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

Redo's body levitated a few centimeters into the air before collapsing to the ground like a rag doll.

The referee stopped the game before even finishing the countdown.

As the medics rushed into the ring, Victor had already turned and walked to his corner. He ripped off his mouthguard, spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, and laughed wildly at the audience below.

"Thank me! You got to watch two more rounds of the match!"

The audience erupted in deafening cheers and hysterical shouts, and flashbulbs went off like a storm.

But Viktor simply looked up at the big screen, where the moment of the KO was being replayed. Frame by frame.

What he saw was not Redo, but Drago's cold face and Tyson's calm yet wild appearance.

"Match over! Viktor is the winner!"

The referee raised Victor's arm, but the victor's gaze pierced through the crowd.

"Chicago Regional Champion, Victor Lee!!" The announcer's voice was almost drowned out by the cheers: "He will represent Chicago and Illinois in the National Boxing Championships starting on the 18th!"

Viktor didn't raise his arm; he simply mechanically accepted the gold belt.

When ESPN reporter Max squeezed in with a microphone, he rudely pushed the camera away, remembering Max's instructions: "My friend Apollo has been killed, I am not giving interviews at this time."

But that evening, in a smoke-filled apartment near Lincoln Park, Victor accepted $2,000 in cash from a reporter from the Chicago Sports Journal—all for the sake of an exclusive.

The bald, middle-aged man's pen moved rapidly across the notebook.

"So, Apollo's death is the reason you're so... radical tonight?"

Victor's fist clenched and unclenched unconsciously—eating the dead was a despicable thing to do, but Max had suggested he do it.

"I was unable to calm down, so I overreacted."

The following day, the front page of the Chicago Sports Journal featured a photo of Victor knocking out Redo, accompanied by the sensational headline "Avenging Angel: The Furious Punch of the Far East Fat Tiger".

Even more noteworthy is the interview inside the pages, in which Victor announces that he will turn professional after the U.S. National Championships.

This news caused a huge uproar within his team—his agent, Max, was unaware of it.

The debate had been going on for two hours in the conference room of Foucault's boxing gym.

You're only nineteen!

Foucault, playing the role of promoter, slammed his hand on the table, sweat trickling down his forehead to the tip of his nose. "Experience in amateur competitions will be crucial for your future—"

"Amateur competitions with protective gear are really not suitable for me!"

Viktor's reasoning was sound: "My fat only comes in handy in professional matches where I don't wear protective gear!"

Max remained silent.

Coach Jack wanted to say something.

"I need money."

Viktor interrupted him, his voice eerily calm: “Professional boxers are paid twenty times more for appearances than amateurs.”

Old Jack slammed his tactical board on the ground: "Damn it! When did you become so mercenary? Boxing is an art! Look at Ali's butterfly footwork, look at Sugar Ray's rhythm! Not every boxer deserves a knockout—"

"But knocking them down can make money."

Victor's gaze swept over everyone. "And he can take down anyone, just like Drago took down Apollo, regardless of the process, the outcome is predetermined."

The meeting room suddenly fell silent.

The group then tacitly agreed to this:

Both Jack and Foucault actually supported Viktor.

After everyone left, Max, who had been silently leaning against the sandbag in the corner, slowly spoke up: "These are not the real reasons!"

Victor did not answer, but his knuckles tapped out an uneasy rhythm on the table.

“Listen, Victor, you’re being incredibly disrespectful to me! Just like how you tried to get me to move into your apartment the first time we met!”

Max approached, the scent of her perfume unable to suppress her anger: "You should have told me about your official announcement of entering professional boxing first! Then I would have sold the news for a reasonable price! Instead of being so passive now! I don't even have a concrete plan!"

"I don't need a nanny."

Viktor stood up, his shadow filling most of the room. His excitement upon learning that Tyson had entered the professional boxing ring made him eager to fight Tyson to determine his own boxing level. So Viktor said something quite irrational: "Either come with me and live a life of luxury, or go our separate ways."

Max listened to Victor's words, gave him a deep look, and before leaving, said, "Victor, I am your agent, we are one! You shouldn't lie to me."

Chapter 52: The National Tournament After the Unexpected Turn of Events

After training that evening, Max cornered Victor in the locker room.

His agent handed him a newspaper clipping—news about Tyson's most recent fight, next to which was news of Drago's European title defense.

“I haven’t known you for long, Victor. You were angry the day Apollo died. You were angry because of your friendship, but you’re not the kind of person who would provoke Drago for Apollo’s sake, and your anger wasn’t for revenge against Apollo.”

Because in your heart only you are the most important person, you're like someone who doesn't belong to this world, always passively rejecting and actively striving for improvement. This is exhausting. Perhaps the only person who truly holds a place in your heart is your Uncle Joe; Michael Ethan and the others are just extras to Uncle Joe.

Max's voice was unusually firm: "But now you're so eager to enter the professional boxing ring, there must be another reason! Can you tell me?"

