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

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"Did you see that, Michael...?"

Viktor's voice was weak but filled with excitement, "The diameter of the twelve bones is 30% thicker than last time... Once they're fully grown... it'll be like wearing a layer of armor... then I won't have to be afraid of punches to my waist and abdomen anymore."

Michael didn't speak, but gripped the metal railings of the hospital bed tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force.

The four reports he brought, all marked "not to be implemented," haunted his mind like ghosts.

At this moment, he understood more clearly than ever why those doctors refused—it was not just a cold, hard risk assessment, but a steadfast adherence to humanity and reason.

And he, Michael, a man of exceptional intelligence, became the actual executor of this insane plan.

Victor suddenly asked, "Just how much power can that senior brother unleash?"

Michael shook his head: "I don't know, but he once beat someone so badly that their heart stopped."

"His power is too concentrated!"

Viktor asked, "Will practicing Tai Chi be helpful for me now?"

"The ribs are very brittle; four or five hundred pounds is enough to break them. I was prepared to exert force, but it was actually only eight or nine hundred pounds. Plus, your body didn't react during the sneak attack; it was very relaxed, which is why the effect was so outstanding. I didn't have that chance in actual combat."

The eldest brother walked in: "I've seen you exert your power; I can't generate that kind of force."

Viktor expressed disbelief, but the senior disciple insisted:

"There's nothing mysterious about it. It's all about training strength and accuracy. If you're strong and accurate, you can definitely kill someone. If Tai Chi really had the power to make someone fire a bullet, you could take down foreigners by throwing stones. Why would you need rifles?"

Victor and the others burst into laughter.

The days that followed were agonizing for both of them.

Viktor lay in his hospital bed, enduring extreme physical pain.

Every cough, every turn in bed, felt like torture.

The doctor wanted to give him the strongest painkiller, but Victor refused, as the dull pain and sharp tingling deep in his bones continued to haunt him.

Viktor was unwilling to stay in one position for too long because his muscles would begin to atrophy. Viktor then realized that this would cause his body to become unbalanced—a feeling of powerlessness tormented his fighting spirit.

But what tormented him even more was the psychological uncertainty.

Can that crazy theory really succeed?

Was it right for the four hospitals to refuse?

If the healing is poor and if he suffers long-term consequences, his career may truly be over.

Fear, like a venomous snake, gnawed at his confidence in the dead of night.

He repeatedly stroked the three ribs that had indeed become thicker after healing, trying to draw a sliver of illusory comfort from them.

Michael shuttled between the hospital, training facility, and public relations firm, meticulously caring for Viktor, covering up the truth, and dealing with inquiries from the media and the boxing association.

On the other hand, he was under tremendous psychological pressure.

He was an insider and an accomplice.

Looking at Viktor's pained expression, he was filled with self-reproach.

He woke up countless times in the middle of the night, dreaming that his plan would be exposed, or that Viktor would really be ruined because of it; the fear in that moment was enough to suffocate him.

They talked less and less.

Sometimes, when Victor is irritable and angry because of the pain, he will blame Michael for poor planning without any reason.

Michael remained silent, or coldly retorted, "Don't forget, this was your own choice, you madman."

The verbal exchanges were no longer as tacitly frenzied as before, but were now mixed with pain, fear, and the heavy pressure of reality.

The little boat of friendship is tossed about in the stormy seas, seemingly on the verge of capsizing at any moment.

However, as time went on, Victor's amazing regenerative abilities became apparent once again.

The pain gradually subsided, and the follow-up X-ray showed that the callus growth was exceptionally good, even exceeding the doctor's expectations.

Even the attending physician couldn't help but exclaim, "Mister Lee, your healing ability is simply the best I've ever seen. Your bones can now withstand at least 600 pounds of impact. It seems that athletes' physiques are indeed extraordinary."

These words were like a shot in the arm, injecting Victor and Michael with their almost depleted confidence.

The flame in Victor's eyes reignited, even more intensely than before.

