boyutpedia Page 88
Page 88
Chapter 70 Frankie's Training
Viktor stared at the numbers on the medical report, his fingers trembling involuntarily—excitement.
Frankie's recommended $6500 comprehensive physical assessment—half the average person's income—gave him a result he never expected—his body could withstand a maximum weight of 410 pounds.
When he reaches 400 pounds, his body can reach a peak threshold, and if he maintains it well, he can maintain it until he is around 26 years old.
"impossible····"
He muttered to himself, looking up at Miami Beach through the glass wall. The bikini-clad women and muscular men under the sunlight seemed to come from a different world from him.
Dr. Smith at the medical examination center adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and pointed with a laser pointer at the CT images of internal organs projected on the screen:
“Mr. Li, your digestive system’s absorption efficiency is 2.2 times that of an average person. While an average person’s food utilization rate is only 12%, yours can reach at least 26%. This means that your body is frantically extracting nutrients from every bite of food you eat.”
Viktor touched his protruding belly; beneath that layer of fat lay a thicker visceral fat pad than usual, and a longer small intestine—that's why his belly was so big.
"So this isn't because I ate too much food?"
"Partly yes, but not entirely."
Dr. Smith pulled up the genetic testing report and said, "Your body is exceptionally gifted. Your internal organs can secrete more stomach acid, bile, and proteases. Your small intestine is one-third longer than normal, which results in a very strong heart and a high density of red blood cells in your blood to meet the needs of your internal organs."
Furthermore, your PPAR-γ gene has a mutation, which makes your adipocytes have an extremely strong ability to differentiate.
The terminology was too technical; Viktor didn't understand and looked completely bewildered.
Dr. Smith organized his thoughts: "Simply put, you eat less, absorb more, and your body is naturally designed to store energy."
"I understand, it means I gain weight very easily."
Viktor recalled the bullying he had experienced, and those humiliating memories suddenly took on a new meaning—it wasn't that Viktor was lazy or gluttonous, but that he had been betrayed by his own genes.
No, it's that damned Chi Feiming.
“Mister Lee, it might not be that you’re very likely to gain weight, it might be… to put it another way, the little bit of oil coming out of the range hood is enough to keep you warm.”
Viktor was dumbfounded. What was the point of him eating 20,000 calories a day?
"The good news is that your muscle mass and bone density are equally impressive."
The doctor switched the screen to show Victor's muscle fiber distribution diagram. "Your bones are strong, and your fascia is flexible and plentiful. If you gain weight reasonably, you can maintain excellent flexibility at 400 pounds, but you will need to lose some weight as your cardiovascular system becomes less youthful."
Viktor understood; his strength could still be increased.
As Victor left the medical center, his pager received a message from Ethan.
As he stood in the parking lot waiting for Ethan, the sea breeze tousled his hair, and a crazy idea formed in his mind:
If you can't lose weight, why not just gain weight?
One day later, at Old Jack's boxing training camp.
"Are you crazy? 400 pounds? That's 180 kilograms! Even slaughtered pigs weigh around 120 kilograms!"
Old Jack slammed his fist on the table, his dark face contorted with disbelief, revealing his graying curly hair: "Boxing is the art of speed, kid! Look at Ali, look at Lewis!"
Frankie Dunn leaned against the sandbag, chewing gum thoughtfully.
This coach, known for training heavyweight fighters, has a completely different view from Jack: "Jack, times have changed. The average heavyweight boxer now weighs over 240 pounds. Viktor's body is a gift from God."
Ethan Lee: "According to the doctor, based on body fat percentage and muscle growth curve, Victor can safely gain 400 pounds in 12 months, and he will be faster and stronger. The key is to maintain a muscle mass of no less than 45%."
Viktor sat on the weightlifting bench in the corner, his gray vest soaked with sweat.
He stared at the posters of Ali and Foreman on the wall, two completely different boxing champions, two different paths to success.
"Frankie, if you were to train me, what would you do?"
Viktor suddenly spoke, his voice low and firm.
Old Jack looked up.
Frankie's eyes lit up, and he strode to the whiteboard.
"First, let's abandon those fancy footwork techniques. Your body type means you can't fly like a butterfly."
He drew a simplified diagram of a boxing ring, saying, "What we're going to build is a crushing machine. An aggressive style of play, like a young Foreman."
Old Jack scoffed: "That old-fashioned stuff? Foreman is dead and never recovered. Now he's some kind of pastor, oh, and apparently he also owns a gymnasium."
"Jack, boxing is all about winning."
Viktor interrupted him, the stool screeching as he stood up: “If my body is destined to be big, then let it be horribly big.”
The meeting lasted until late at night.
Ultimately, Victor chose Frankie's plan.
Although old Jack was dissatisfied, he agreed to stay and supervise the training results—after all, Viktor knew that no one knew better than him how to win a match.
The special training officially began at five o'clock the next morning.
Forget everything you've ever learned.
Frankie tossed a heavy weight belt to Victor. "From today onwards, you're a tank, not a sports car. Tyson's fighting style doesn't suit you. You're much heavier and taller than him!"
