r18novel Page 9
Page 9
When training ended, Viktor was soaked in sweat and his muscles ached, but he felt a strange sense of satisfaction.
He noticed that the young man with the rooster-like haircut—whom others called 'Rooster Head'—was easily defeating an opponent in the main boxing ring, moving with lightning speed.
"Who is that?"
Viktor asked in a low voice as Old Jack packed his gear.
"Reggie Williams, the cruiserweight prospect, is our number one seed."
Old Jack snorted, "Good technique, agile footwork, and plenty of strength, but his character is like a rotten banana—shiny on the outside, but rotten on the inside."
Victor nodded and remembered the information.
Old Jack looked at Victor meaningfully: "Do you have any particular opinion about black?"
That's a very hurtful question.
But Victor already had the right answer: "A rainbow is beautiful precisely because it has all colors, and we are the black brothers of the Third World who helped restore our status in the United Nations."
"A very nice answer."
Old Jack nodded to Foucault, who was watching them, and said, “If you are a racist, then we cannot accept your destabilizing influence on Reggie, who is the hope for our Foucault Boxing Gym’s profitability.”
Viktor smiled gently—without telling him the second half of the sentence: there is no black in a rainbow.
On his way home, he bought a lot of chicken breast and eggs at a discount supermarket, and then gritted his teeth and bought a tub of protein powder at a sporting goods store.
That night, he jotted down his first day's training notes in a notebook and developed a detailed diet and exercise plan.
The days that followed were mechanically regular and cruel.
Every morning at five o'clock, Viktor gets up to do basic physical training, which is a five-kilometer brisk walk.
In the morning, I practiced footwork and punching techniques on the rooftop balcony. In the afternoon, I reported to the boxing gym on time and practiced basic footwork and punching techniques under the guidance of Old Jack.
In the evenings, there is strict diet control and strength training—Victor has discovered that fatigue caused by lactic acid and heavy weights can be recovered overnight due to rapid absorption.
Victor believes this method will help him lose weight—at least that's what the science magazines say.
"Step forward, step back, move left or right..."
Viktor repeated the exercise like a mantra, practicing over and over again in the corner of the boxing gym, completely ignoring the ridicule of those around him.
His weight began to drop slowly—about 0.5 pounds a day. Others couldn't see the change, but only Victor himself knew that the fat around his waist and abdomen had become firmer.
But more importantly, his muscles began to remember those movements.
On the seventh day, when Victor finished a set of punches, he found old Jack talking quietly with a man in a suit and occasionally pointing at him.
"Viktor, come here!"
Old Jack waved: "This is Marty Coleman, the boxing manager."
Coleman gave Victor a critical look: "380 pounds? Moves like a glacier. But..."
He squeezed Victor's arm. "Good muscle mass, big frame. If he loses 50 pounds, he might be something to watch."
Viktor's heart raced: "You think I have potential?"
Coleman laughed. "You don't even deserve the word 'potential,' kid. But old Jack said you work hard, which is rare these days."
He handed me his business card, saying, "Come see me again when you've lost weight to 320 pounds."
That night, Victor stared at the business card for a long time, then solemnly put it into his wallet, deciding to see if he had any prospects at the South District Thug Boxing Tournament.
The next day, Viktor doubled the intensity of his strength training.
On the afternoon of the tenth day, Victor was practicing his left and right footwork in conjunction with his jabs when a piercing whistle interrupted him.
Hey, fat boy!
Reggie, the rooster-headed man, leaned against the ropes, beckoning with his finger: "How about some real combat? I'll give you a hundred dollars if you can stand on the platform for three rounds."
The boxing gym suddenly fell silent, and everyone looked at Victor.
Old Jack walked over with a frown: "Reggie, he's just a beginner."
"What's wrong, Fatty? Scared?"
Reggie continued to provoke him, pulling a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and waving it around: "Consider this your motivation to lose weight."
Viktor felt the blood rush to his head, but he forced himself to calm down.
He looked at old Jack, who shook his head almost imperceptibly: "You two are different weight classes. Victor is a heavyweight, Reggie, you're just a light heavyweight."
The rooster-headed man sneered, "Do you really think he can beat me?"
Old Jack turned to look at Victor.
However, Victor thought of those great boxers in the videos, all of whom started from their very first fight.
"I can't help but ask," Victor asked calmly.
Reggie grinned, revealing a gold tooth: "Amateur rules, headgear, 16-ounce gloves, three rounds, two minutes per round. You win as long as you don't cry for your mom."
Foucault was called in to act as referee. After inspecting the equipment of the two men, he said briefly, "Don't let anyone get killed."
This was clearly directed at Reggie.
When Victor first stepped into the boxing ring, the lights shone on his head, and he felt dizzy.
The shouts of the surrounding spectators—almost everyone in the boxing gym had gathered around—seemed to come from a great distance.
