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

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Victor told old Jack, spitting out water mixed with pinkish blood, "I can feel it. His fists are getting lighter and lighter."

Old Jack stared at the scoreboard, his face as gloomy as the sky before a storm.

“You're way behind, Viktor. Unless you're knocked out, otherwise…”

"Then knock him out."

There was a flame burning in Victor's eyes that Old Jack had never seen before.

Ethan was applying Vaseline to his shoulder, the grease shimmering under the light, making him look like a bronze statue.

"In the third round, I'll pin him to the ropes."

Old Jack opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end he just shook his head and put the mouthguard into Viktor's mouth—he already knew that Viktor wouldn't listen to him, so if they lost, it would be Viktor's fault, and if they won, it would be both of them.

Suddenly, old Jack grabbed his wrist.

"Step on the referee's toes while he's behind your back!"

Old Jack whispered, "Just a little restriction and we can get close to him!"

Viktor grinned and turned to walk towards the center of the boxing ring.

Alexander was already there waiting for him, his eyes no longer relaxed, but filled with vigilance.

Viktor noticed that his stance was half an inch higher than before—the first sign of fatigue.

The third round, the final battle begins.

Viktor kept his body warm, his gaze fixed on Alexander in the opposite corner.

The blond bastard was making exaggerated stretching gestures towards the audience, twisting his waist like a circus clown, which drew a burst of laughter.

When Alexander noticed Viktor looking at him, he deliberately pouted and blew him a kiss.

"Fuck him."

Viktor felt a throbbing pain in his temples, and his fists clenched under the bandages. He could hear the boos rising and falling from the stands, the sounds piercing his eardrums like needles.

The bell rang shrilly.

Viktor charged toward the center of the ring like an enraged bull, but this time his footwork was much more cautious than in the previous two rounds.

He could feel a stinging sensation on his skin, the irritation from the sweat dripping down after Alexander's boxing gloves had chafed through the skin.

Alexander maintained that nauseating smile and began to poke Victor in the face with jab.

Left, right, left, as precise as a viper spitting its tongue.

But Victor noticed that the punches were a beat slower than in the first two rounds—Alexander's shoulder showed a barely perceptible lag.

"What's wrong, you yellow-skinned monkey?"

After another jab, Alexander suddenly spoke, his voice just loud enough for the front-row audience to hear, "Does your gym only teach you how to wash dirty clothes?"

A burst of shrill laughter erupted from the audience.

Victor felt the blood rush to his head, but he clenched his teeth.

Alexander wanted to provoke him and make him make a mistake.

At 40 seconds, the turning point appeared—Victor, after taking a step back, seized the opportunity and rushed forward again before the opponent could pursue, his legs exploding with power, the momentum causing his internal organs to be compressed.

Viktor stepped forward and launched a series of punches, but Alexander, noticing this, retreated.

However, Viktor's right foot 'accidentally' stepped on Alexander's toes.

The friction between leather and leather produced a harsh squeak, but there wasn't much force involved, and it didn't even hurt.

But Alexander did not retract his steps in time, and his body paused for less than half a second—in this small arena of life and death, that was enough.

Victor's right straight punch came out like a cannonball, with all 1,050 pounds of force concentrated on Alexander's face.

Even with the cushioning provided by a helmet and boxing gloves, the impact still had a devastating effect.

Alexander's facial muscles contorted from the impact, undulating like waves, his neck cracking horribly, and he fell backward like a felled tree, his buttocks slamming heavily onto the boxing ring.

The entire venue fell silent instantly, and even the commentator forgot to speak.

Viktor stood there, watching Alexander convulse like a stranded fish, his pale yellow mouthguard slipping out of his mouth, rolling onto the canvas mixed with blood and saliva.

The referee immediately intervened, grabbing and pushing Victor away from behind, and began counting down Alexander.

But everyone could see that Alexander's eyes had lost focus and his limbs were experiencing unnatural spasms.

"...8, 9, 10! The match is over!"

I don't think a countdown is necessary.

The silence in the stands was shattered by a sudden burst of noise as medical staff rushed onto the boxing ring.

Angry boos, protests, and curses swept in like a tsunami.

"rat!"

"That's a foul! He deliberately stepped on my foot!"

"Yellow-skinned trash! Go back to your country!"

Viktor stood in the center of the boxing ring, sweat streaming down his body and glistening under the spotlight.

