boyutpedia Page 17
Page 17
Old Jack leaned against the wall watching him, then suddenly said, "Take off your shirt."
Viktor hesitated for a moment, but did as he was told.
He took off his gray hoodie, revealing his muscular upper body with clearly defined muscles, but he was far from being a professional boxer.
Old Jack approached and poked his shoulder and abdomen with his rough fingers.
"How long has it been since you had a proper training session?"
"I've never had any formal training."
Viktor answered quickly, "It doesn't seem to have happened since I gained weight."
Old Jack nodded, seemingly unsurprised by the answer.
“From today onward, you must forget everything from the past. I will rebuild you, not as an amateur, but as a professional boxer. This means pain, loneliness, and countless defeats. Are you ready?”
Victor looked directly into old Jack's eyes: "I was ready last night."
Old Jack suddenly punched Victor in the stomach with astonishing speed.
Viktor instinctively tensed his muscles, but the punch still made him bend over and cough violently.
"The first lesson,"
Old Jack's voice was calm and stern: "Always stay alert. In the boxing ring, relaxation means unconsciousness."
Viktor straightened up, a certain light flashing in his eyes—not anger, but focus: "One more time."
Old Jack raised an eyebrow and threw another punch.
This time, Victor was well-prepared. His abdominal muscles were taut like steel plates, and he slightly turned his body to the side, dissipating some of the force.
Old Jack's fist struck it, producing a dull thud.
Old Jack admitted, "But your chin—"
He suddenly threw an uppercut at Victor's chin, but stopped at the last centimeter, "—still exposed."
Viktor then realized his defensive weakness and subconsciously touched his chin.
Old Jack turned and walked to the center of the boxing gym. "Come here, let's start reviewing last night's match."
They sat by the boxing ring, and old Jack took out a small notebook filled with details of last night's fight: "Do you remember the two heavy punches the Slavs threw in the first round?"
Viktor nodded, the memory still vivid. Those two punches to his chin still made his ears ring.
"If that guy were in good shape, you should be out in the first round."
Old Jack drew a simple diagram in his notebook: "Your dodging relies too much on your upper body, and your feet hardly move at all. Professional boxers will see through this and then take you down like a turkey."
For the next two hours, old Jack analyzed every technical flaw in the Viktor in detail:
Clumsy footwork, loose defensive stance, slow recovery after throwing a punch, lack of expressionless face...
“You were hit in the head twice last night. If your opponent hadn’t been exhausted, you should have been out in the first round. We need to immediately strengthen our dodging training. The key is the strength of your legs and core.”
"You played very aggressively yesterday. You have a huge physical advantage, which I didn't expect. I think you could put some oil on your body before the next match to make your defense stronger."
"Your chin—well, I can't see your chin with the naked eye, which is an advantage. We can start chest and abdominal impact resistance training gradually."
"Pay attention, your eyes must be fierce during the match! You must be expressionless. Look at the end, why did you fall into the ambush? The reason is simple: because you smiled, he knew you had something to do! Expressionless! Have you ever seen a boxing champion gloat, cry, feel frustrated, or show pain before knocking someone out? If they are holding someone back, they are definitely not a boxing champion!"
Viktor listened intently, nodding occasionally or asking questions.
When old Jack mentioned that his smoking habit affected his stamina, Victor immediately pulled out half a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, thought for a moment, and put it back in his pocket.
"About women,"
Old Jack pretended not to see it, paused, and said, "I'm not a priest, I won't tell you to be completely abstinent. But professional boxers need control, not to be controlled. Do you understand what I mean?"
Victor's expression turned somewhat grim: "That's not a problem."
Old Jack keenly sensed something, but didn't ask any further questions.
"Alright, let's begin today's training. Let's start with the basic footwork."
The training that followed was almost brutal.
Old Jack had Victor tie two-pound sandbags to his ankles and do various movement exercises.
Whenever Victor's movements became distorted, Old Jack would tap the corresponding part of him with a long stick.
By 2:30 p.m., when the other trainees arrived one after another, Viktor's T-shirt was soaked with sweat, and his lips were chapped from dehydration.
"Ten-minute break, then we'll start shooting at the hand targets."
Old Jack handed him a bottle of sports drink—not for free, of course, it was twice as expensive as in the supermarket.
Viktor took a big gulp, the water running down his chin to his chest.
Suddenly, a voice sounded:
"Look who this is!"
Reggie drawled, “Our ‘one-night miracle’.”
His henchmen let out grating laughter.
