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

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This means that Viktor is not only facing a huge prize, but also a stepping stone to the intercontinental boxing championship.

Frankie’s next call was to James “Bone Crusher”-Smith and Tony “TNT”-Tucker’s team.

The appearance fee of 400,000 was an irresistible temptation for these two former boxing champions who were in their prime, especially after learning that they could accumulate points. Neither of them felt they could lose.

Negotiations were swift and efficient, and the contract was signed on July 5, 1986, in Las Vegas.

At the press conference, spotlights flashed, and reporters aimed their cameras at the three main figures.

James Smith, nicknamed "The Bone Crusher," was a massive, muscular man with dark, oily skin. He once wore the WBA gold belt around his waist and habitually looked down at everyone with a disdainful gaze.

When he picked up the microphone, his voice was deep and threatening:

“Victor? I’ve heard that name before, some overhyped kid.”

He scoffed, his gaze sweeping over Viktor with disdain. "They've packaged you as a star, but the boxing ring isn't Hollywood. On August 10th, I'll show you what real professional boxing is. I'll tear all your fancy stuff apart, just like your nickname 'Mad Tiger,' and blow you back to kindergarten."

A slight commotion arose among the reporters.

Victor listened expressionlessly until Smith finished speaking, then slowly picked up the microphone in front of him.

Instead of looking at Smith, he slowly pulled a receipt from his suit pocket, held it up so that all the cameras could capture it.

“Mr. Bone Crusher, you’re right. The boxing ring isn’t Hollywood, but sometimes it’s like a casino.”

Victor's voice was clear and calm, yet carried a cold, metallic quality. "This is the bet I just placed: four hundred thousand dollars, betting that I... will take you down in four rounds."

Instantly, the entire audience erupted in uproar!

That's almost equal to Smith's appearance fee for this game!

He actually dared to gamble so much money on a quick victory?!

Smith's face instantly turned purplish-red, and veins bulged on his forehead.

He was so enraged by this blatant humiliation and provocation that he almost lunged at it immediately.

"You arrogant little bastard! You have no idea who you've messed with!"

Before Smith could continue his rant, Tony Tucker on the other side couldn't hold back any longer.

Tucker, the former IBF heavyweight champion, nicknamed "TNT," is known for his explosive punches and fiery temper.

He slammed his hand on the table, pointing at Viktor: "What do you think you are? Showing off with dirty betting? You're disgracing the sport! You're nothing but a lucky clown! On September 10th, I'll blow you to bits! You and your damn betting tickets will be trash!"

Victor turned his head, his gaze sharp as a knife, and shot it at Tucker: "TNT? Hopefully you can still make a loud explosion in September, Tucker. As for the bet?"

He gently put the betting ticket back into his pocket, his tone full of contempt, "This is just to tell you, and everyone else, that I'm not here to play. I'm here to reap the rewards. To reap the victories, to reap the prize money, and incidentally... to reap your pathetic reputations. If you're scared, you can still take your 400,000 and get out of here."

The scene nearly spiraled out of control, with the roars of the two former boxing champions and Viktor's cold taunts mingling as reporters frantically took notes, their flashes almost setting the scene ablaze.

Frankie and Mr. Chen's representatives quickly stepped in to smooth things over, and the signing ceremony was barely completed.

·······

However, when the ceremony ended and the crowd dispersed, Smith and Tucker, still furious, ended up with Victor.

"Hey guys,"

At this moment, Victor's defiant expression vanished, replaced by a strange calm. "I've had enough of arguing and cursing. I know a nice bar around the corner with a good stash of whiskey. Interested?"

Smith and Tucker were stunned, looking at him suspiciously, wondering what this young man was up to.

Victor chuckled. "What? Afraid I'll poison you? Or afraid of the whiskey beyond four hundred thousand?"

The provocation tactic worked again.

Half an hour later, the three of them sat in a booth at a dimly lit upscale bar playing blues music.

After a few glasses of top-quality single malt whisky, the atmosphere miraculously eased.

"...So, you're fucking insane, you just auctioned it off for 400,000 like that?"

Smith took a swig of his drink, shook his head, and said that his tone was less hostile than before, but more incredulous.

"Someone has to add some spice to this show, right?"

Viktor swirled his glass, the ice making a crisp sound. "The audience wants more than just boxing matches; they want stories, grudges, and... madmen."

Tucker snorted, but the corners of his mouth seemed to be slightly upturned: "Damn it, I didn't cause as much trouble as you before my championship fight."

"Because we are essentially the same, gentlemen."

Viktor looked at them, his eyes sharp but no longer aggressive. “We’re all selling tickets. The ring is the stage, and we’re the actors. You’re selling ‘the former champion’s revenge’ and ‘the TNT explosion,’ I’m selling ‘the arrogance of the nouveau riche’ and ‘the incredible stakes.’ The audience buys tickets, and we make money. That’s all.”

After a moment of silence, Smith suddenly burst into loud laughter: "Hahaha! Fuck! You're right! It's all about making money! Who cares if the audience is cheering or cursing!"

Tucker couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head: "A madman, a real madman. But... this drink is alright."

