LRAB Page 7
Page 7
Master Zhao walked around him, occasionally poking his shoulders, chest muscles, and abdomen with his fingers, as if inspecting a racehorse for sale.
"The bone structure is good, and the meat is firm, not just pure fat."
Zhao, the boxer, concluded, "But you don't have much muscle. You need to do some heavy weights to stimulate muscle growth. But professional boxing is not a bodybuilding competition. You must maintain at least 23% body fat to maintain your strength and defense."
He pointed to the center of the field and said, "Do a hundred push-ups first, and let me see your endurance."
Without a word, Viktor lay down and began—a real man is never afraid of physical labor.
He did the first ten with ease, but as the numbers increased, sweat began to trickle down his back.
By the twenty-fifth, his arms began to tremble and resembled the flapping of butterfly wings.
Zhao, the boxing master, covered Wu's forehead and roared in an astonishingly loud voice, "Even professional boxers need to throw punches in the twelfth round! You can only last until the second round at most."
When Victor finally finished forty-five, he collapsed to the floor, his chest heaving violently.
Zhao, the boxer, tossed him a towel.
"Take a five-minute break, and then we'll test your basic movements."
The next three hours were the most rigorous training Viktor had ever undergone—because he had never trained like this before.
Master Zhao had him practice straight punches, hooks, and uppercuts repeatedly, demanding perfection in every movement, believing this to be the simplest form of training.
Whenever Viktor's movements deviated slightly, Zhao the boxer would tap the corresponding part of him with a thin wooden stick.
"Again! Relax your shoulders when you punch!"
"Your footsteps! Watch your footsteps!"
"What about defense? Do you think your opponent will just stand there and wait for you to attack?"
By evening, Victor was exhausted and starving, but Master Zhao showed no sign of stopping.
"Now, let's put it into practice."
Master Zhao put on his boxing gloves and said, "Three rounds, three minutes per round, experience the exhaustion of twelve rounds."
Victor's eyes widened in surprise: "With you?"
Master Zhao sneered, "What? Afraid of hurting an old man?"
At the start of the first round, Victor cautiously probed.
Zhao the boxer was much more agile than he had imagined. After several feints, he delivered a right straight punch that pierced through Viktor’s defense and struck him hard on the bridge of his nose.
Viktor staggered backward, tasted the blood in his mouth, and then fell backward.
"That's professional boxing for you, kid!"
Zhao the Boxer's voice came from afar, "This isn't the child's play you had in the high school toilet league!"
In the second round, Victor tried to counterattack, but Zhao easily dodged or blocked every punch he threw.
Zhao's counterattack landed precisely on his ribs, chin, and abdomen.
By the end of the third round, Viktor could barely stand. His vision was blurred, and his breathing was rapid, like a bellows—this was because Viktor had no chin, and his abdomen and ribs were made of unsupported, fleshy fat.
"That's it for today."
Master Zhao took off his boxing gloves. "Go and rest first. I'll call you tomorrow morning. Don't be late. There's food in the kitchen at the back, and it's reasonably priced."
Viktor stumbled toward the locker room, every part of his body aching.
He sat on the bench, applying an ice pack to his swollen left eye, and suddenly wondered if he was really suited for this path, but before he could think about it, Viktor was asleep in the locker room.
I missed dinner, and when I woke up it was already dark, so I could only eat two pounds of rice at a restaurant outside.
The next three days were the most painful yet fulfilling seventy-two hours that Victor Lee experienced.
At five o'clock in the morning on the first day, just as the eastern sky was beginning to lighten, Zhao the Boxer kicked open Victor's door.
Viktor was jolted awake from his sleep, and before he could even complain, a wet towel was thrown at his face.
"Get up, fat pig."
Zhao, the boxer, spoke in a voice as rough as sandpaper: “We need to finish the first round of training before sunrise.”
Viktor stood up unsteadily, feeling like all his bones were protesting, but the two pounds of rice and one pound of meat chops last night had worked very well; the rapid absorption allowed for rapid healing and quick breakdown of lactic acid in his body.
However, his body was still in a state of extreme discomfort after half a day of training yesterday.
But Master Zhao clearly wasn't going to give him any time to adjust.
The training ground was a square area in Zhao's backyard, marked with white lime, about six meters square.
The ground was compacted soil, and in the corner were several old sandbags and a pile of training equipment that Victor couldn't name.
"I'm just a beginner in boxing, but any skill that involves hitting someone must be based on your feet."
With his hands behind his back, Master Zhao stood like an iron statue in the morning light. "Today we'll start with footwork."
The advanced training made Viktor suffer a lot.
Master Zhao instructed him to always keep his center of gravity between his legs, move quickly with small steps, and never let his toes leave the ground by more than one centimeter.
