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

The referee's voice pierced the noise.

The two drew closer again, and Viktor decided to strike first.

He pretended to attack the Slav's abdomen, lowered his shoulders, and made a clear downward hook with his left fist.

The Slav's defenses instinctively shifted downwards, creating a brief opening in his chin—Victor's long-prepared right fist shot out like a spring knife, delivering an uppercut straight for his opponent's chin.

But the Slavs seemed to have anticipated this move.

His head snapped back with incredible speed, and Victor's boxing gloves grazed his stubble.

At the same time, the Slav's right fist shot towards Viktor's temple like lightning, the force of the punch whistling through the air.

The world exploded in a white light before Viktor's eyes.

Black spots appeared at the edge of his vision, and a sharp buzzing sound rang in his ears.

At the critical moment, Viktor's instincts saved his life—boxing isn't arithmetic, and he instinctively ducked his head, just like he had reacted after being beaten countless times in school.

The Slav's fist brushed against his scalp, the gloves rubbing against his hair with a sizzling sound.

Viktor felt a wave of fear, but his body reacted faster than his brain.

His left fist flew like a cannonball, a powerful punch that struck the Slavic man squarely in the ribs.

A force of up to 485 pounds penetrated those exquisite muscles, reaching all the way to the liver area.

The gamblers below the boxing ring could even hear the dull thuds of fists striking flesh.

The Slav let out a cry of pain that was unlike anything in human form, and his fist stance shattered instantly.

Viktor seized the opportunity and stepped forward, unleashing a flurry of hooks with both hands.

The first punch grazed the Slav's cheekbone, the second punch was barely dodged by tilting his head, but the third punch landed squarely on his chin. The fragile chin could not withstand the force, and the tight muscles did nothing to dissipate the impact.

The powerful force caused the Slav to spin 180 degrees before crashing to the ground like a felled oak tree, slamming heavily onto the canvas.

The entire underground boxing ring erupted in deafening roars.

Viktor staggered back to the ropes, his lungs feeling like they were on fire.

He looked down at his boxing gloves, the leather surface stained with blood—he didn't know if it was his own or the Slavic's.

The referee squatted down next to the Slav for a few seconds, but quickly stood up and shook his head.

"KO! The victor—Victor!"

Cheers and curses erupted simultaneously.

The gamblers who had bet on the Slavs turned pale, and one of the bald men slammed a beer bottle against the wall, sending shards of glass flying.

"Damn Russians! My five thousand dollars!"

"They are as untrustworthy as their elections!"

"Cheating! That fat guy must have used some tricks!"

Viktor felt a chill creep up his spine.

He knew that in these underground boxing matches, angry gamblers were more dangerous than any opponent.

Last year in Chicago, a boxer named "Iron Hammer" won a match in a major upset and was found floating on the East River the next day.

Jason and Michael rushed into the ring like two bolts of lightning, grabbing Victor from the left and right.

Michael growled in his ear, "Mr. White's men have lost control of the situation."

But in fact, Mr. White didn't care at all: "Take our money and get those kids ready. We lent out $150,000 this time, and they're going to get it back to me in a week!"

"After each harvest like this, we need to spend time harvesting! Those bankers are so lucky; they can just rob money with stocks!"

“This big guy did a good job. I think Sri’s suggestion is acceptable. The Irish don’t need to get involved with the Italians. They’ve always been soft.”

"Knock all the troublemakers to the ground!"

They practically dragged Victor through the boiling crowd.

A man with a flushed face tried to block his way. Viktor, in a fit of rage, punched him in the stomach without hesitation, and the man fell to the ground clutching his stomach.

More sounds of shattering glass and a woman's screams came from behind.

The locker room door was slammed shut, and Jason used a mop to hold the doorknob shut.

Michael quickly pulled off Victor's boxing gloves and began to check his injuries.

"How's your ribs? I think that Russian hit you pretty hard."

Viktor grinned, revealing his upper body covered in thick layers of fat: "It's okay, I have a lot of fat, breathing won't hurt."

He forced a smile. "It just hurts like hell."

Michael pressed his fingers against Viktor's ribs, and Viktor gasped: "The bones are fine, but the muscles are definitely torn."

Jason frowned and said, "Saturday's game—"

“Tell Mr. White that I have a broken rib,”

Victor suddenly interrupted him, his eyes sharpening. "Just say the doctor has confirmed that you need at least a week of rest."

Michael and Jason exchanged a glance.

The noise outside the locker room grew louder and louder, and someone started banging on the door.

"That shouldn't be a problem. You won't have another chance to dominate the field after this."