He began very gentle muscle-maintaining exercises in his hospital bed that would not affect bone healing.

As Michael watched all this, his guilt lessened slightly, replaced by a complex mix of worry and anticipation.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this madman can really create a miracle again?

·······

Three weeks later, Victor was miraculously discharged from the hospital.

His chest was still wrapped in bandages, and his face was somewhat pale, but his spine was ramrod straight.

Instead of going home, he had Michael drive directly back to that familiar training room.

Standing in the center, he took a slow, deep breath. Although there was still a slight pain, he could feel that the twelve broken and healed ribs seemed to have become stronger and more able to withstand pressure.

He took off his coat, looked in the mirror, and gently touched the hideous new callus marks under his ribs.

“They refused, Michael.”

Viktor suddenly spoke, his voice calm yet powerful, "They rejected me with ink and regulations. But my body answered with bones and pain."

Michael stood in the doorway, watching Viktor's retreating figure. After a moment of silence, he said, "The answer is a heavy price to pay, Viktor. And this is only the first 'answer'."

Viktor turned around, revealing his first genuine, wild smile since his injury, his snow-white teeth gleaming coldly.

"Then let the answer come even more fiercely."

He said that looking out the window at the still-cold Chicago sky, he could almost see the boxing ring in June.

"Not enough ribs!"

Michael's heart sank. He looked into the ever-burning, cold, and scorching flame in Victor's eyes and knew that this crazy game was far from over.

Victor opened his eyes: "I want to do it again!"

Michael looked at Victor, frowning: "Are you fucking serious?"

Victor nodded!

"This pain will only happen once!"

"Are you crazy?"

Michael roared, "We almost lost the ball this time?"

Victor didn't react: "I said I wanted to do it again!"

"You're fucking going to die this time!"

"Michael... help me!"

"You're fucking insane!!! You're going to die this time! You've been in the ICU for five days!!!"

"You disagree?"

"I will never allow anyone to hit you."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll do it myself?"

"I made a rubber stick. Don't worry, it can definitely crack your bones."

Victor looked at Michael, then at Liz Chen beside Michael: "So we can continue?"

Michael held up the stick: "Of course! Your theory is sound! With this stick, we can try to crack the surface of the bone, and your immune system will strengthen your bones simply by damaging them!"

"I see!"

Viktor boasted arrogantly, "Do I have the same resilience as Rocky?"

"Forehead····"

Michael remained silent: "He's someone who's cheated."

Victor opened his heart: "So what do we do now?"

"Now, of course, it's time to digest the weight you've gained while in the hospital!"

Ethan stepped down from his seat, Michael stepped back, and Ethan picked up a densely packed schedule from behind him:

"Victor, you've been eating and drinking well lately and have gained fifteen pounds! We're going to finish all that fat in a month!"

"Come!!!"

·······

5:00-6:30 AM: 5km interval run round trip;

Morning: Boxing footwork training.

Afternoon: Striking resistance training, focusing on striking the limbs, waist, abdomen, ribs, neck, chin, forehead, and cheeks.

In the evening, strength training.

Intermittent logging, tire flipping, sand running... Victor misses the pleasant times lying in the hospital, when he could just focus on gaining weight.

Chapter 110: Signed in March, Match Against Fury in June

In the early spring of 1986, the air in New York still carried a hint of winter chill.

Victor Lee stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of his hotel, overlooking Manhattan as it gradually came to life.

His face still bore the marks of his 'training' a few days ago—a light pink new scar on his brow bone, and his nose bridge seemed to be more stubbornly raised than before.

They were all hit by rubber batons.

But more importantly, his eyes have changed, now settling into a deeper, more focused flame—the brutal beatings and wear-down training have not only "roughly recovered" him, but have also given him a tempering from the depths of his body and mind.

"What are you looking at, Victor?"

Behind me came the hoarse voice of promoter Frankie Dunn.

Frankie was a seasoned veteran; his suits were always impeccably pressed, and his eyes held the shrewdness and caution honed by decades of experience in the boxing world.