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

Victor landed another left hook, sending Fujimoto's mouthguard flying. It bounced off the ropes and landed at the referee's feet.

The Italian referee hesitated for a moment, seemingly considering whether he should stop the game.

It was that moment of hesitation!

“Speak up! You bastard born in a toilet!”

Victor gave him no chance to catch his breath, landing a left hook on his forehead. Fujimoto swayed like a drunkard, his eyes beginning to glaze over.

The referee finally stepped forward, but was too slow.

Victor took a half step back, his right hand drawing back like a fully drawn bowstring.

The red tiger tattoo on his back came to life under the sweat, pulsating with the contraction and relaxation of his muscles.

The entire audience held their breath, and the referee was shocked and immediately tried to grab Victor.

But the Vaseline made Victor's skin slippery, and the referee's fragile clinch was no match for the long-planned finishing punch.

The force of the 1100-pound punch was unleashed without reservation onto Fujimoto's already deformed face.

The dull thud of a fist striking facial bones reverberated throughout the arena through the loudspeaker, making everyone's teeth ache.

Fujimoto's head snapped back at an impossible angle, and he was sent flying like a rag doll, crashing into the ropes and slamming heavily onto the floor outside the boxing ring.

In the chaos, the referee ripped a corner of Viktor's shorts, then turned and stood in front of Viktor: "Stop! Stop!"

The entire stadium was silent for a second, then erupted in deafening screams and cheers.

The flashes of light created a white ocean.

Victor stood in the center of the boxing ring, his chest heaving violently, sweat streaming down his red tiger tattoo, glistening under the spotlight.

Fujimoto lay there motionless, blood gushing from his broken nose and mouth, fragments of his front teeth scattered around him.

When the medical team rushed up, Victor saw that one of Fujimoto's eyes was swollen shut, while the other stared blankly at the ceiling with a dilated pupil. His nose was gone, sunken in, and his mouth was open, full of blood.

"You damn bastard Japanese devil! When you get back, remember to get your brothers to put a new set of teeth on you!"

Viktor, his adrenaline still surging, shouted at Fujimoto on the stretcher, his voice filled with suppressed anger.

He knew the camera was pointed at him, and the whole world could see it, especially the audience in Japan—it was so cool!

"competition is over!"

The referee raised Viktor's arm. "Two minutes and twenty seconds into the first round, KO win!"

Victor raised his arms high, his red tiger tattoo gleaming in the sweat and lamplight. After the adrenaline subsided, his intellect took over, and he was still somewhat incredulous.

"How come this Japanese boxing champion is so easily defeated?"

He looked at Fujimoto's team; the Japanese men were pale-faced, and some were even crying.

Fujimoto remained unresponsive when he was lifted onto the stretcher; only the piercing scream of the electrocardiogram monitor proved that he was still alive.

Ethan gave him a thumbs-up from the audience, and the cameras kept rolling.

"That's the price."

Viktor spoke softly to Fujimoto's unconscious body, his voice drowned out by the cheers of the audience.

When Victor stepped off the ring, Tyson himself was standing in the tunnel waiting for him.

Young Beast Mike's eyes gleamed with admiration as he extended his fist towards him.

"A beautiful punch, Big Tiger!"

Tyson grinned and said, "Congratulations on your victory!"

Victor tapped his boxing gloves: "Congratulations in advance on your victory!"

Chapter 77 How to deal with Tyson?

Sweat streamed down Viktor's face and dripped onto the locker room floor.

He had just taken off his blood-stained boxing gloves; the skin on his knuckles was torn, revealing raw, red flesh—it was exhilarating to punch someone head-on, but a punch of 1100 pounds could injure his hand.

Damn Fujimoto!

The locker room was filled with the smell of sweat and rust, mixed with the pungent odor of disinfectant.

But strangers came to the door.

"It's you again, fucking?"

Viktor whirled around and glared at the drug testing officer standing in the doorway. The petite Japanese woman held a sample bottle in her hand and stared at him expressionlessly.

“Mr. Victor, according to regulations, we need to collect your urine sample again.”

The inspector's voice was irritatingly calm.

Viktor grabbed a towel and threw it on the ground: "Didn't we just have a drug test last night? Are you fucking targeting me?"

His voice echoed in the locker room, his muscular chest heaving violently.

Frankie and old Jack were also angry and communicated with the Japanese woman.

But to no avail.

The inspector adjusted his glasses: "I'm from Hokkaido and have no relation to Fujimoto Kyotaro. As for the frequency of drug tests, it's because your opponent just lost consciousness on the way to the hospital and is currently in the ICU."

