novelhk Page 138
Page 138
Finally, Ethan lowered his gun.
The atmosphere suddenly changed, becoming even more somber.
He knew that the last and most important part of the daily training was about to begin.
Ethan picked up the heavy rubber stick again, weighed it in his hand, and looked at Victor with a complicated expression.
Viktor didn't move, but slightly adjusted his posture, tucked his chin in slightly, and bulged his neck muscles like steel bars, as if he were rooted to the ground.
"Ready, tough guy?"
Ethan's voice was slightly hoarse, "This blow will be heavy. Think of Fury's punches, they're ten times worse."
Victor's gaze remained indifferent, not even focusing on Ethan, but rather on some non-existent point in the air in the distance.
"It's just noise."
He repeated what he had said before, his tone completely flat.
Ethan said no more.
He took a deep breath, gripped the rubber baton tightly with both hands, exerted force from his waist, and rotated his body, channeling all his strength into it.
The rubber baton whistled through the air, striking Viktor's chin from a tricky angle—the most vulnerable and easily knocked-down spot on his head.
A loud bang, deeper and more solid than any of the previous blows, exploded in the room.
Viktor's head snapped to one side, the force of the impact causing his cervical spine to creak slightly.
In an instant, everything before my eyes was enveloped in a black mist, with countless golden specks of light darting about within it.
The buzzing in my ears was sharp and piercing, as if countless cicadas were chirping at the same time.
The soreness and pain in my jaw reached their peak instantly, and the impact even traveled along the bones to the cranial cavity, bringing a strong wave of nausea and dizziness.
His incredibly strong body swayed, but his feet seemed welded to the ground, and he didn't take a single step back.
He shook his head, which felt like it no longer belonged to him and seemed somewhat deformed, and slowly, with an almost mechanical stiffness, straightened it again.
He opened his mouth and spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva—the lining of his mouth had been broken again by his teeth.
He didn't wipe the blood from the corner of his mouth, but simply refocused his gaze.
Those eyes were deeper and colder than before, like two deep, icy pools that swallowed all light, devoid of any human emotion, only absolute calm and an almost inhuman tenacity.
The extreme pain receded like a wave, leaving behind a strange numbness and an absolute clarity that transcended the pain.
In this state of clarity, the clamor of the outside world finally penetrated the barrier of training, casting subtle ripples on the cold lake of his heart—who knows how Rocky managed to withstand it?
Waiting online, it’s urgent!
"how do you feel?"
Ethan's voice interrupted his thoughts, carrying a hint of barely perceptible worry.
He tossed Viktor a towel and a bottle of ice water.
Viktor took the bottle, wiped the sweat and blood from his face with a towel, unscrewed the cap, and poured the ice water onto his head and the back of his neck to stimulate his still-ringing nerves.
"It can't get any worse! I'm clear-headed enough."
His voice was a little hoarse, and his jaw was still throbbing with pain, but his tone had returned to normal.
"Under the ribs, chin, brow bone, cheeks..."
Ethan hesitated, then said, "We admire you for pushing your limits every day, but won't this affect your future life? Many boxers don't live long lives; it's because they were beaten too badly when they were young."
"No ifs."
Victor interrupted him, his sharp gaze sweeping over him. "Either you hold on and live a glorious life to fifty, or you collapse. I can join the mob like Franky. But we don't have the right to collapse."
Michael advised, "I think you need to see a doctor; a concussion can cause mental abnormalities."
"Continue training."
Viktor's gaze became empty and sharp again, forcibly suppressing all the churning emotions—worry, venting, disappointment—once more: "After the Fury game, I want a game every month!"
He needs to become stronger, even stronger.
It's not just about being able to take a beating, but about being able to destroy your opponent.
The fight against Tyson Fury on June 17th is an important part of his plan. It's not just about making money and increasing his fame, but also a moment to test his body and will that have been honed to the extreme. It's also a crucial moment for him to prove his worth to the boxing association.
“Come on, Ethan.”
Viktor's voice was icy, carrying a chilling decisiveness, "That wasn't enough. Again. Aim for my ribs!"
Ethan looked into his unfathomable, icy eyes, and something within them made him feel a chill.
He silently picked up the rubber stick and weighed it in his hand again.
"As you wish, tough guy."
The rubber baton whistled through the air once more, striking the man who seemed no longer made of flesh and blood.
Here, in Apartment 2312 in the South District, there is only pain, endurance, and tempering beyond human limits.