Victor fastened his belt, and the extra 80 pounds of weight made him catch his breath.
Ethan handed him a special protein shake: "Eggs, protein powder, chicken breast... 658 calories, 80 grams of protein. From now on, you have to drink six of these every day."
Viktor squinted and downed the drink in one gulp.
The first training exercise was a modified version of shadowboxing.
Frankie adjusted Victor's stance, lowering his center of gravity and shortening his punch trajectory.
"Long swing punches are for skinny guys. Your fists should be like hammers, slamming down from close range, or swinging upwards!"
Lei, a sparring partner at the training camp, was already wearing protective gear and standing in the corner—shivering.
This cruiserweight near-peak boxer has the perfect sparring physique—strong enough to cause trouble for Viktor, and agile enough to mimic various opponents.
"Shoulder-touching training, begin!"
Frankie blew his whistle.
Viktor clumsily chased after Ray, trying to touch the other's shoulder with his hand.
This was supposed to be basic agility training, and the requirement for Viktor was not to maintain it for a long time, but rather to focus on explosive agility. However, it was like a nightmare for him now.
After falling for the third time, Viktor pounded the ground with a blank expression!
"Get up! No unnecessary movements allowed!"
Frankie roared without hesitation, "Your fat is laughing at you! Let it know who's in charge!"
During the lunch break, Viktor slumped on a bench in the locker room, his muscles trembling.
Michael walked over with an ice pack and a massage gun: "The lactic acid buildup is more severe than expected, but the muscle fiber damage is within a manageable range."
"I really want to drink! My lungs are burning!" Viktor gasped.
"Frankie told us that if the boxing matches are too concentrated, you need to abstain from sex, you can't waste time, and I can't find you a prostitute."
Ethan attached the electrode pads to Victor's back and activated the electro-pulse therapy device: "Rome wasn't built in a day. Your body needs to be re-sculpted—how you move, how you breathe, even how you think."
The afternoon training was even more brutal.
Frankie designed a special set of impact resistance training, repeatedly hitting Victor's abdomen and ribs with a medicine ball.
"The weakness of heavyweight boxers is internal organ tremors."
Frankie explained as he slammed a 16-pound medicine ball into Victor's stomach. "Your fat layer is thick and will absorb a large portion of the impact, but your liver and spleen are still vulnerable. We have to get them used to the shock."
Dinner consisted of two whole roasted chickens, three cups of brown rice, and a large bowl of mixed vegetables, plus two tablespoons of olive oil—which Michael then turned into a complete mess.
"Michael, you just need to cook it and then serve it; there's no need to break it up."
Viktor mechanically pretended to chew, his taste buds already numb.
"I'm sorry, Victor, you'll only be able to eat food that requires chewing once every three days from now on, but breaking it down will allow you to absorb it more fully."
Michael's diet plan was precise down to every gram of carbohydrate, ensuring that the weight gain was muscle rather than pure fat.
"We'll start hexagonal ball training tomorrow."
Frankie watched the video and said, "The footage shows a young George Foreman dominating his opponent. Your reaction speed must keep up with the increase in weight, and the increase from strength training needs to be masked by more standard basic punches, otherwise you'll be a sitting duck."
By the end of the first week, Victor had gained 8 pounds, 6 of which were muscle.
Even more surprisingly, his bench press improved by 15%—Frankie's core strength training was starting to pay off.
"did you see?"
Frankie proudly showed the data to old Jack, “His power delivery efficiency has improved. With the same punch, he can now deliver 30 pounds more force.”
"You're building a battleship!"
Old Jack reluctantly nodded: "He has the strength, but competition isn't weightlifting. I'll start testing his practical skills next week."
On Wednesday of the second week, Victor wore a specially made weighted training suit for the first time to participate in simulated combat.
Ray was instructed to employ guerrilla tactics, constantly moving and seeking angles to attack.
The first two rounds were disastrous.
Viktor was like a bull trapped in a swamp, futilely chasing after the nimble Ray.
His powerful punches all missed, and he instead suffered a lot of counterattacks.
Frankie called a timeout before the start of the third round.
He furiously grabbed Victor's hood, which he used for cardiovascular training, and roared, "What the hell are you chasing? Use your hooks to control him, intimidate him, make him come to you! Stand in the center, shrink the ring!"
The strategy adjustment had an immediate effect.
Victor stopped chasing and instead took control of the center of the ring.
As Ray was forced to approach, Victor suddenly unleashed his power, delivering a short uppercut that grazed Ray's chin—even with protective gear, Ray was knocked to the ground.
"That's it!"
Frankie excitedly jumped onto the edge of the boxing ring. "You're not the hunter, you're the trap! Let them come to us!"
Michael and Liz Chen lifted the wrecked man from the ground and rushed to his aid, but he remained unconscious for two hours—Victor lost the right to deliver a powerful punch.
After his recovery training that evening, Viktor stood in front of the full-length mirror and examined himself.