The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

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Standing before him, anyone would feel intimidated. But isn't that precisely what makes our sport so fascinating? How to use intelligence and technique to counter absolute physical superiority.

What followed turned into an incredibly precious masterclass.

Victor and Frankie listened attentively.

“First and foremost, Viktor,”

Holyfield's tone was resolute: "Absolutely, absolutely do not let him intimidate you. His height, his appearance, his imposing presence are all part of his weaponry, psychological weapons."

You must believe deep down that he is a fighter who can be defeated, not an insurmountable mountain. There can be no hesitation in your eyes; the moment you show fear, the fight is over.

Victor nodded emphatically, a point that Frankie and old Jack had repeatedly emphasized.

"Secondly, you need to understand that height and long arms are advantages, but also disadvantages."

Holyfield continued his analysis, noting that Holyfield's thinking was as clear as a tactical blueprint, and that his attack range was very long, making it extremely difficult to engage him from the perimeter. However, his pace was relatively slow.

His combination punches, his footwork, and especially his transitions between offense and defense, will inevitably have gaps. Your task is to disrupt his rhythm and never allow him to comfortably control the distance and freely unleash his spear.

"Our plan is to cut into the inner circle."

Victor spoke.

"Completely correct!"

Holyfield's eyes flashed with approval. "Inside fighting! That's your territory, and the giant's hell. You must risk being hit by his long-range attacks and quickly and decisively get in."

Use your evasion and maneuvering, not your brute force. Get close and apply continuous pressure to make him uncomfortable. Stick to his chest to prevent him from exerting force, and attack his body and ribs with your short punches, hooks, and uppercuts.

I know your fists are heavy, heavier than mine, you can take him down!

Chapter 136 Close Combat

As he spoke, he stood up and gestured for Viktor to come over so he could give a simple demonstration.

"Look, like this, press in, keep your head moving so he can't aim. Then, body strike! Keep attacking the body!"

Holyfield made several quick and powerful body hooks, "That's a common problem for almost all tall boxers - they really don't like body shots."

That would drain their energy, disrupt their breathing, and prevent them from raising their arms freely to defend. A few heavy body blows would be more effective than ten punches to his helmet.

Frankie couldn't help but chime in excitedly, "Evander, this is almost exactly the same as our tactics! But we've been emphasizing the importance of body strikes."

Holyfield smiled: "See, great minds think alike. This shows your thinking is absolutely correct. But remember, theory is theory, and execution requires immense courage and perseverance."

Staying close to him means you're constantly in danger; his fists fall like boulders. You need to find your moment, the instant after he throws a punch, or create an opening using feints, and strike with lightning speed. Your strength is your protection, Victor; even at close range, you can't afford to be at a disadvantage.

As the conversation deepened, from specific tactical details to psychological preparation for battle, Holyfield shared his experience without reservation.

He talked about how to deal with media pressure, how to stay focused amidst the deafening cheers or boos in the arena, and even how to most effectively recover his strength and receive coach instructions during the short one-minute break between rounds.

"The whole world is rooting for him in this match, right?"

Holyfield suddenly asked.

"Yes, the odds are very different."

Viktor admitted, "I won at odds of 1 to 3, which means a six-fold return if the fight is over in four rounds."

"Great! Remember this feeling, remember everyone who looked down on you. Turn that contempt into fuel."

Holyfield's answer was unexpected: "When you stand in the ring and the lights are on you, what you see is not thousands of spectators, but all the hardships and doubts you have endured along the way."

Then, turn them all into your strength. Champions aren't made in favorable circumstances, Viktor; they are forged in adversity.

His words were like a heavy hammer, knocking away the last vestige of uncertainty in Viktor's heart. A surge of warmth welled up from the depths of his soul, spreading to every part of his body.

All his previous preparations and doubts were now connected by the affirmation and guidance of a legendary champion, becoming incredibly clear and resolute.

As we left Holyfield's training ground, the rain in London started to drizzle again.

But Viktor felt no chill. A fire burned within him.

Sitting in the car on the way back, he looked at the passing rain outside the window and remained silent for a long time.

Frankie didn't bother him.

"I'm going to get a drink."

Victor's words inspired Frankie to think the same way: "I'll go with you."

However, the streets of London are not always welcoming to tall Asians.

As soon as I turned into a relatively quiet, dimly lit short street, a chill crept in, and it wasn't just from the weather.

Five figures emerged lazily from the shadows cast by the building, seemingly casually, yet precisely blocking their path.

They wore suits that looked sophisticated but whose cheapness was hard to hide in the details, and their hair was slicked back with too much hair gel—typical street thugs who thought they had a bit of "style".

The leader was short, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and his eyes held a mixture of greed and bluffing ferocity.

He slowly pulled a small but sharp butterfly knife from his pocket, the blade flashing a cold light in the dim light.