Victor Lee, a "typist" from the bottom rungs of Chicago, is carving out a path for himself to survive and seek revenge in the most savage way.
The storm of public opinion, the threat of capital, and the entanglements of emotions are all just background noise.
The real battle, whether in the spotlight of the boxing ring or in the shadows where no one can see, has only just begun.
His psyche, hardened by repeated blows and threats, has become as cold, even inhuman, as his bones have grown 70% thicker.
······
Ethan: "Why is he acting so crazy today?"
"Max hasn't called since the news broke,"
Michael pointed to the Motorola: "Victor called, but no one answered."
Chapter 116 The Settling of the Crazy Season
The first half of 1986 was noisy in Chicago—because the city's Bull King scored 63 points but still lost the game.
This was one of the rare moments when the old rogue was powerless.
The outside world is undergoing a wild transformation from spring to summer; the sunlight is becoming intense, the nights are shortening, and noise is floating in every corner of the city.
However, all of this was just a blurry backdrop to Victor Lee's view.
His entire world, from March to May, and even into June, was condensed in the training camp filled with the smell of sweat and leather.
The air was always filled with the dull thud of hitting the sandbags, the whooshing sound of jump ropes cutting through the wind, and the coaches' shouts, sometimes stern and sometimes encouraging.
Viktor's life became an endless spinning top, revolving wildly around the boxing ring, strength training equipment, and treadmill.
His fists landed on the heavy sandbag countless times until the skin on his knuckles became rough and hard, and his finger bones became thicker from deliberately hitting the sandbag.
His legs propelled his body through countless sprints and long runs until muscle soreness became a constant numbness.
Coach Jack, like a seasoned old lion, squinted and observed every detail of Viktor, from his footwork to the angle of his punches, allowing no room for error.
Frankie, the promoter, is more like a shrewd businessman, but on the training field, he also sheds his suit and tie disguise, rolls up his sleeves, and personally takes charge of the tactics. His eyes gleam with a rigorous scrutiny of investment products and a desire for potentially huge returns.
The new European coach, with his cool, scientific methods and precise data recording, is taciturn but always able to pinpoint the inefficiencies.
The three of them reached a rare consensus:
They were extremely satisfied with Viktor's current reaction speed.
0.22 seconds.
When the European coach calmly announced the number, even the experienced veteran Jack whistled.
That's the limit of human reflexes, meaning that while the opponent's fist is still on its way, Victor's brain and body have already completed a series of instructions to recognize, judge, dodge, or block.
This is not just the result of hard work, but also a gift that is almost a natural talent.
As for power, the 1285-pound fixed-object impact is enough to terrify any opponent, and the actual impact of 800 to 1000 pounds landing on the human body is enough to end the match.
In terms of strength, there is really no need to demand more.
Therefore, the focus of training shifted to another, more brutal dimension: endurance.
······
Tempering is undoubtedly painful.
Viktor's voice was hoarse, carrying a suppressed pain, but even more so an undeniable determination.
Michael and Ethan, his two brothers, exchanged a glance, their eyes filled with a hint of reluctance, but even more so with admiration.
What they held in their hands were not boxing gloves, but hard rubber batons.
Victor removed his protective gear, leaving him in only shorts, revealing his muscular, rock-like upper body, which was covered with a mix of old and new red marks and bruises.
The rubber baton lashed him hard in the rib area, the dull thud making one's teeth ache.
Viktor's body jolted violently, his muscles tensing instantly like iron, and a muffled groan escaped from his clenched teeth.
Instead of backing down, he growled:
"Keep going! Don't stop! Aim at the same spot!"
Ethan gritted his teeth and swung the bat again.
Michael aimed for the side of Victor's chin—an extremely dangerous area that could cause dizziness even if the force was controlled.
The blows rained down like raindrops, the training room echoing with heart-pounding thuds.
Viktor's body became an anvil for forging steel, each blow bringing intense pain. Veins bulged on his forehead, and sweat streamed down his face, dripping onto the training ground floor and forming a small, dark puddle.
This isn't training; it's practically self-torture.
Old Jack initially strongly opposed it, believing it was too dangerous and could easily cause irreversible damage.
But Viktor stuck to his opinion.
“Tyson’s punches are heavier than this,”
Simply put, "If I can't even withstand this, how can I stand in front of him and completely defeat him?"
After training, Viktor often had to lean against the wall to walk back to his room.