69novels Page 25
Page 25
The addicts nodded greedily.
Victor handed the money to the one who seemed the most sober, then gave Mark one last look.
Mark was so frightened that he lost control of his bladder, his face covered in tears and snot, and he kept begging.
"Enjoy your party, Mark."
After Viktor finished speaking, he turned and left the room.
As he went upstairs, he heard the first heart-wrenching scream coming from the basement.
Michael and Jason were already waiting outside, and the three of them silently walked towards the parking lot.
When dawn broke, they went back to check and found Mark completely disfigured and robbed of everything.
The car was completely silent on the way back to Chicago.
Only after they reached the highway did Jason speak: "Will he call the police?"
Viktor gazed at the darkness rushing past the window, a cold smile playing on his lips: "The best outcome is that his father finds him alive. HIV and a vegetative state, I don't know how he'll call the police. Besides, last night's revelry ruined the scene."
Michael glanced at Victor in the rearview mirror: "You're so vicious!"
Chapter 21 160 to 80: Victory
The first round of the South District Thug Boxing Tournament, after the preliminary rounds, was filled with the smells of sweat, blood, and adrenaline.
The rings were set up at the Chicago Elite Boxing Club in the South Side, and the area around the rings was packed with spectators from different gangs, companies and organizations.
There is no boxing organization in the South District, only the Police Sports Federation is in charge, so the strength of this match is actually limited.
Aside from the cheering ordinary boxing fans, there were also gamblers with sinister eyes and spies from various factions, all assessing the strength of each participant and calculating the future distribution of profits.
And at the very least, Chicago journalists and boxing scouts from all over the country—they desperately wanted a worthy heavyweight boxer to emerge, even if it was one in a million.
Victor Lee stood in the preparation area next to the ring, his massive 361-pound frame resembling a moving mountain in the dim light.
His two cousins, Michael and Jason, were busy applying Vaseline to his shoulders and back, the greasy paste gleaming eerily on his bronze skin—because the smoother it was, the less impact he would get.
"Listen carefully, your opponent is from a security company, not an ordinary person!"
Michael spoke in Hakka, his hands still moving, "This isn't a street brawl; the rules are stricter, but it's also your chance to show others your strength!"
Ethan added, “People from the Chicago Boxing Club, the Chicago Gold Gloves, the Chicago Park Area Boxing Program, and the Illinois State Athletic Commission all came.”
Viktor cracked his neck, making a snapping sound: "I know. Eighty people will be selected from sixteen venues, plus eighty people recommended by various forces. I will seize the opportunity!"
Jason inspected Victor's boxing bandages: "The Green Dragon Society sent three boxers, two from the Vietnamese gang, and those Russians... The security company's veterans are the most dangerous; they don't care about the rules."
The referee's whistle interrupted their conversation.
Victor took off his sports jacket, revealing his bronzed upper body, and walked towards the ring.
A commotion immediately erupted in the audience—partly because of his astonishing physique, and partly because of the complete tiger head tattoo on his back, which looked incredibly lifelike under the lights.
The tattoo was done at a Chinese tattoo parlor after Mark was dealt with. This would give Victor and his two companions an alibi and also make Victor's name more famous!
If the free United States doesn't want its reputation to disappear like the tornadoes that sweep from south to north and back again every year, it needs a distinctive symbol—the image of the Far Eastern tiger is quite good, so he got a tattoo of a tiger coming down a mountain, with the tiger's head on his chest.
"Arena #3, Round 1 Elimination Round!"
The referee loudly proclaims, "Red team, 'Iron Wall' Johnson from the South District Security Company! Six feet five inches tall! Twenty-seven games, twenty-four wins!!"
"Blue Team, the Far East Tiger Victor Lee, who fought his way through the open qualifiers! Six wins, six losses!"
Victor's opponent was a burly white man with a buzz cut, nearly two meters tall, with muscles as defined as steel plates.
He had the military motto "Never Back Down" tattooed on his chest, and his eyes revealed the murderous intent of someone returning from the battlefield.
When the two men bumped fists in the center of the ring, Victor could smell the tobacco and whiskey in his opponent's breath.
"A yellow-skinned, fat pig!"
Johnson sneered in a low voice, "I'll turn your yellow face purple."
Victor simply grinned, revealing his pure white canine teeth.
The bell rang, and the boxing match began.
Johnson Crawford stood in the center of the ring, his blue boxing gloves lightly touching his forehead—a gesture he made before every match—a tribute to his deceased comrades.
As a former Marine, his muscle memory is faster than his mental reaction time.
The moment the referee announced the start of the match, his body automatically entered a fighting state.
"Come on, Chinaman."
Johnson silently recited the words to himself, his eyes fixed on the mountain-like figure standing three meters away.
Victor Lee—that's the name his opponent registered. This 184-centimeter-tall, 361-pound Chinese giant stood quietly at the opposite corner, his thick eyelids concealing a pair of eyes as cold as ice.