Viktor ignored him and continued drinking his water—the two of them had never been friends, and you can't win a friend by flattery.
Old Jack whispered, "Ignore him, focus on your own training."
But Reggie wasn't about to give up.
He strode over and looked down at Victor—Reggie was 1.97 meters tall: "I heard you beat a Slav last night? Not bad luck, rookie."
Viktor looked up and said calmly, "Just a warm-up."
Reggie was taken aback, because Victor usually smiled and didn't say anything at this time, but today he was joking?
Then he burst into laughter.
"Listen to this! This kid thinks he's the next Ali!"
He suddenly reached out and shoved Victor. "Let me see how your 'warm-up' went?"
Viktor was pushed back two steps, but quickly regained his balance.
His eyes sharpened, and his fists clenched involuntarily—after witnessing so much filth and scheming yesterday, Victor knew that taking the next step required an iron heart.
Old Jack quickly stepped between the two.
"That's enough, Reggie. Victor is my client. If you want to fight, you can wait for the subsequent live-fire training."
Reggie curled his lip. "Old Jack, when did you start taking on this kind of trash? He's almost four times your weight!"
He deliberately raised his voice, "Oh, I see—you also know what Viktor did before, right?"
The boxing gym fell silent immediately.
Everyone looked this way.
Viktor felt his blood rush to his head and pointed at Reggie, yelling, "You bastard, you aborted baby picked up from the toilet, you motherless bastard, you worthless piece of trash with no testicles in your crotch! Oh, have you forgotten what your exes thought of you? Is your thing even as thick as your finger? They preferred your finger!"
The surrounding boxers, including Old Jack, were shocked. One of them even said:
"This is a Shakespearean genius of insults! So vicious!"
Reggie's face turned from black to red, his eyes bloodshot: "You yellow-skinned pig! You idiot!"
In response to such insults, Victor replied that you're just a newbie player:
“You should go see a doctor. I have the phone number for the vet next door. Your father was spayed there. Oh, I forgot, Miss Reggie, you don’t have a father!”
Reggie was furious, but old Jack held Victor back tightly, yelling, "Shut up! Shut up!" and blocking Reggie's way. Old Jack's expression turned icy.
"Get back to training, Reggie. Smell yourself like that—you reek of leaves. Do you want to breach the contract and pay a penalty? You dare to lay a hand on me here? You'll have your boxing license revoked!"
When the name of head coach Foucault was mentioned, Reggie visibly backed down.
He gave Viktor one last glare, then turned and headed toward the locker room.
His henchmen followed him away, but occasionally turned back to cast provocative glances.
Viktor was still yelling, "Are you chickening out? If you've got the guts, let's go outside and have a gunfight!"
The provocateur left instantly—the reason why everyone had basic respect for Viktor after so many days in the stadium was because everyone could see Viktor taking off his clothes and using his revolver every day.
Victor does have a gun, while Reggie is a small, dark-skinned boy who isn't accepted by the mob.
"Don't take it to heart,"
Old Jack told Victor, "Reggie is a spoiled brat who thinks he's above everyone else just because he has some talent."
Viktor wiped the sweat from his brow and suddenly asked in a low voice, "If I beat him, can I sign a contract with the boxing gym?"
Old Jack looked at the young man in surprise, and for the first time showed a genuine smile: "Good attitude. Now, let's continue training. At least you have to take him down honorably. Shooting him in the back is against the law."
Viktor smiled too—this was a supporter!
Chapter 15 The First Step to Power: Defeating Reggie
The afternoon's live-fire training began as scheduled.
Coach Foucault arranged several sparring matches, with Victor facing Reggie in the first match. A murmur arose in the gym, making Coach Foucault wonder if something had happened before.
But before he could speak, Reggie had already jumped onto the ring.
After receiving a signal from Coach Foucault, Victor also stepped into the ring.
The air inside the boxing gym was thick with the mixed smells of sweat, leather, and disinfectant.
Victor Lee stood in the corner, feeling the tightness of the bandages wrapped around his knuckles.
This is his twenty-first day at Old Jack's Boxing Gym, and he is eager to rise to the top and escape the South District.
"Three rounds, light contact,"
Coach Foucault stood in the center of the ring announcing the rules, his sharp gaze sweeping back and forth between Victor and Reggie, offering a somewhat speculative warning: "The goal is technical practice, not a knockout."
Victor looked up at Reggie across from him.
The light heavyweight, half a head taller than him, with muscular arms covered in tattoos, was looking at him with the eyes of a predator eyeing its prey.
"Don't worry, newbie,"