Viktor wiped the blood and sweat from his face with a towel, and after a long silence, he said:

"Do you know why kids in the slums box, Max? Not because of some bullshit art."

Victor looked at her: "Max, because we are just like you, America only offers us a few paths. Even a smart woman like you can be reduced to the bottom because of tuition fees."

Max sighed, enraged by Victor's latest lie: "Don't tell me it's for money! With your abilities, you wouldn't be short of money even if you sold yourself. I want the truth."

Victor threw the notebook out: "That's what I think. See for yourself."

"A diary containing your innermost thoughts? Are you Truman? Waving Roosevelt's banner while abandoning his governing principles?"

Max tossed the notebook aside: "I'd rather listen to your lies; at least the things you say about swearing are true!"

Viktor opened his notebook, turned to the first page, where he had just written the night before: "Defeat the strongest man; conquer the most beautiful woman!"

Max glanced at it a few times, his gaze fixed firmly on Victor.

"So this is the kind of person you are! But where in America did you come from, knight?"

Max relentlessly mocked, his chest trembling as his white T-shirt nearly burst open: "The knights have all died in Europe. The Americans who are alive now are the offspring of illegal immigrants, cowards who dare not go to war, and a whole bunch of sluts."

Victor looked at Max: "America is America, Chicago is Chicago, and I am me."

"You're overthinking it. Capital is dripping with blood and filth from every pore. Anything tainted by capital is filthy. This is true in America, and it's true in professional boxing. Being able to fight isn't the only factor!"

Max then took a document from his briefcase: "Because of your distrustful attitude, this is my resignation letter. Effective at the end of March."

She paused for a moment, then said, "You should have just finished the U.S. Championships back then."

Viktor took the document, the paper trembling slightly in his hand.

When he looked up again, Max had already walked to the door, looking resolute.

“I’ll find you a more suitable agent,”

Max's figure appeared hunched over in the corridor lights, "a guy who can handle 'murder business'."

Victor urged him to stay, saying, "Then what about your financial situation?"

Max heard Victor's plea to stay as a threat.

“Victor, this is none of your business.”

Max said nonchalantly, "I'll send you the expense report, then you'll reimburse me, pay my salary afterwards, and then we're even!"

The sound of the door closing was particularly jarring in the empty locker room.

Viktor sat alone on the bench, his fist unconsciously pounding against the locker next to him.

With a metallic clang, Victor realized that he had likely lost a friend, just as Xiao An was still below when Bei Yue was flying, and the Dreamer was nowhere to be found.

As he left the boxing gym, the Chicago night breeze blew away a single, damp tear from the corner of his eye.

Viktor told himself it was just sweat, and then strode into the neon-lit city, towards the future that awaited him, a future filled with blood and money.

······

In March, Colorado Springs still carried the chill of winter in the air—the group had already arrived in the national tournament city for the U.S. Championships.

Max was completely businesslike.

Victor stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of the hotel gym, watching the outline of the Rocky Mountains gradually become clear in the morning light.

His massive frame was reflected in the glass—his 185cm height seemed 'short' compared to his 371kg weight, and his rugged face, which Old Jack had described as 'scaring enough to make children cry,' was now covered with a beard—only then did I realize where his chin was.

"Stop daydreaming. Max is clearly a very determined girl. Once she's made up her mind, she'll definitely leave unless the world ends right now."

Michael's voice came from behind, "Three more sets of strength training today to keep our muscles active. We have to finish them before old Jack comes back."

Victor turned around and saw Michael already standing next to the barbell rack, his eyes fixed on him.

Michael was nearly six centimeters shorter and two hundred pounds lighter than him, but the food he cooked had caused Victor a lot of trouble.

"What do you think I should do to win her back?"

Viktor muttered as he walked toward the equipment area, his heavy footsteps causing the wooden floor to groan under the strain.

The other customers in the gym all turned to look.

A blonde woman jogging on a treadmill nearly tripped as she stared wide-eyed at Victor's triceps, which were as big as a mini-fridge.

Viktor noticed her gaze, habitually lowered his head to do the next set, then looked up and glared at her—in his eight years as a fat man, he had long been used to being an oddity among people.

"Hey, forget about all that. You can't keep Max here, not even if you have missiles."

Michael tossed him a pair of training gloves. "Focus on your lower body today. Nelson likes to attack his opponent's lower body."

Victor put on his gloves, recalling the game footage he had watched yesterday.

Steve Nelson, a rising star in American amateur boxing, is 22 years old and boasts an astonishing record of 27 wins and 1 loss.

His butterfly-like agility and bee-like sharp jabs have already attracted high offers from three professional boxing agents.

Do you think I can win?

Viktor suddenly asked, his voice so low it was almost inaudible.

"What's the difference between this and drawing lots to ask whether the war will go smoothly?"

Michael stopped adjusting the weight plates and looked at him seriously: "What did old Jack say? There are only two kinds of people in the boxing ring—winners and losers. You're asking me this kind of question like a damn loser."