelling blood.
When Viktor pretended to slip and stumble from the sweat, Clark finally took the bait—a textbook right straight punch came straight for Viktor's face, the wind of the punch tearing through the air with a whistling sound.
Jason jumped up from his seat, knocking over his Coke cup.
Victor was prepared. His knees compressed like springs, and his entire body slid down fifteen centimeters, Clark's fist grazing his hair.
At the same time, Victor channeled all his strength into his left hook, slamming it into Clark's right ribs from a tricky angle.
The dull thud traveled through the ring floor.
A gasp erupted from the audience as Clark showed a pained expression for the first time; the tactic had worked.
As the referee counted down, Victor saw a bruise the size of a peach appear on his opponent's ribs.
The end-of-round bell saved Clark.
Back in the corner, Michael pressed an ice pack against Victor's swollen brow: "His sixth rib on the right side broke last year, it's definitely cracked now. Force him to the ropes in the second round, then—"
"The game is over."
Viktor spat out bloody saliva; his gums had been broken during the dodge.
When the bell rang in the second round, Victor no longer held back.
He charged at Clark like a runaway train, blocking the ring space with his broad shoulders.
Clark's movements slowed noticeably, his calmness replaced by a hint of panic, and he frowned slightly with each breath—Michael was right, his ribs were hurting, he must have a fracture!
At 1 minute and 47 seconds, Victor finally forced Clark into the blue corner.
The Black fighter raised his classic peek-a-boo defensive stance, but Viktor's barrage of hooks rained down like a storm—left abdomen, right abdomen, left ribs, right ribs—each striking the same spot precisely, like a hammer repeatedly striking the same nail.
The moment Clark's defense cracked, Victor feinted past his protective gear and delivered an uppercut that pierced through the defense, striking Clark hard in the liver area.
The feeling of the boxing gloves sinking into my abs was like punching through a bag of wet sand:
The violent punch then forcefully contracted Clark's stomach, expelling a large amount of air from his heart and lungs, causing Clark's brain to become oxygen-deprived immediately after receiving the pain signal.
Clark's eyes widened instantly, his pupils dilating into black holes.
His knees buckled as if bones had been removed, and as he knelt before Viktor, the vomiting gastric juices and blood splattered onto Viktor's boxing gloves.
"...Nine! Ten! The match is over!"
Victor stood in the center of the ring, raising his trembling fists.
An incredible cheer erupted from the stands—a 361-pound giant had defeated a skilled veteran, and behind this victory lay sixty dollars in intelligence and a perfectly devised tactic.
As Jason jumped into the ring to hug Victor, he whispered in his ear, "Next round opponent information?"
Victor watched as Clark was helped off the ring, wiped the blood from his brow bone, and grinned: "Go ahead, I trust you to handle things, I'll reimburse you for the 10% premium!"
Chapter 19 Passing the preliminary selection and being apprehended by the police
"My God, this is the third one already,"
The commentator's voice blared throughout the gym through the loudspeakers—Victor was practically the star fighter after his second victory.
"Iron Hammer Far East Tiger's right straight punch is like a steel bar thrown out by a crane! Clark's jaw is probably shattered like a biscuit!"
Franky watched all this from the shadows of the players' tunnel, a slight smile playing on his lips.
His underling quickly jotted down the odds changes, muttering, "Boss, nobody dares to bet against Victor now."
"This is just the beginning,"
Franky pulled out a cigar but didn't light it. "My cousin of mine has really made something of himself!"
In the locker room, Victor was applying an ice pack to his knuckles.
Victor's devastating offensive has now resulted in a Mexican suffering a comminuted fracture of the jaw—allowing him to eat only liquids for more than three months; a bodybuilder suffering from heart and lung damage—spending at least a month in bed; and a veteran suffering from a broken jaw and post-concussion syndrome.
"You went too far,"
Old Jack handed over a towel. "The committee might discuss whether to conduct a medical evaluation on you, or at least a psychological evaluation."
Victor chuckled, his voice muffled beneath the towel: "They should be assessing whether those trash can take a punch from me."
Old Jack was very displeased: "Victor! Pride will blind you to the enemy!"
Viktor immediately became alert: "You're right, I'll give it my all in the next match!"
Unfortunately, after the fifth round matchup list was released, the young boxer who was supposed to face Victor suddenly announced his withdrawal due to an unhealed rib injury.
The sixth round was even more absurd. The young black man who drew the lot said directly to everyone, "My dad won't let me fight with murderers."
The person next to him roared angrily: "Where the hell did you get your father from?!"
Thus, Victor Lee secured one of the five qualifying spots with three bloody knockouts and two wins by default.
When Victor hosted his victory celebration in a private room at the most luxurious restaurant in Chinatown—costing $150 a table, equivalent to a middle-class person's weekly wage—the waiters needed specially made chairs to accommodate Victor's size.
"Salute to our 'Iron Hammer Far East Tiger'!"
Jason raised his glass, and Michael, old Jack, Kevin and his wife, Carl, and Uncle Joe all echoed in agreement.
Viktor silently swallowed a whole roasted duck, the fat dripping down his chin.
After finishing their meal, everyone started dividing the money—they had been betting all along, and Kevin and his wife, Carl Gallagher, and Uncle Joe had all made quite a bit of money.
They were busy stuffing bundles of cash into briefcases, with a guaranteed income of at least a thousand US dollars per person.
As the razor slid down his jawline to his left cheek, Victor Lee heard the sound of a door frame breaking.
Without pausing for a moment, he pulled out his revolver and cocked the firing pin.
The eyes in the mirror didn't even blink; the irises just slightly contracted, capturing the sounds outside the bathroom door behind them like a camera adjusting its focus.