Ignoring the insults, he slowly raised his arms, showing everyone his victory.

The flashbulbs were flashing wildly, and the blinding white light reminded him of what had happened not long ago.

Old Jack climbed into the boxing ring, his face a mixture of joy and worry etched on his wrinkles.

"Such execution! You're fucking insane!"

He yelled in Viktor's ear, his voice drowning out the roars of the crowd, "But well done."

Alexander's team swarmed around the ring like angry wasps, while his coach—a bald, burly man with a fierce face—was yelling at the referee, spittle flying onto the scoreboard.

The referee reviewed the video replay, and the camera repeatedly showed the moment of the foot stomp. In slow motion, Victor's movement did indeed appear to be an unintentional shift of his center of gravity.

Moreover, Alexander's toes were intact when he took off his shoes.

"The result of the match is valid."

The referee raised Victor's hand, "The winner is—Victor Lee!"

As soon as the announcement was made, a beer can flew from the stands and hit Victor's feet, splashing foam onto his boxing boots.

More debris began to fall like rain:

Popcorn boxes, lighters, eggs, and even a sneaker was thrown down.

Victor couldn't understand—you came to watch the game, what are you doing with a raw egg?

"We need to get out of here right away."

Old Jack dragged Victor by the arm toward the locker room, and two security guards struggled to clear a path for them.

At the entrance to the passage, Victor glanced back at the boxing ring, where medical staff were using a neck brace to stabilize Alexander's head, preparing to lift him onto a stretcher.

The blond boxer's eyes were half-open, and the corners of his mouth were twitching uncontrollably.

In the locker room, Viktor examined the severe blow to his head he had received earlier. Outside, the commotion continued, with everyone saying that Viktor had stepped on his toes.

"Who the hell cares?"

Old Jack unscrewed a bottle of whiskey and took a big, hearty gulp. "Rules are rules. The referee's word doesn't count as a foul."

He shoved the bottle at Victor, saying, "You're still willing to listen to my advice!"

Victor took the bottle, but didn't drink it.

He stared at the man in the mirror, his face covered in bruises, and suddenly felt a strange emptiness.

He dreamed of fighting his way out with his fists, but at this moment, the taste of victory was like honey mixed with ash—but it was still honey!

The television was broadcasting breaking news: "...In the semifinals of the 1985 All-American Golden Gloves Boxing Championship, boxer Alexander suffered a knockout defeat and has been taken to Prince Christ Hospital. Preliminary assessments by on-site doctors suggest he may also have severe cervical spine and brain damage..."

Old Jack suddenly turned off the TV.

"Never mind that. Everyone who comes out to box is prepared for life or death in the ring!"

He said gruffly, "After tomorrow, all the sports headlines will be about you."

Chapter 63 U.S. Championship Winner: Gold Gloves

At 7:30 p.m., in the boxing training hall of the Olympia Training Center, Victor was wiping the sweat dripping from his forehead with a towel.

On the television in the training hall, a sports news anchor was broadcasting the latest news in an exaggerated tone.

Breaking news! All-American Golden Gloves boxing heavyweight finalist Alexander Garcia was taken to the hospital, where doctors discovered…

Victor's hand stopped, and the towel hung in mid-air.

He stared at the television screen, looking at the familiar face of his opponent—Alexander Garcia, the Greek boxer who had been knocked down by his right hook that morning.

The hospital's official statement was playing on television, with doctors spouting medical jargon one after another: "Cervical vertebrae protrusion...loose teeth...bloodshot eyes...severe concussion...ruptured eardrum..."

"Fuck! So fragile? Fury took a punch and was completely fine?"

Victor cursed under his breath, the towel falling to the floor—he knew Alexander was finished.

The training facility door was flung open, and his agent, Max Black, strode in, clutching a stack of documents and wearing a complicated expression.

"Did you see the news?"

Max slammed the document on the table. "Congratulations, you've won the All-American Boxing Championship and the Gold Gloves."

"What do you mean?"

Viktor didn't understand; the semi-finals ended in the morning, and the finals weren't until tomorrow.

"Garcia's coach just announced his permanent retirement from boxing."

Max brought over the reporter's initial draft: "With a protruding spine, it's practically impossible for him to participate in such dangerous sports anymore."

Viktor felt a tightness in his chest.

“I didn’t mean to,”

Viktor said calmly, "That was just a normal hit in a match."