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

On the bedside table was a registration form for the Foucault Boxing Gym, clearly printed with the words 'National Boxing Championship Chicago Qualifier'.

The date is March 6, 1985, a full month away.

Outside the window, the neon lights of the South District began to flash.

Victor drew the curtains and pulled an iron box out from under the bed.

There was a small amount of lime and some bandages inside, which were once Viktor's cheating tools, but now Viktor pushed them to the very back:

I've worked so hard, can't I at least be upright and honest?

The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight pierced through the skyscrapers of Chicago, Victor had already completed a five-kilometer weighted jog and a five-kilometer brisk walk.

Inside Foucault's boxing gym, old Jack is wiping his old-fashioned stopwatch.

"Start reducing training intensity today,"

Old Jack, without looking up, said, "But the intensity remains the same."

Viktor nodded and walked towards the sandbag area.

He knew the next two weeks would be like hell, but he was used to hell.

Now, the same weight, but a completely different composition.

"Don't get cocky,"

Old Jack seemed to read his mind. "You'll meet real opponents in the selection trials. They're professionals, not lumberjacks, electricians, or police officers—those unprofessional people. Those guys aren't as easy to deal with as the small-time thugs from the South District."

Victor put on his boxing gloves and began hitting the punching bag.

With each punch, he could feel the flow of power, from the soles of his feet to his waist and abdomen, then to his shoulders, and finally converging at the tip of his fist.

The sandbags made a dull thud, and the chains creaked.

"Rhythm! Pay attention to the rhythm!"

Old Jack roared from the side, "Do you think this is a house being demolished? No matter how angry you get, you must first maintain your composure! You must remain calm even in the midst of rage!"

Viktor adjusted his breathing and began practicing his combination punches.

A left jab probes, followed by a right straight punch, and a left hook finishes the move.

Sweat quickly soaked through his vest, but he didn't stop. The scene of the selection competition was already flashing through his mind—the spotlight, the judges raising his hand, the audience erupting in cheers…

Old Jack stopped the stopwatch. "Go take a shower. We'll practice defense this afternoon."

Viktor ripped off his boxing gloves and found that his knuckles were raw and bleeding.

Blood seeped out, but he felt no pain—these hands had been through so much, from being beaten up in the South District to now being able to deliver punches with nearly 1000 pounds of force.

As he showered, the hot water washed over his taut muscles.

Victor closed his eyes and recalled that pivotal night six months ago—when he agreed to go on stage with Old Joe.

Now, the answer is obvious.

The afternoon training was even more brutal.

Old Jack personally took to the field, attacking Victor's defensive weaknesses from all sorts of tricky angles.

"Pull your chin in! You don't have that disgusting triple chin anymore!"

"Raise your hand higher! Haven't you eaten? You can't even get your hand up!"

"Move! Don't stand there like a wooden stake!"

Three hours later, Viktor slumped in a corner, panting heavily.

His ribs burned, and his lip was cut, but his eyes burned with an indomitable flame.

Old Jack tossed him a bottle of water: "We'll continue tomorrow."

But in the afternoon, several uninvited guests arrived at the Foucault Boxing Gym.

"Is this the 'monster' you were talking about?"

A well-dressed middle-aged man looked Viktor up and down. "He certainly looks big. Like a yellow-skinned gorilla."

Old Jack stood aside, his expression serious: "Hank, he's ten times better than those show-offs under your command."

The man named Hank smiled and took a contract out of his briefcase: "The tournament sponsorship agreement, let's sign it in advance. I have high hopes for you, kid."

Victor didn't reach out, but looked at old Jack instead.

The old man shook his head almost imperceptibly.

"We'll talk about it after the game,"

"Right now, I just want to focus on the game," Viktor said calmly.

Hank raised an eyebrow and put away the contract: "I have ideas. But I hope your fists are as hard as your mouth."

Viktor smiled and said, "Mr. Hank, maybe we can sign a contract after I pass the selection competition. After all, not many people can punch 1000 pounds."

Hank left immediately—because they couldn't reduce costs.

“You did the right thing. These vampires only take a cut when you win, and they disappear without a trace when you lose. Besides, you have almost no net worth now.”

After they left, old Jack patted Victor on the shoulder:

"Bring your friends to my house tonight."