Viktor moved around the training field like a clumsy penguin, and in less than ten minutes, his calf started to cramp.
"Your center of gravity! Pay attention to your center of gravity!"
Zhao, the boxing master, lashed out at Viktor's swaying thigh with a bamboo stick, saying, "You think this is a stroll? This is a life-saving exercise!"
By the time they got to the backward stepping drills, Viktor was already drenched in sweat.
Master Zhao demonstrated the standard retreating movement: the back foot moves first, followed immediately by the front foot, and the body must maintain balance throughout the process, ready to counterattack or defend at any time.
"Imagine there's a madman with a knife in front of you,"
As Zhao the boxer spoke, he retreated, his movements as fluid as mercury flowing across the ground. "If you don't retreat fast enough, you'll be disemboweled."
Viktor tried to imitate him, but on his third attempt, he tripped and fell heavily onto the muddy ground.
Zhao, the boxing master, didn't help him up. He checked his ankle and said coldly, "With such a heavy weight, falling in the boxing ring is tantamount to suicide. Get up and try again."
During the lunch break, Viktor's hands trembled uncontrollably, and he could barely hold his chopsticks.
Master Zhao tossed him a bottle of lightly salted water and a large bowl of boiled eggs: "Eat. There will be side-stepping and basic boxing this afternoon."
Side-step training is even more grueling.
Master Zhao required Victor to turn his toes in the direction of movement first, and then his body could follow.
"Turn your toes! Not your butt!"
Zhao the boxer's roar echoed in the courtyard, "You're dodging attacks, not waltzing!"
When the first day of training finally ended, Viktor collapsed on the ground like a lump of mud.
Every muscle in his body ached, he had blisters on the soles of his feet, and his joints were red and swollen.
Zhao, the boxing master, stood beside him, looking down at the disheveled young man.
Do you know why we need to start with footwork?
Master Zhao asked, his voice surprisingly calm.
Viktor shook his head, too weak to even speak.
"Because boxing is not a barbaric game of standing still and fighting each other."
Zhao, the boxer, squatted down to be at Viktor's eye level. "Footwork is the soul of boxing. If you can stand firm, you can strike; if you can dodge, you can survive. Tomorrow at five o'clock, don't make me come kicking down the door again."
The next day, Viktor woke up before the alarm clock rang.
Even with rapid absorption, his body felt like it had been run over by a truck, with every movement accompanied by sharp pain.
But some strange sense of pride compels him to show up at the training ground on time—swinging a sledgehammer is even harder than this, so he doesn't want to swing a sledgehammer anymore.
Master Zhao seemed somewhat satisfied with his punctual arrival, although there was no change in expression on his wrinkled face.
"Boxing training begins today,"
He said, "But first, let me see how much of yesterday's content you've remembered."
Viktor demonstrated forward step, backward step, and side step.
The movements were still clumsy, but at least the person didn't fall down again.
Master Zhao nodded: "Barely passable. Buy one and practice when you get back. Now, put this on."
He tossed Viktor a pair of worn-out red and black boxing gloves.
Viktor clumsily put the straps on his hands, and Zhao the Boxer impatiently stepped forward to help him tighten them.
"Boxing gloves are not decorations,"
As he spoke, he tightened the straps, saying, "It is the armor on your hands, and the nightmare of your opponents."
Basic boxing training begins with the straight punch.
Zhao, the boxer, stood behind Viktor and used his hands to adjust his stance and punching angle.
"Relax your shoulders and don't let your elbows flare out,"
His voice was close to my ear, “Remember, the power comes from the ground, and is transmitted through your legs, waist, and back to your fists.”
When Victor threw his hundredth straight punch into the air, his shoulder was already numb with pain.
But Master Zhao was still not satisfied: "Again! Your fists are as soft as noodles! Imagine that bastard who humiliated you is standing in front of you, do you want to smash his nose into his skull? Then punch harder!"
"Do you still want to go back to serving those fat women? Don't you want beautiful women? Don't you want pretty foreign women? Punch! Punch me!"
The afternoon training shifted to defensive techniques.
Zhao, the boxing master, tested Viktor's rib defense and only needed one heavy blow to make Viktor kneel on the ground, retching in pain.
“Your ribs are like paper. You can add more fat here so that it won’t put any stress on you.”
Zhao, the boxing master, said without reservation, "In the boxing ring, such defense would send you to the ICU."
He adjusted his training focus, beginning to concentrate on head defense.
"The support frame isn't just for show,"
Master Zhao demonstrated the standard defensive stance, "It's your shield. Tuck your chin in—you don't need to deliberately let your neck cover your mouth, which is an advantage."
Keep your forearm vertical and your eyes fixed on your opponent, but actually look at their shoulder – that's where you should strike!