Michael lowered his voice and sent out the message on the pager: "But White doesn't like being stood up. 'Quick Knife' Tommy tried to withdraw from the competition last time and is still in the hospital."

Viktor wiped the blood from his face with a towel. In the mirror, his left eye was so swollen he could barely open it. "Then tell him that forcing me into the ring will only make his investment go down the drain. A boxer with a broken rib can't even last three minutes in the ring."

Chapter 13: Thanks, Ten Thousand, Three Brothers

A chillingly calm voice came from outside the door: "Victor, open the door. Mr. White wants to talk to you."

The three of them froze simultaneously.

Jason slowly removed his hand from the doorknob. Michael took a deep breath, sprinkled some salt water on Victor's head, and whispered to Victor, "Remember, a fractured rib will hurt so much you won't be able to speak."

The door opened, and White walked in, standing out starkly from the rugged surroundings.

Behind him stood two burly men who looked like bodyguards, one of whom held a blood-stained bandage—Victor recognized it as a Slavic one.

"Congratulations, Victor,"

Mr. White smiled, a smile that reminded Victor of the corpses in his anatomy class, and said, “A great game. The odds against the Butcher on Saturday have risen to 5 to 1.”

Michael stepped forward: "Mr. White, Victor may have fractured a rib, we need to—"

Mr. White walked up to Victor, saw the cold sweat on his forehead, and suddenly reached out and pressed down hard on Victor's ribs.

A sharp pain shot through his body like an electric shock. Viktor gritted his teeth to stifle a cry, sweat streaming down his temples—this time it was no joke.

Mr. White withdrew his hand and took a silk handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his fingers.

"it's a pity,"

He said softly, "But I think if you go out and say you're unharmed, and then lose the next game, maybe I can still make 300,000?"

He turned and headed for the door, then stopped. "By the way, you've probably heard. That poor Slav didn't make it tonight. He had a spinal displacement and was already dead when the ambulance arrived."

Mr. White glanced back at Victor. "What a pity, he still owes me quite a bit of money."

Jason stood up: "Mr. White, Third Master sends his regards."

White's expression was stern: "Sri isn't here, and he doesn't need you to come."

Jason's teeth chattered, but he still spoke: "Victor is not a gangster. He is going to become a boxer. He was just helping Third Master and Mr. White this time. Victor and we are very grateful and thank Mr. White for this gift."

"Hahaha!"

White laughed, and his bodyguard tossed him a bag: "Here's your ten thousand dollars."

Jason and Michael packed their things and helped Victor leave. As they reached the door, Mr. White said, "Victor, you can come to me if you need anything. There's a place for you here."

Viktor forced a smile, cursing inwardly while expressing his gratitude aloud.

·······

The tires screeched on the wet asphalt as four black Cadillac Fleetwoods screeched to a halt at the bar’s back door like a pack of predators.

Jason, Michael, and Victor emerged from the back door of the bar and immediately spotted Franky holding a typewriter, along with the people getting out of the car one after another.

Viktor didn't say anything; he counted the people getting off the car.

Eight, no, nine.

They were all wearing dark suits with loose ties, and some had noticeable bulges at their waists.

Franky stood at the front, his typewriter fully loaded, magazine bulging as if it were about to burst. He tilted his head back and shouted at the top of his lungs:

"Victor! Jason! Michael! They're here! Hurry!"

The last word was almost shouted out, and several pedestrians across the street quickened their pace and left.

As the three approached, Franky impatiently tapped the sidewalk with the tip of his shoe.

The puddles left fine droplets on the shiny toes of his shoes.

"Damn it, what are you dawdling for?"

He got into the passenger seat and said, "Get in!"

As soon as the car doors closed, the convoy sped off as if it had heard a starting gun.

Victor was thrown onto the leather seat by inertia, his nostrils filled with a complex mix of leather, cologne, and a faint smell of gunpowder.

Franky turned around from the front row, draped his arm over the back of the seat, and his eyes gleamed with a morbid excitement.

"Fuck the Irish!"

His voice was so loud it hurt Victor's eardrums, "We sent ten men, five Thompsons, five shotguns, all fucking loaded! And those green hats didn't dare utter a single fart!"

Michael forced a smile: "Frankie, calm down, your ear is bleeding."

Franky wiped his left ear with his sleeve, then laughed even harder when he saw the blood: "Ha! This isn't my blood! That Slavic bitch tried to kick me with her high heels, so I made her do a ballet with a gun barrel in her throat!"

Victor noticed that the man in the driver's seat had a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his right hand, while the passenger in the passenger seat was wiping a wound on his face with a red handkerchief.