Chapter 40 Apollo Needs a Boxer Like Ivan

At 5:30 p.m., the setting sun bathed the brick walls of Chicago's Chinatown in an orange-red hue.

Victor tucked the birthday presents he had bought under his arm and waited for Jimmy and the others to come down, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

"Hey, boss, we should get going."

Michael walked out of the store, waving an exquisite cigar box in his hand. "I bought it for a full five dollars. Old Jack will definitely like it."

Victor turned around, a sneer on his lips. "I hope your five dollars are worth more than mine. I don't want to listen to that old man nagging all night about how 'young people these days don't know manners' and such."

Ethan and Jimmy also emerged from the back door of the laundromat.

Ethan held a red brocade box in his hand, on which the three Chinese characters 'Bu Shen Da Li Wan' (Kidney-Nourishing and Powerful Pill) were embroidered in gold thread;

Jimmy waved a handmade card with "20% off all year round" written on it in colored markers, signed "Victory Laundry of the Four" by Victor.

Do you think Old Jack really needs kidney tonics?

Jimmy asked with a wicked grin, while stuffing the card into his suit pocket.

Victor pulled two beautifully packaged bottles of Chinese liquor from under the counter: "Does he need it? At least Michael and I are best suited for it, while Ethan's gift is the most Chinese-style, and Jimmy, your gift is the most practical!"

He glanced at his watch. "Let's go, or we'll miss the opening."

The four locked the laundromat door and drove along the crowded streets of Chinatown toward Old Jack's residence.

"Seriously, Victor."

Michael asked from behind, "Why do you think old Jack specifically invited you? His birthday parties are always private gatherings with family and a few old friends."

Viktor shrugged: "Maybe he's finally decided to give me a high-quality match."

"Or his daughter came back,"

Ethan chimed in from behind, "I heard Millie is graduating from college this year."

Jimmy whistled: "Wow, our boss is meeting the parents?"

Victor turned around and glared at them.

There are many rumors about old Jack's daughter, Millie—she's smart, beautiful, and a track and field star at university.

But Viktor had never met her; he only knew that she was five years older than him and had been studying in another city.

“It’s black.”

After turning two blocks, they arrived at an old-fashioned red-brick apartment building.

This four-story building is a rare, well-preserved old house, and old Jack lives on the top floor.

Victor rang the doorbell, and after a moment, the door opened a crack.

"Did you bring the gift?"

A hoarse voice asked.

Viktor held up two bottles of liquor: "Two bottles of your favorite Chinese baijiu, isn't that enough?"

The door opened fully, and old Jack Morrison stood in the doorway. Although he was fifty-seven or fifty-eight years old, his upright posture as a retired U.S. soldier made him look ten years younger than his actual age.

His short, gray hair stood up like a steel brush, and the scar above his right eye, which stretched from his brow bone to his cheek, was particularly noticeable under the light.

"Come in, boys,"

Old Jack took the gift, glanced at it briefly, and said, "I hope you didn't buy anything stupid."

But when he saw Ethan's kidney tonic, he couldn't help but burst out laughing. "My God, Ethan, do you think I'm old enough to need this?"

Ethan winked slyly: “Prevention is better than cure, sir.”

Old Jack shook his head, but Ethan's things were placed at the highest position.

He led them into the living room. Victor immediately noticed how lively the party was today.

There were at least a dozen people in the living room, and the air was filled with the mixed smells of cigars, whiskey, and roasted meat.

"It seems we're not the only guests,"

Michael said in a low voice.

Viktor's gaze swept across the room, recognizing several familiar faces—Foucault's boxing coach from Foucault's gym was standing in the corner talking to a man in his fifties, his signature hairstyle gleaming under the light;

Ray Johnson, the gym's head sparring partner, was stuffing a piece of grilled meat into his mouth when he saw Victor and raised his beer glass in greeting.

But what really caught Viktor's attention were two unfamiliar faces—a man in his early thirties and a young woman in her twenties talking by the window.

The man was wearing a crisp military-style shirt with a military doctor's badge on his shoulder;

The woman was wearing a simple black dress, and her chestnut hair was tied into a neat ponytail—surprisingly, she wasn't Black!

"Who is that?"