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

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However, it also exposed the fluctuations in his form and the flaws in his technique.

Ruiz's team clearly saw this, and they firmly believed that the last victory was nothing more than Viktor's luck.

This time, spurred by the huge stakes, they are determined to win in one fell swoop.

That's the appearance fee for 15 matches for Little Fatty—the unwritten rule in boxing is that only boxers who have won the world boxing championship have the right to share in the box office revenue.

“Listen, Victor,”

Little Fatty Ruiz held the microphone, his chubby face twitching with exaggerated expressions. "Your skills are worse than the waiters who serve me!! This time I'll tear your pathetic skills to shreds! Four million? That'll be the bonus for knocking you out!"

His voice was amplified through the microphone, eliciting laughter and whistles from his own camp in the audience.

Viktor listened quietly, his fingers tapping lightly on the table.

When it was his turn, he didn't even pick up the microphone. He simply leaned forward slightly, facing the microphone in front of him, his voice calm yet carrying a chilling coldness, clearly echoing throughout the entire hall:

"Andy, your nonsense is far more lethal than your punches. Every boxer who's fought you knows your mother's stronger than you! I hope you find a good dentist this time—if you still think you're a man after the fight!"

They showed no mercy and directly broke off all pretense of civility.

The media frantically documented this hostile exchange, producing headlines almost effortlessly:

The signing ceremony was highly charged! Victor and Ruiz exchanged barbs at the signing ceremony.

"A $400 million bet sparks hatred; fierce battle about to erupt in Atlantic City";

Chicago Typing Chicken vs. Mexican Chicken Burrito: Which Wins?

However, despite facing Ruiz and the heated signing ceremony, Victor could clearly sense that the focus of the boxing world was no longer on the outcome of their match.

While he was battling Tony, in Brooklyn, New York, the young beast Mike Tyson, who had fought Victor for fifteen rounds, was sweeping away all his opponents with overwhelming force.

Victor watched Tyson's match footage:

On September 5, 1985, in the first round, a terrifying combination of punches knocked Mike Johnson unconscious like a hammer blow;

A month later, on October 9th, in the same first round, Donnie Long didn't even last two minutes before being TKO'd by Tyson's signature uppercut.

Clean and crisp, with a violent aesthetic, it is full of primal destructive power.

In contrast, Victor's four-round fight against Tony, which was drawn out and sometimes even looked shabby, was indeed "stumbling and bruised".

The media, with their keen sense of smell, immediately seized upon this hot topic.

Newspapers, magazines, and television commentators began to sensationalize this contrast:

"A Clash of the Old and New Beasts? Tyson Rises, Victor Shows Signs of Fatigue"

"Victor's era has ended before it even began? Tyson is the future."

They deliberately created a antagonism, portraying Tyson as a beast challenging the old order, while Victor was relegated to the background.

It seems that the boxing match between Victor and Ruiz was just an insignificant undercard match before Tyson's true coronation.

These reports buzzed around like flies.

Viktor's agent, Lowell, and promoter, Frankie, were so angry that they threw down several newspapers and berated the reporters in the training gym for being opportunistic.

But Viktor himself, after skimming through a few highly inflammatory articles, simply crumpled them up in silence and threw them precisely into a distant trash can.

That evening, back in my hotel room, I saw the dazzling yet unreal night view of Atlantic City through the window.

Robert was still grumbling about the media's snobbery when Victor picked up the room phone and dialed a number.

After several transfers, a young but deep, slightly hoarse voice came from the other end of the phone.

It was Mike Tyson: "I'm Mike."

“Mike, this is Victor Lee.”

Viktor's voice was calm, "I read the reports on your recent matches, well done, congratulations on your victory."

There was a moment or two of silence on the other end of the phone, as if someone was somewhat surprised.

Tyson's tone softened somewhat: "...Thanks, Victor. I watched your fight too. Tony's a tough opponent; it won't be easy to beat him..."

"Your promoter is an idiot. He picked all these tough opponents: Razor Rudock, James Smith, Tucker, and even Fury... These guys are really no match for us newbies."

"Mike, this is my choice."

Viktor explained, "If I don't choose to face off against strong opponents or offer financial incentives, it's difficult for me to find suitable opponents. I can't possibly only have one fight a year!"

"Indeed, you're absolutely right. We're all just their stuff standing on that stage."

Mike was pleasantly surprised after his initial disappointment: "But man, you've recovered fucking fast! And that four million... God, I'm so envious of that bet, it sounds exciting!"

Tyson's words were direct and powerful, making no attempt to hide his desire for money and recognition.

Victor chuckled softly, his laughter devoid of emotion: "There's nothing to envy, Mike. Only with such extravagant stakes can you attract someone like Fatty to risk stepping onto the stage. Your fists themselves are the best invitation."

The two talked on the phone for four or five minutes.

Tyson expressed a hint of envy at Victor's ability to quickly arrange high-paying matches, while Victor admitted that Tyson's fighting style was more dominant.

They probed each other, yet maintained a strange respect, avoiding falling into the traps set by the media.