The three raised their glasses and clinked them together, the previous tension dissipating under the influence of alcohol and stark realism.

Yes, they are rivals, about to fight to the death in the boxing ring, but on a larger scale, they are merely accomplices in this huge arena of fame and fortune, putting on a blockbuster show together.

·······

The ink on the signed contract was still wet, and the paper still carried the scent of cheap perfume, but as soon as Victor stepped out of Chicago Airport, the dry Midwestern wind brought with it a different, more familiar and dangerous atmosphere.

Frankie was waiting for him in the car, his face not at all like that of someone at a victory celebration. His eyes, which were always alert and scanning their surroundings, were now clouded with gloom.

"problem occurs?"

Victor climbed into the car, his voice steady, but his muscles were already subtly tense.

"In Tulsa, they used the $30 million raised in the second round of fundraising by the Chinese community in the South District to buy an 80,000-acre farm, and the first phase of renovations is underway."

Franky started the car and drove away from the noisy airport terminal. "But then an old guy showed up. He was seventy-five, dressed like a washed-up mafia actor, but he looked... damn good as an old Rocky Balboa, if Rocky were to sell cheap cigars."

Viktor snorted and rubbed his temples.

"Get to the point, Franky. Why don't you talk about that Vietnam veteran who killed an entire police station that caused such a stir last time? Some people even say that guy looks a lot like Rocky, but we don't have time for riddles."

“He wants our goods. Marijuana. A large quantity, but he's offering a price lower than the wrinkles on his face. He's incredibly arrogant, specifically asking to speak with the person in charge, and even said he has a ‘gift’ for us.”

Frankie's voice carried a hint of offended annoyance, and a deeper unease.

Victor looked out the window at the city skyline rushing past.

His business was just getting on track, and beneath the legal exterior, those gray tendrils were cautiously extending outwards.

He loathed these idiots who appeared out of nowhere, thinking they could break the rules.

"Get rid of him. Send him back to his nursing home."

“I tried. But he insisted on talking to you. His tone... didn’t seem like he was bluffing.”

Viktor's intuition, the beast-like instinct honed in the streets and prison, began to growl softly.

He took the satellite phone from Frankie and dialed the number.

The call was answered almost immediately.

The voice on the other end was old, yet exceptionally steady, with the unique accent of an old-school East Coast person. Every syllable sounded like it had been steeped in fine whiskey, gentle yet powerful.

“Mr. Victor Lee? It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Dwight Manfreddy. I send my greetings on behalf of our friends in New York.”

A series of names and rumors flashed through Victor's mind in an instant—Italian, a long-established power, known for its ruthless methods and extensive network of connections.

However, there is no information about this person.

"Manfred? Never heard of him."

Victor's voice was cold and hard as iron. "You think you're so special just because you say so? Do you think the gentlemen of New York would be interested in a small business in some godforsaish place in the Midwest?"

"A place where even birds wouldn't poop... a very vivid description."

A low laugh came from the other end of the phone, like sandpaper rubbing against wood.

"Times have changed, Mr. Li. The market is consolidating, and quality needs to be stable. We appreciate your products. We hope to establish a long-term partnership. We offer distribution channels—a vast network—and official assurance."

You provide a stable supply of goods. We can discuss the price further, but it must reflect our sincerity and commitment to future market share.

Viktor's fingertips tapped unconsciously on his knee: "Do you know what I do?"

Dwight: "Chicago has a reputation for being ruthless, and Mr. Li's methods are quite domineering. But that doesn't affect our cooperation. I can ensure your products find a market."

The temptation is immense.

If Manfred's name is true, it means the gates to the East Coast will be opened wide, profits will grow exponentially, and those annoying local police and tax problems will disappear.

But the risks are equally enormous.

This is shaking hands with the devil—especially since Victor is unaware of Manfred's true nature.

"Empty words."

"Of course. So, I invite you to meet me the day after tomorrow at the 'Iron Fist' bar in Tulsa. It's a charming little place with a lot of local character. We can talk face-to-face about our future plans. Also, I have prepared a small gift for you, which I will present there as a token of my goodwill."

Manfred's voice remained calm and composed.

Viktor remained silent for a few seconds.

He knew it was a trap, or perhaps a stepping stone.

But he was never afraid to step into a trap, as long as he had an even bigger hammer.

"The day after tomorrow night. 'Iron Fist' bar."

Viktor repeated himself and then hung up the phone.

“Ask our people in New York, find out who Manfredie is!”

There was silence in the car.

Not long after, Franky's phone rang again. After listening, Franky relayed: "The second-in-command of an Italian mafia 25 years ago has now been forced to flee to Tulsa by the boss's son."

"What a fool!"

Viktor thought for a moment.

Look at him and wait for instructions.

Viktor's eyes turned cold and sharp, all the relaxed feeling of success vanished, and the warrior who had fought his way up from the streets once again took over this body.

"Frankie, go there and take a hundred more men... I heard the Indians there have a good relationship with us, contact them."

I need to know Dwight Manfreddy's every move over the past week, how many people he brought to Tulsa, where they stayed, and what kind of pizza they liked.

"I need your men to have the area around 'Iron Fist' bar set up by the night after tomorrow."