area51novel Page 6
Page 6
Viktor obediently turned around, feeling those eyes scanning every inch of his muscles like an X-ray.
"South District Thug Boxing Tournament?"
Zhao, the boxing master, suddenly asked, and then naturally replied, "Qiaoqiao, he can go fight, nothing will happen to him."
Victor and Old Joe exchanged a surprised look.
"How do you know?"
"Victor asked in a low voice."
"Walking here without getting out of breath means you have good endurance and aren't the kind of idiot who can't even see his lap."
Looking at Viktor's body covered in fat and muscle, Zhao the boxer said, "With this kind of muscle, as long as you can stand still and stay upright, you are one of the most capable fighters. There are very few people in the South Division who can reach 300 pounds. The only person who can kill you with boxing gloves is someone who can punch you in the chin."
Old Joe was overjoyed: "Then we don't need to worry anymore."
Ten dollars.
Master Zhao values money a lot.
Viktor paid the money readily and asked directly, "Do I have a chance to make the top sixteen?"
Master Zhao sneered, picked up the purple clay teapot on the table and poured himself a cup of tea: "Southern District competitions usually attract amateur boxers and some poor, older professional boxers who aren't worried about getting injured. They've been trained. How much of a chance do you think you have to make a living this way?"
Victor looked at Master Zhao: "How much money will increase my chances?"
"Six hundred dollars, for three days."
Zhao, the boxer, suddenly said, "With that kind of physique, I can teach you how to survive against those third-rate professional boxers."
Old Joe's eyes widened. "You usually go for two hundred—"
"Trainees weighing over 300 pounds require special equipment and nutrition plans."
Zhao the boxer interrupted him, but his eyes remained fixed on Viktor. "Moreover, teaching an adult with absolutely no boxing skills to keep him from getting killed within a month is a very reasonable price."
Victor did not hesitate.
He pulled a cloth bag from his underwear, counted out six hundred-dollar bills, and placed them on the table: "I only have one month left."
Master Zhao put away the money with such speed it was almost like magic.
"Let's go to the hospital."
"I'm puzzled," Victor asked.
Do you think Chinese Kung Fu is just about feeling someone's pulse with your eyes closed?
Master Zhao had already picked up his coat. "Times have changed. Read more books. Modern medicine is more accurate than mine. That's the way to survive."
The medical examination center at St. Mary's Hospital had never seen such a combination before—an elderly Asian man in a traditional Chinese suit with a fat man who looked like a door panel.
The nurses' whispers turned into mockery when Victor took off his shirt—he really was a fat man.
However, a moment later:
"God,"
The young female doctor adjusted her glasses. "I've never seen such muscle and bone density before... wait, his tendons... this isn't right..."
She stared at the X-ray, "That stick is so sexy!"
Master Zhao leaned closer to look at the screen and suddenly revealed a rare smile.
"One more,"
He muttered to himself in Chinese, “A natural-born martial artist.”
The test results shocked all the medical staff:
Height: 184cm
Wingspan: 201cm (far exceeding the body's proportions)
Weight: 172 kg (approximately 380 lbs)
Muscle density: 47% higher than average
Bone density: 32% higher than normal
Number of tendons: Each of the four limbs has one additional major tendon.
"You're a genius! That explains why you can serve those fat women all night without getting tired,"
Zhao, the boxer, gripped Victor's elbow and complained to Old Joe, "A body like that is made for fighting! You bastard, you actually sent him to be a yandere!"
Back at the boxing gym, Master Zhao had Victor stand in front of a specially made force measuring device.
"Punch your way."
Viktor used his waist to generate power and delivered a right straight punch that landed squarely on the bullseye, but it felt like smashing steel bars on a construction site.
The machine emitted a piercing alarm—458 pounds.
Master Zhao adjusted his posture, "Don't just use your arms, imagine that your fist is generating force from the ground."
The second punch – 487 pounds.