Victor immediately reached for his gun, but Frankie stopped him: "You don't have a gun license. Shooting here will cause trouble. You'll be unable to participate in the competition and will be disqualified because you'll be stuck in the police station!"

"He's holding a knife!"

"But they're just a bunch of scoundrels, they'll only ask for some money."

Viktor listened to what he was told.

"Hey, big guy,"

The leader spoke, his tone flippant and thick with an East London accent, “Looks like you’re doing well? Lend us some money to spend, so the brothers can have some fun.”

He brandished the knife in his hand, his intentions all too clear.

Viktor's gaze quickly swept over the five opponents.

They stood scattered, forming a de facto encirclement, and each held a knife. In this environment, if a conflict were to break out, it was hard to say whether it wouldn't lead to more trouble.

Viktor's inner flame flickered, but was immediately covered by Frankie's icy rationality.

It wasn't out of fear, but because it wasn't worth it—to disrupt his plans here for a few scumbags?

His face was calm, like a deep pool, showing no ripples.

The wise choice is to back down temporarily.

Victor and Frankie slowly raised their hands to indicate that they meant no harm, and then with surprisingly steady movements, they pulled two leather wallets from their inner pockets.

Viktor's voice was deep and steady, without any tremor, as if he were dealing with a trivial matter.

The two of them threw the wallet to the leader.

The man took the wallet, weighed it in his hand, and a satisfied, sinister smile appeared on his face.

He glanced at the banknotes inside and whistled.

However, their greedy gazes soon fell on Victor's classic brown flight jacket—high-quality, with a rugged design, exuding an aura that these thugs could never match.

"That jacket is nice,"

Another tall, thin thug licked his lips. "Take it off, buddy. This yellow-skinned pig doesn't deserve to wear this. I think it suits me better."

Viktor's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.

He glanced silently at the tall, thin man, then looked back at the leader.

The air seemed to stagnate for a few seconds.

In the end, Frankie held Victor's hand, and he chose to continue to restrain himself.

He slowly unzipped the jacket piece by piece, then took the heavy flight jacket off his shoulders and handed it over.

His movements were even described as leisurely, as if he were simply changing clothes in front of his own wardrobe.

This overly compliant attitude may have been misinterpreted as cowardice and vulnerability.

The tall, skinny guy put on the jacket with a smug look, while another thug next to him shoved Victor with a grin: "Looks like a spineless big oaf! Guys, isn't just giving him money and clothes too easy? Let's teach him a lesson, show him who's the boss on this street!"

The leader grinned, seemingly thinking it was a good idea, and took a step closer, brandishing his knife.

At that very moment, the silent flame in Victor's eyes suddenly broke through all the frozen dams of reason, and Frankie could no longer control himself.

The thug who had shoved him hadn't even had time to retract his hand, and his mocking smile was still frozen on his face—

A muffled thud, like a heavy sandbag being shattered in an instant.

Victor's right fist, like a cannonball, slammed into the face of the thug who had shoved him without warning.

The man's face looked like a fruit struck by a heavy hammer; the sound of his nasal cartilage shattering was clearly audible, and blood and some kind of viscous substance spurted out instantly.

He didn't even have time to let out a scream before his eyes rolled back and his body fell straight backward like a puppet with its strings cut. He twitched twice and then stopped moving.

Almost simultaneously, Victor delivered a small but incredibly fast left hook, precisely striking the jaw of another thug who was trying to pull something from his waist.

A terrifying force of over a thousand pounds was unleashed without restraint. The man's jaw instantly deformed and shattered, his head was violently flung to one side at an extremely unnatural angle, his body was spun half a circle, and he slammed heavily against the brick wall next to him, sliding softly down and leaving a shocking trail of blood.

In the blink of an eye, the two were crippled!

Victor grabbed the leather jacket: "You don't deserve it! Fuck!"

The leader, wielding the knife, was terrified, but his ferocity was also aroused; he screamed:

"Kill him!"

The butterfly knife in his hand flashed silver, stabbing straight at Viktor's abdomen.

Viktor's reaction was superhuman!

His left hand, which had just handed over the jacket, was now free. Just as the blade was about to touch him, he suddenly swung up the sleeve of the flight jacket that the tall, thin man had taken off earlier and was now wearing. The thick leather precisely wrapped around the wrist of the knife-wielder, while his body swiftly slid half a step to the side, letting the blade graz his waist.

"what?!"

The man with the knife was startled and tried to pull the knife back.

But Viktor didn't give him any chance.

He yanked the jacket that was wrapped around his wrist, and the knife-wielder lost his balance and stumbled forward.

He was met with Victor's right fist, which was already poised to strike. A short, fierce uppercut, like a steel drill, landed squarely on the center of his throat!

A sharp, teeth-grinding crack.

The man holding the knife suddenly bulged his eyes, filled with extreme fear and disbelief.