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

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With a sharp crack, the Russian's thick nose broke, and blood gushed out like a tap turned on, splashing a bright red flower on the canvas of the ring.

Derajlovsky let out a battle cry, seemingly unconcerned about his broken nose.

He swung his right hook, as big as a casserole dish, and with a gust of wind like a Siberian cold front, smashed it hard into Viktor's temple.

Viktor only had time to turn his head to avoid a vital spot, but the punch still grazed his cheekbone, and the burning pain instantly spread from his cheek to his entire head.

He staggered back two steps, his back hitting the iron cage, the metal mesh digging deep into his sweaty skin.

"This is so true!"

Viktor spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, but a ferocious smile curled at the corners of his mouth.

In the boxing ring, he enjoyed the pain, just as a young man longs for a young woman.

Frankie Lee, sitting in the audience, squinted as he observed the Russian's steps—heavy but steady, like a brown bear gathering strength before hibernation.

When the second bell rang, the atmosphere in the underground casino had reached its peak.

The humid air was thick with the stench of sweat, alcohol, and a rusty, bloody smell.

Under the spotlight, the sweat on the boxing ring reflected a dazzling light, like a thin film of oil covering the canvas.

Banknotes were passed from hand to hand among the gamblers, whiskey and Bloody Marys swirled in glasses, and spilled liquid left dark marks on the gambling table, like congealed bloodstains.

"Kill that Russian!"

"Drai, beat his guts out!"

Shouts came from all directions, crashing against Viktor's eardrums like invisible waves.

He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva and felt the wound above his left eye begin to bleed again.

Across from him stood Drairovsky, who resembled an enraged Siberian brown bear, his golden chest fur soaked with sweat, clumped together, rising and falling with his heavy breathing.

Viktor and Delaylovski tacitly abandoned all defensive techniques and engaged in a primal brawl in the center of the ring.

There were no fancy footwork, no feints, only the sound of fists colliding with flesh echoing in the iron cage.

Viktor knew that in this level of combat, any skill was superfluous—it was either knock down the opponent or be knocked down.

Victor's combination punches landed on his opponent's ribs like a machine gun.

Left, right, left—three hook punches, like precision-guided missiles, each strike carrying the strength he honed by smashing steel bars with a sledgehammer on the construction site.

In those years, he swung the hammer countless times every day until his arms were numb and his hands were cracked, all for that six hundred yuan!

Now, this training has been transformed into a fist with no visible point of force, carrying at least four hundred pounds of power, specifically targeting vulnerable internal organs such as the liver and spleen.

Drairovsky, a man with a layer of fat, let out muffled groans, foamy saliva seeping from the corners of his mouth.

Viktor saw his pupils dilate instantly—a physiological reaction to the impact on his internal organs.

But the Russian quickly adjusted his breathing, wiped the liquid from the corner of his mouth with his forearm, and revealed a blood-stained, sinister grin.

“Хорошо, маленький американец·····”

Drairovsky muttered in Russian, then suddenly threw an uppercut that slipped through Viktor's defense and slammed into his chin.

Viktor was met with a burst of white light and a sharp buzzing in his ears—but it didn't matter, because Viktor's real chin was inside a triple chin.

He instinctively took two steps back, his back hitting the mesh of the iron cage, the coldness of the metal seeping through his sweat-soaked vest.

Down in the audience, Jason was stuffing money into Coach De Lajirovski's waistband: "Nothing much, just make him a little uncomfortable!"

"Hold on, Victor! He'll slow down like an icebreaker in the third round!"

Franky roared from below the stage, his hand holding an ice pack that was already deformed, and melting ice water dripped from his wrist onto the sawdust on the ground.

Victor noticed that Franky's gaze kept drifting towards the second-floor private room—where several men in custom-made suits were sitting, one of whom, a bald man, was writing something in a notebook with a gold pen.

Viktor paid no heed; his world consisted only of the blood-soaked Russian giant before him. Droilovsky's "Siberian Cannon" remained as formidable as ever—a skill he had honed over ten years of mining in the Arctic Circle, smashing ice with a pickaxe.

A right hook grazed Viktor's earlobe, instantly making his left ear buzz, as if a million bees were fluttering inside his skull.

Warm liquid flowed out of his ear canal; Victor couldn't tell if it was sweat or blood.

In the final minute of the second round, Victor changed his tactics.

He began to move around Drairovsky, like an injured but still agile pig.

The Russians' steps did indeed begin to become heavy, each turn like an icebreaker struggling to maneuver on a frozen sea.

Viktor seized the opportunity and landed a precise right straight punch on Drajlovsky's nose.

With a crisp 'snap', the Russian's nose burst open like a ripe tomato.

Blood splattered in a fan shape on the canvas, with a few drops even landing in the glasses of the first-row audience.

A man wearing a gold chain excitedly licked the blood splattered on his hands and raised his glass to his companion.

As the bell rang shrilly as the round ended, both men continued to mechanically swing their fists at each other.