A flicker of excitement flashed in Master Zhao's eyes, but he quickly regained his seriousness:
"Your strength is enough for amateur competitions; you can't develop it in three days anyway. Your power generation is far from sufficient. Just remember the feeling and keep practicing. But your footwork..."
He shook his head. "Even a drunk monkey is more steady than you."
"But don't worry, I'll step in and correct it."
Zhao told Old Joe, "If your nephew can get down to 320 pounds, he will be one of the most powerful heavyweight boxers ever."
·······
When Old Joe pushed open the creaking wooden door of the Old Oak Bar, his smile was brighter than the summer afternoon sun.
His faded denim jacket swayed gently with his steps, and his work boots left clear marks on the wooden floor.
"Hey Joe, is your cougar willing to pay for your drinks?"
Bartender Tom looked up from behind the bar, his glass gleaming under the lights. "Or did you get some extra money after your nephew left?"
Old Joe didn't answer immediately, but instead slowly walked to the bar, deliberately keeping everyone in suspense.
The few regulars sitting sparsely in the bar all turned around—the Chinese community here is very united, and Old Joe's family affairs always bring some fresh stories.
"Give me a whiskey, Tom."
Old Joe patted the bar, then looked around to make sure everyone was listening. "I have some news to tell you, news that will make the whole of Milton boil over."
The sound of the wine being poured into the glass was crisp and pleasant.
Old Joe picked up his glass, letting the amber liquid swirl under the light, and then drank it all in one gulp.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with pride.
"My nephew,"
He paused deliberately, then said, "Victor has decided to participate in the South District Thug Boxing Tournament!"
The bar fell silent instantly; even the clinking of ice cubes in glasses could be clearly heard.
Tom's rag stopped in mid-air.
"You are joking?"
A hoarse voice came from the corner: "Your nephew's business of dealing with yazi isn't doing well, and he's going to box? He must weigh 400 pounds! Can he even run?"
Old Joe downed his drink triumphantly: "I already said, my nephew's physique is perfectly suited for fighting!"
"Oh, Jojo, you've been fooled. Your nephew is only good at fooling fat women that no one else wants to serve!"
"Shut up! Who can beat 400-pound Victor?"
Someone knew about Viktor's incredible feats at school: "Viktor can knock a 160-pound guy out of the water, I believe he can!"
Oh my god!
"real or fake?"
"One of the thugs from the South District High School had surgery done here; his jaw was shattered."
"Good heavens, Joe, this is a big deal!"
Tom poured Old Joe another glass. "How old is that kid Victor? Twenty?"
"Twenty-three centimeters!"
Old Joe corrected, gently tracing the photo with his fingers, "But he's only eighteen. I hope he has a bright future! We can all go see it together then!"
Old Joe gestured exaggeratedly, "His right hand has 485 pounds of strength! That power, that speed—a natural-born boxer!"
The atmosphere in the bar suddenly became lively—the South Division match could be bet on.
Old Joe was surrounded, drinking glass after glass, recounting over and over how Victor knocked out the teeth of a bully who was harassing his classmates with a left hook, and how he knocked out five opponents in a row in high school.
"What makes me happiest is that my nephew finally acted like a man, not backing down, but choosing to stand up!"
Old Joe sobbed, "When I arranged a 300-pound woman for him, he didn't refuse! I really wanted to kill him then!"
"Hahaha!"
"Three hundred pounds? Wow... Victor is a real man!"
Chapter 6: Turns out I'm so talented!
In the afternoon, Victor followed Master Zhao back to the boxing gym.
The interior of the boxing gym was even more rudimentary than the exterior.
Several rusty sandbags hung from the roof beams, and various training equipment were piled up in the corner. The air was filled with the mixed smell of sweat, leather, and disinfectant.
The walls are covered with yellowed match posters and photos, recording the former glory of this boxing gym.
"Take off your shirt."
"Zhao the boxer commanded."
Viktor did as he was told, revealing the pork belly that had been marinated for many years.