Chapter 8 Defeat
As soon as the referee's hand gesture fell, Reggie pounced like a cheetah that had been poised for a long time.
His movements were so fast they almost left afterimages. Viktor didn't even see how he threw the punch before a sharp pain shot through his left cheek.
That left jab was as precise as a surgical operation. Victor felt his facial muscles contort and deform under the impact, and the metallic taste of his teeth guard instantly filled his mouth.
Viktor staggered backward, instinctively raising his red boxing gloves to protect his head.
The noisy shouts and whistles in the training hall suddenly became distant, and all that could be heard was the sound of my own rapid breathing and the roar of blood surging against my eardrums.
The next thirty seconds were a complete nightmare.
Time seemed to stretch out like thick syrup, each second leaving a scorching mark on Viktor's retina.
The spotlight in the boxing ring shimmered with a blinding halo of sweat, while the roars from all around turned into a distant hum.
The shrieking sound of Reggie's fist tearing through the air felt like a rusty steel saw repeatedly tugging at his nerves.
That black egg with a green rooster's head is performing violent geometry.
The left uppercut drew a sinister arc, grazing Viktor's chin and leaving a trail of blood.
Immediately afterwards, a right straight punch, like a cannonball, shattered his crossed arms as he tried to block.
Viktor heard the sponge layer of his boxing gloves groan under the strain, and the plastic taste of his mouthguard mixed with the taste of rust spread in his mouth.
When the swinging fist slammed into his ribs like a battering ram, he could clearly hear the fist making a dangerous cracking sound on the fat flesh under his ribs.
Viktor cowered behind the rickety boxing stand like a frightened turtle, sweat and blood mixing into a slippery liquid on the leather of his boxing gloves.
Each block caused his forearm muscles to groan, the vibrations traveling along his bones to his gums, as if countless tiny ice spikes were crawling through his bone marrow.
The referee's figure flickered at the edge of my vision, like looking through a windshield washed by a downpour.
—But everything is manageable; the opponent's attacks are just painful, not life-threatening.
"Get moving! Don't be a punching bag!"
Old Jack's hoarse roar pierced through Victor's defenses.
The twenty-dollar coach was pounding the edge of the ring with his calloused hands, his face contorted with rage.
"Damn it, sidestep! Sidestep! My grandma can jump faster than you!"
Victor tried to move his feet, but his heavy boxing shoes seemed glued to the canvas floor.
He could feel the sweat trickling down his brow bone and into his eyes, the stinging sensation forcing him to squint.
Just then, a right hook, whistling through the air, pierced his loose defense and slammed into his chin like a battering ram.
Viktor felt his triple chin fat tremble like waves under the impact, but what was even more terrifying was the force that penetrated the fat and reached the bone.
He clenched his teeth tightly around his mouthguard, and a burst of black and white light exploded before his eyes.
His knees felt weak as if the bones had been removed, but a stubbornness stronger than the pain made him grit his teeth and force himself to stand firmly, even as he swayed—the opponent's punch wasn't heavy enough!
"Defense... Pay attention to defense..."
Victor silently recited the mantra that old Jack had taught him, trying to observe Reggie's movements through his swollen eyelids.
The opponent wore shiny silver shorts, his pectoral muscles gleaming under the spotlight, and a cat-and-mouse smile on his face.
Reggie even had time to turn around and wink at a screaming female student in the audience before continuing his offensive performance.
The bell that signaled the end of the first round sounded like a hymn from heaven.
Viktor stumbled to the corner, collapsing onto the folding stool, feeling as if every bone in his body was screaming.
Sweat poured out of every pore like a floodgate had been opened, soaking through the cheap red boxing vest.
He's teasing you.
Old Jack pressed the ice pack against the back of Victor's neck, a rough but effective motion. "See that smug look on his face? The second round will be even worse."
Old Jack poured half a bottle of water on Viktor's face, then roughly wiped it with a towel. "Listen, kid, your advantage is strength and resilience. Let him wear down his stamina, and then counterattack when he's tired."
Viktor peered through his swollen eyelids at the opposite corner.
Reggie was leaning leisurely against the ropes, the coach was massaging his shoulders, and a blonde woman was feeding him water with a straw.
In contrast, Victor only had old Jack and his bottle of cheap mineral water.
The bell that rang at the start of the second round sounded like a death knell.
But when Victor stood up, he felt full of strength, and old Jack's words echoed in his mind.
Reggie immediately intensified his attack, raining down punches.
This time, Victor could see some of the movements more clearly—Reggie's shoulder would slightly pull back before he threw a punch, and he would always subconsciously lick his lips before throwing a right hook.
Victor stopped trying to dodge every punch and instead, as old Jack had said, used the thicker parts of his body—his forehead, shoulders, and the outside of his arms—to take the blows.