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

Frankie was furious.

But Michael jumped up from the sofa, strode over to Victor, and picked up another report to read carefully.

The more he looked, the more somber his expression became.

"My God, this is no longer just simple malnutrition! What is Old Joe doing? Is he using the money you make from making Yazi to subsidize us? Or are you consuming too much protein from making Yazi? The report shows that your bones should be a third thicker than they are now."

Franky glanced at the report, his lips twitching slightly: "That still doesn't require fifty thousand dollars..."

"You haven't been to school, so you don't know how serious these problems are."

Victor interrupted him, walked to the water dispenser, and gulped down three glasses of water in one go. "Frankie, I'm not Third Master's underling. Even though you always carry that brick-throwing machine with you, I know Third Master has been listening. And I agree with this:

Third Master, we are partners; I am not someone being used.

The training room lights cast shadows on Victor's face, where a fresh scar from the last match stood.

The wound had scabbed over, but after strenuous exercise, faint traces of blood oozed from the edges.

Michael noticed and took out disinfectant spray from the first-aid kit.

Jason commanded, "Your wound has reopened."

Viktor obediently sat on the training bench, letting Jason treat his wound.

The moment the disinfectant touched his skin, his muscles tensed, but he didn't make a sound.

Franky watched this scene, his eyes gleaming.

"If you don't do as Third Master says, he will be very angry."

Franky lowered his voice, the toothpick breaking in two between his fingers. "You know the consequences."

Viktor raised his head, his dark eyes looking directly at Franky, but not speaking to him: "Third Master, I know your methods. But I also know that if the professional boxing association finds out about my current physical condition, they won't give me a license at all."

He pointed to the report, "These indicators can't be improved with just a few good meals. I need a professional nutritionist, a physical therapist, and—"

"who do you think You Are?"

Franky suddenly stood up, his suit wrinkling from the sudden movement. "Third Master is giving you a chance because he thinks highly of you! Without Third Master, you'd still be selling your ass in Chicago!"

The air in the training room froze instantly.

Jason's hand froze in mid-air, the bottle of disinfectant spray making a cracking sound as he squeezed it.

Victor slowly stood up, half a head taller than Franky.

Despite his poor health, he still looked like a ferocious beast ready to pounce when he stood there.

"I thank Third Master for the opportunity."

Viktor's voice was unusually calm, but each word seemed to be squeezed out from between his teeth, "But I am not a puppet. I have my own plans."

Franky sneered, "Plan? What plan? Play professional matches with this body that's practically falling apart? Do you even know who your next opponent is?"

"I don't need this kind of arrangement, nor do I need to know who it is. His nose is broken, what can we do next?"

Viktor turned and walked to the sandbag, beginning to wrap bandages. "Third Master, but we can make a lot of money."

Franky's face flushed red: "You'll ruin the whole plan! How much resources has Third Master invested in you? Media publicity, packaging, even your damn 'Far East Tiger' nickname was designed by Third Master!"

Victor slammed his fist heavily on the sandbag, making a dull thud: "Third Master earns more."

“It’s not about the money!”

Franky practically roared, "This is trust! This is loyalty!"

Jason finally interjected, "Frankie, calm down. Victor's physical condition is indeed..."

"Shut up, Jason!"

Franky whirled around at him. "Who do you think you are? You're just a piece of trash who got knocked out by a third-rate boxer and was bedridden for two months! If it weren't for Old Joe's high regard for you, you wouldn't even deserve to be standing here!"

Jason's face turned ashen, but he did not back down: "Frankie, I will not give a eulogy at your funeral."

Franky suddenly laughed, a laugh that sent chills down one's spine: "Good, very good. Victor, since you're so opinionated, let's see how far you can go without Third Master's support."

He straightened his suit and walked towards the door.

The door slammed shut, the echo lingering in the training room for a long time.

Jason let out a long sigh and slumped onto the sofa as if all his strength had been drained away.

"You've gotten yourself into big trouble, Victor."

Jason rubbed his temples. "Third Master never likes disobedient people."

Victor continued to strike the sandbag, each punch carrying a resolute force: "I know."

"Then why..."

"But first and foremost, he won't turn down money!"

Sure enough, about ten minutes later, Franky kicked the door open and stormed in, brandishing a Motorola DynaTAC 8000X.