Drairovsky's hook punch grazed Viktor's temple, while Viktor's fist slammed heavily into the Russian's already deformed nose.

The savage dance was only forced to stop when the referee and three assistants forcibly stepped between them and physically separated them.

Viktor slumped onto a stool in the corner, sweat mixed with blood dripping from his brow bone.

Michael quickly pressed an ice pack onto his swollen left eye while simultaneously shoving a small, mysterious brown bottle into his mouth.

"Drinking it will make you forget the pain."

Victor flipped it over, yelling, "I can kill him! I don't need opium!"

Before the start of the third round, Derajlovski's coach was speaking rapidly in Russian while stuffing something into his mouth.

Viktor noticed that the Russian's pupils were beginning to dilate abnormally, and his breathing was becoming heavy, like that of a steam locomotive.

As soon as the bell rang, Delaylovsky moved slowly, just as Frankie had predicted, but each of his punches carried an even more dangerous brute force.

Viktor began to use his thick abdominal muscles to deflect his opponent's heavy punches.

His abdominal muscles are like soft armor, capable of withstanding blows that are unimaginable to ordinary people.

During a passionate embrace, Delaylovsky suddenly lowered his center of gravity and slammed his forehead into Viktor's brow bone.

The intense pain, accompanied by warm liquid, instantly blurred Viktor's vision.

The referee rushed in, but the Russian had already succeeded—Viktor's brow bone was ripped open with a three-centimeter-long gash, and blood cascaded down his cheek, staining his white shorts and half his chest red.

"that's it?"

Viktor licked the blood that had dripped to his lips; the metallic taste irritated his senses.

He suddenly grinned, revealing his teeth stained with blood.

The moment Drailelovs was warned for a foul, Victor seized the opportunity and landed a powerful uppercut on his unsuspecting opponent's chin.

With a crisp cracking sound, Drajnovsky's braces, along with several broken teeth, flew out of the ring and landed on the leg of a Russian woman in a mink coat in the front row, eliciting a scream.

The Russian giant staggered backward, his eyes becoming unfocused for the first time.

Before the fourth round began, Frankie Lee whispered in Victor's ear, "See? He can't lift his right shoulder. Finish him off!"

Viktor squinted his swollen eyes and indeed found that Drairovsky's right hand could only be raised to chest height, clearly indicating that his shoulder joint had been injured in the previous fight.

The bell rang like a death knell.

Viktor pounced like a cheetah, delivering a powerful right straight punch that pierced through his opponent's weak defense and struck him squarely in the face.

The moment his fist touched his skin, Victor felt the bone in his nose shatter beneath his knuckles.

Drairovsky's fierce blue eyes instantly lost focus, and he collapsed to the ground like a redwood felled by a lumberjack, his head slamming heavily onto the canvas, kicking up a cloud of dust.

"one two Three!"

The referee's counting was exceptionally clear in the suddenly quiet stadium.

Victor stood in the center of the ring, sweat and blood pooling at his feet to form a small, dark red puddle.

By the time they counted to 'eight', Delajlovski's team had already thrown the white towel into the ring.

"The winner is—Victor, the Far East's Fat Tiger!"

The host's voice came through a cheap speaker, accompanied by a grating static.

The crowd erupted in deafening cheers and curses, with winners waving banknotes and losers smashing beer bottles on the ground.

Viktor staggered up the ropes and raised his bloodied fist toward the stands.

Just then, several Russians in black suits in the front row suddenly stood up.

The scarred man at the head of the group roared in heavily accented English, "This is just the beginning, you yellow-skinned pigs! We'll make you pay!"

The cheers inside the stadium abruptly ceased, replaced by dangerous whispers.

Viktor recognized the scarred man—Ivan Petrovich, the number two figure in the Russian mafia, notorious for executing traitors with ice picks.

Frankie Lee leaped onto the ring and snatched the microphone from the host.

A gambler's maniacal grin spread across his thin face: "Tell your boss, if you're going to play, play big. Double the bet next time, dare you?"

Frankie represented the Chinese-American gangsters. Petrovich's face was contorted with rage as he made a throat-slitting gesture before striding away with his men.

Michael and Jason helped the exhausted Victor off the ring, whispering in his ear, "We're in big trouble, kid. But the bigger the trouble, the bigger the reward."

Viktor laughed heartily, masking the weakness emanating from his bones: "Hurry and treat the wounds! We only have two days!"

Chapter 24 The Ten-Person Final and the Choice

At the hospital, Victor used his medical insurance to undergo a more comprehensive medical check-up, and the data remained the same:

“Viktor is malnourished.”

Indeed, the bones are still developing, so malnutrition is to be expected.

And this will continue for some time: "It could take anywhere from a few months to several years for your bones to fully develop."

When he was alone, Viktor remembered the system's words again:

"Steel and iron body?"

Is this a blessing, or some kind of change he doesn't yet understand? But what's done is done, and the methods Viktor came up with, even if they were twice as difficult and half as effective, were all he could do!

Holding the hospital diagnosis, Victor decided to take a gamble!