He was wearing blue shorts, and his bare upper body was covered with a thick layer of fat, but Johnson's warrior instincts told him that beneath that fat lay well-trained muscles.
As soon as the bell rang, Johnson immediately demonstrated the tactical skills of a veteran.
He leaped forward like a spring, delivering a sharp left jab straight at Victor's face, followed by a left hook aimed at his liver—a deadly combo he had learned in Marine Corps combat training, which had brought down countless provocateurs in street brawls.
But Victor's reaction made Johnson's pupils shrink.
This seemingly clumsy Chinese giant's defensive stance was flawless—he slightly turned his body, letting the jab graz his ear, while simultaneously using his elbow to precisely block the hook aimed at his liver.
What's even more unsettling is that Victor didn't blink once throughout, as if he had anticipated Johnson's every move, and he remained expressionless, unlike an eighteen-year-old.
"Is that all you have?"
Viktor mocked in heavily accented English, then launched a counterattack.
His right straight punch came out like a cannonball, his entire 361-pound weight pressing down on that blow.
Johnson managed to raise his arms to block, but was still thrown back three steps, his back slamming hard against the ropes.
The impact from the boxing gloves made his forearm go numb, as if he had just blocked a speeding car.
"Holy shit!"
The audience erupted in gasps—no one had expected this giant Chinese man to possess such terrifying speed and strength.
Johnson shook his numb arm and readjusted his breathing.
He had participated in 27 amateur boxing matches and won 24 of them, but he had never encountered an opponent like this before.
Viktor's size and strength far exceeded that of an amateur boxer, but what was even more terrifying was his technique—his defensive maneuvers and timing of counterattacks were absolutely professional-level.
"Don't let him intimidate you, John! Keep your pace!"
Coach Mark's roar could be heard from the sidelines.
Johnson nodded and began to move around Victor.
He is almost a hundred pounds lighter than Victor, so his agility should be an advantage.
But when he tried to cut in from the side, Victor's seemingly clumsy body spun at an astonishing speed, always keeping himself facing Johnson.
The first round became a pure display of violence.
Johnson tried various combinations of punches, but each punch felt like hitting a greased concrete wall—Victor's thick body seemed to absorb all the impact with its layer of fat.
Conversely, Viktor's counterattack was like a hammer pounding on a fragile plank.
Although he only threw seven punches, each one made Johnson's body tremble.
An uppercut grazed Johnson's chin, his teeth clenched tightly, and he tasted blood on his tongue.
A blow to his ribs made it hard for him to breathe, as if his lungs were being squeezed into a ball.
The bell that signaled the end of the first round was like heavenly music.
Johnson staggered back to the corner, plopped down on a stool, and gasped for breath.
Sweat mixed with nosebleed dripped onto his thigh, and his right eye began to swell, blurring his vision.
"Damn it, who exactly is this guy?"
Johnson spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, took the ice pack handed to him by the coach, and pressed it against his right eye.
Coach Mark's expression was grave: "I've never seen an amateur fighter like this before. His defense is perfect, every punch is calculated precisely—or rather, it's about conserving energy, and—"
He lowered his voice, "I noticed his posture and the way he exerted force, which suggests he may have practiced traditional martial arts."
In another corner, Victor sat quietly, barely breaking a sweat.
Michael whispered in his ear, "Stop messing around. Tomorrow is still the first round, and the day after tomorrow is the second round. If you win this game, it will be very difficult for you in the next one. You need to conserve your energy and avoid injury."
Jason is indeed impressive; he's already working hard for the next match.
Victor nodded expressionlessly, his gaze passing through the ring and landing on Johnson in the opposite corner.
The American soldier was tougher than he had imagined, but that was all—his body fat percentage was too low, so he couldn't take a beating at all.
He stretched his shoulders, feeling the surging power within him—his targeted striking training had made his body almost immune to blows under 260 pounds; this amateur competition was just a warm-up.
When the bell rang for the second round, Viktor's expression changed.
He stopped testing the waters and pounced on his prey like a real tiger.
As soon as Johnson adopted a defensive stance, Victor feinted to break through his defense and then delivered three consecutive hooks to shatter Johnson's stance.
A left hook landed precisely on Johnson's chin.
The burly security guard froze as if he had been electrocuted, his pupils dilating instantly.
Before he could fall, Victor landed a second right hook, which slammed into Johnson's ribs.
Johnson's 200-pound body slammed onto the ring like a rag doll with a dull thud.
His limbs twitched unconsciously a few times, then became completely still.
The referee immediately rushed over to stop the match, and medical staff also quickly rushed onto the stage.
The entire Chicago Elite Boxing Gym fell silent for a second, then erupted in deafening cheers from the Chinese audience section.
Viktor turned and went back to his corner expressionlessly, without even glancing at his fallen opponent.
"1 minute and 23 seconds,"
Michael glanced at his watch and nodded in satisfaction. "Faster than expected."