Viktor paused for a moment, then let out a cold laugh: "So what? Life and death are decided in the boxing ring. He dares to challenge me with his mediocre skills?"

He roughly ripped off the bandages and tossed them into the trash can, then pulled down his pants: "You want a urine test, huh? Come on..."

But this Japanese woman actually got promoted.

Viktor was speechless, staring intently at the woman, feeling like he'd been taken advantage of.

He pulled up his pants and deliberately made a lot of noise while taking the sample. When Ethan delivered it, urine splashed onto the inspector's white coat.

The inspector frowned but said nothing, simply silently affixing the label.

Viktor fastened his pants, turned, and headed towards the shower. "Tell the Fujimoto family to prepare money for the funeral. Also, I'll send him a gift."

Hot water washed over Viktor's muscular body, and bubbles mixed with blood swirled and disappeared into the drain.

He closed his eyes and let the water splash on his face.

The image of Fujimoto Kyotaro collapsing at the last moment flashed through his mind—the Japanese man's left eye was so swollen he couldn't open it, his chin was tilted to one side, and he slumped on the rope like a rag doll.

Viktor cursed under his breath, squeezing out a handful of shampoo and vigorously rubbing his hair.

When he came out wrapped in a towel, the TV in the locker room was showing a live broadcast of the MGM Grand Garden Arena in Las Vegas.

Frankie and old Jack were already sitting there with several bottles of beer in front of them.

"Hey, assassin!"

Frankie raised his bottle. "I heard you got that Japanese guy into the ICU? Well done!"

Viktor shook his wet hair, grabbed a bottle of beer, and bit the cap off with his teeth: "He asked for it."

The cool liquid slid down my throat, and the satisfaction from the wheat drink replenished the glucose lost and took away a trace of fatigue.

On the television, the host was introducing the upcoming heavyweight championship fight: "Next up is 'Iron' Mike Tyson from Brooklyn, New York, with a professional record of 4 wins and 0 losses, and 100% KO!"

"Fuck, that shorty is here again."

Frankie curled his lip in disdain. "Look at his opponent, George Alderson, 193 cm tall with a 203 cm wingspan. The difference in physique is too great."

Old Jack narrowed his eyes: "Tyson isn't easy to deal with, that kid's speed—"

"Come on!"

Frankie interrupted him, "Alderson just needs to use his jabs to control the distance; Tyson's short legs won't be able to get close at all. I bet two hundred dollars that Alderson will win, at most six rounds."

Victor suddenly burst into laughter, beer foam spilling from the corner of his mouth: "Frankie, you're a fucking idiot."

He pulled out his mobile phone and pressed a few buttons quickly, then Michael gave a definite answer.

"I bet 200,000 at the casino in Trump that Tyson would finish the fight in two rounds."

Two hundred thousand? Are you crazy?

Frankie's eyes widened. "Give me this money and I might reluctantly give you my ass, considering Tyson's height disadvantage—"

Viktor grinned menacingly. "Just wait and see what a real beast is like. I've brought all the working capital and the shares that were sold!"

"I do not believe!"

"Then let's have a bet."

Victor pulled out a roll of $1,000. "Place your bet!"

Frankie looked at Victor, shook his head, and took out four hundred dollars: "I bet Tyson four rounds!"

"Haha, you believe Tyson too."

"I'm not as certain as you are!"

Why not go to the scene?

"Because the Japanese love using gunmen!"

"I think it's fine to watch it here too."

As the starting bell rang, the entire stadium erupted in deafening cheers.

Tyson charged at his opponent like a tiger unleashed from its cage, his short, stocky body incredibly agile.

His black boxing boots made almost no sound on the canvas floor, like a cheetah poised to hunt.

"My God, he's so fast!"

Frankie leaned forward unconsciously, his beer glass dangling in mid-air.

“I told Frankie Tyson that he was no ordinary heavyweight boxer and that he would be the most formidable opponent I would ever face in my boxing career.”

Victor's lips curled into a smug smile, his eyes fixed on the television screen hanging above the locker room: "Watch his every move, Frankie, old Jack, I need your advice on how to beat him!"

Frankie and old Jack continued watching—Victor still had at least a dozen more fights to go before he could face Tyson:

Viktor is currently ranked over 2,000 in the WBO. Even if he beats Fujimoto, he will only be ranked around 400 at most, and his appearance fee is only $30,000. Tyson's appearance fee is already $200,000 - given by Trump!

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