"You have some nerve! You didn't even try to stop me from leaving!"

Franky punched Jason and Michael once each, then handed the Motorola DynaTAC 8000X to Victor: "Third Master wants to talk to you!"

Viktor took the cell phone, and Third Master's voice came through:

"Victor, hello, I'm Fu San. I heard you have a business opportunity you'd like to discuss with me. Could you tell me more about it?"

Viktor organized his words:

"Third Master, I have health problems and need a lot of money for treatment. Also, according to the contract with Foucault Boxing Gym, I need a long time to train so that I can become a professional boxer."

"Are you trying to intimidate me with your Foucault gym?"

"That was never the intention."

“Then I can lend you $50,000, plus the $50,000 bonus, that should be enough for your treatment. You know I’m very friendly to you, and we have a bond between us.”

“I am grateful for Third Master’s kindness, but I am already eighteen years old. Adults cannot rely on the charity of others. This is what my parents taught me.”

“You are very filial, and I have high hopes for you, but we don’t need to be so distant. When you’re abroad, Chinese people need to help each other to survive in the hands of foreigners.”

"The boxing association will not allow someone with a gang background like me to enter the professional boxing arena."

"Is this your true thought? You're so impatient?"

"All I want is money."

You are lying.

"That's the truth."

"Unchangeable?"

“My mind is made up, but the Chinese community in the South will always be my support.”

"You're very good at talking, so let's talk business. You have three more rounds left, can you win them all?"

“One person has a fractured rib, one has a broken nose, and one only weighs 230 pounds. I don’t know how I can lose.”

You are not malnourished.

“I am already making improvements.”

"So, will you remember your life in the South District from now on?"

“I will be living in the South District for a long time to come, and I have already found a house.”

“Okay, the one with the fractured nose is in the second round. You need to lose. You will be the first place winner and you will also receive a $50,000 reward. You are not allowed to place bets.”

"I will cooperate, thank you, Third Master."

"I wish you a bright and glorious future. If anything happens, we will be your last haven."

Chapter 29 The Conspiracy and Third Master's Hands

In the underground boxing ring, where blood, sweat, and cheers mingled, Victor Far East Tiger Lee stood under the spotlight like a wild beast unleashed from its cage.

His shaved head reflected the blinding light, and the crimson tiger tattoo running from his back to his front twisted with the twitching of his muscles.

As soon as the referee announced the start of the match, Victor charged at his opponent like an out-of-control armored vehicle—Tom Hogan, the redneck farmer from Kentucky.

"Oh! Meatball impact!"

Spectators on the sidelines screamed and shouted out Victor's signature move.

Victor's charge was not an arc, but a straight line with a hook, which perfectly executed Tom's prediction, and both punches landed on Victor.

But the 361-pound mix of muscle and fat slammed into Tom's glove at an astonishing speed, producing a sickening thud.

Tom staggered backward, and before he could regain his footing, Victor's left hook came hurtling towards him.

The fist sank deep into Tom's right abdomen, where the old wound that had only healed last week suddenly felt a tearing pain.

The moment Tom bent over, Victor's right hook landed precisely on the same spot from below.

Tom coughed up a mouthful of stomach acid and his vision went black.

He could feel an ominous 'crack' sound coming from his right ribs, and the pain felt like a red-hot knife being plunged into his lung.

"Two minutes and twenty seconds!"

Someone on the sidelines announced the time, their voice filled with a bloodthirsty excitement.

Viktor gave his opponent no chance to breathe.

He was like a precise killing machine, every punch calculated perfectly.

A left hook strikes the liver, a right straight punch hits the solar plexus, followed by a left hook that smashes into the already injured right ribs.

Tom leaned against the ropes, his legs weak, and the figure of Victor in front of him had multiplied into three.

"Damn yellow-skinned pigs..."

Tom's lips moved, but the sound was barely audible.

A cruel smile tugged at Victor's lips. He took a half step back, then delivered a perfect right uppercut from below, piercing through Tom's defenseless defense and striking him squarely in the chin.

Tom's head snapped back, and his body slid to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

But Victor's action wasn't over—before the referee could stop him, he delivered a heavy left punch, striking Tom's already fractured right ribs.