The conversation had no substantive content, no challenge, no provocation, and not even much personal emotion; it was more like a brief contact between apex predators confirming each other's presence.

They both understand that one day in the future they may meet again in the center of the boxing ring, but that is definitely not now, and it should never be brought about by the media's provocation.

After hanging up the phone, the room fell silent again.

The media's carefully crafted "feast of antagonism" was neutralized by Victor's direct and calm phone call.

He knew that the real battle was in the boxing ring, not on the pages of the newspaper.

A war of words with Tyson is pointless; it only elevates him and diminishes yourself.

Now, his only task is Ruiz.

However, something even more important was always on his mind.

He picked up the phone again and dialed another number.

Victor lowered his voice, "Any news about Max?"

The detective's voice on the other end of the phone was apologetic: "I'm sorry, Mr. Li. We followed several leads and went to several places where she might have last appeared, but... it's like she evaporated; there's been no substantial progress."

The only thing we know for now is that she attended her father's funeral, but we have no further leads. We will continue to investigate and will notify you as soon as we have any information.

Viktor hung up the phone in silence.

Max Black’s disappearance has been a shadow that he has been unable to shake off for so many days—it’s very difficult for a girl in America.

How safe is America?

You should ask Fiona Gallagher, who had $70,000 in her pocket and was robbed of everything in just three days—of course, Fiona insisted that she was pure and innocent and had not been defiled by the robbers.

Viktor was furious when he thought about this.

After making a phone call, Victor walked to the sandbag in the corner of the suite, and without wearing gloves, slammed his bandaged fist into it.

The dull thuds echoed in the room, as if releasing pressure or reaffirming one's resolve.

The four million dollar bet, the media's denigration, Tyson's shadow, Ruiz's provocation, and Max's disappearance... all of these transformed into the power in his fists.

A short while later, Caroline walked in.

Outside Atlantic City, a fierce wind whipped up the city, creating a deafening roar that drowned out gasps for breath and cries for help.

·······

Inside the luxurious restaurant on the top floor of Trump Tower, however, it was warm and cozy, with dazzling lights.

Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling windows is a dazzling city skyline, as if the entire Atlantic City is beneath your feet.

Tonight, the Trumps are hosting Victor and Caroline – Ivana Trump will naturally know that Caroline is staying at the Trump Hotel.

Viktor wore a well-tailored dark suit, which concealed much of the roughness left by his ring battles, but his eyes remained sharp, like those of a hawk, with a formidable power hidden beneath his calm demeanor.

He wasn't surrounded by bodyguards; only Caroline quietly followed behind him.

At this moment, he certainly deserves to sit at Donald Trump's "dinner table".

His Skywind City Group, a behemoth with the catering industry at its core, has rapidly penetrated the real estate and entertainment industries by leveraging the influence of Chinese Americans in Chicago's South Side. In Chicago's territory, dominated by tough guys, it has managed to break into the top 50, with an astonishing valuation.

Trump, who is adept at calculating "valuations," knows better than anyone that the true power of a company with more than 9,000 employees and control over a vast offline entity and cash flow cannot be defined by a simple "hundreds of millions of dollars."

“Victor! My dear friend! Caroline, you look exceptionally beautiful today.”

Trump opened his arms and greeted us warmly, his voice booming and dramatically infectious.

He patted Viktor's shoulder forcefully, his eyes filled with admiration and calculation.

"Welcome to Atlantic City! Look at this view, isn't this the kind of scenery that belongs to successful people?"

“Impressive, Mr. Trump.”

Victor smiled and shook hands, his grip firm and steady. His gaze swept across the window without lingering: "Your casino in Atlantic City is almost a success!"

“Call me Donald! Martin and I are very familiar with each other.”

Trump emphasized this as he affectionately put his arm around Victor and led him to the table.

"Let's toast to Chicago's new kings! Ivana, darling, look at Victor and Caroline, they were born for this era!"

Ivana Trump sat gracefully at the dining table, her blonde hair styled in an updo, exuding a cool and noble aura.

She nodded slightly to Viktor, giving him an impeccable smile: "Mr. Viktor, I've heard so much about you. Congratulations on your success."

Her gaze, like a precise instrument, quickly and carefully scrutinized Viktor, assessing his clothing, demeanor, and the wealth and threat he represented—his eyes, like those of a bluebird, exuded a seductive and ambiguous charm.

"Miss Qian Ning, you two are a match made in heaven!"

Caroline simply went through the motions, not really in the mood—she was tired and in pain, and didn't want to talk.

The dinner proceeded in an atmosphere that appeared extremely pleasant.

Silverwares reflected the light of the crystal chandelier as exquisite dishes were served one by one.

Trump dominated the conversation, ranging from the potential of Chicago real estate to the direction of the global economy, his witty remarks interspersed with occasional boasts about his business empire and keen insight.

Viktor mostly listened quietly, occasionally responding with a few concise but always to the point, displaying a maturity and insight beyond his years.

"I will not get involved in real estate for the time being; the real estate market in Chicago is beyond my reach."

However, the conversation inevitably turned to Viktor's well-known "side hustle".