Six days later, the Southside Thug Boxing Tournament went down exactly as planned, starting on September 15th. The first round was held in bars controlled by the big Westside gangs:
- The Irish mob's Green Forest Bar
- The Black gang's Blood Drop Bar
- The Italian Mafia's Warm Spring Breeze Bar
- The gang's Bajiquan Gym
Smaller crews—like the Koreans, Japanese, Russians, Southeast Asians, and Brits—usually rolled with one of the big dogs.
Nobody messes with the city councilman. Gangs need him to launder dirty cash; he needs their votes.
The tournament's split into two weight classes: Heavyweight and Cruiserweight. But forget the official boxing association's 200-pound cutoff. Here, Heavyweight means 220 pounds (100 kilos). Cruiserweight is 175–220 pounds (80–100 kilos).
It's a neighborhood-level event, so the rules are loose. Just bring a community hospital weight slip and you're in.
Sign up for this kind of fight, and it's on you if you live or die. You could lie and say you're 500 pounds, step in the ring, and get one-punched into next week. This is the land of the free—Uncle Sam ain't paying your funeral bill.
You think all those "free" soldiers from World War I and II got pensions and disability checks? Think again.
The tournament runs five rounds total:
- Week 1: Open Qualifiers – Random matchups, winners advance. 80 fighters make it out.
- These 80 get "free" medical insurance from the councilman… plus $200 worth of meat and flour.
- Every round after, winners get another $200 in meat and flour.
- Round 1: The 80 qualifiers face off against 80 fighters nominated by Southside groups—gangs, companies, security firms, cops, city hall, you name it. Single elimination, 1 vs. 1.
- Rounds 2, 3, and 4: Same deal—single elimination, all crammed into one week until only the Top 10 remain.
- Round 5: Round-Robin – The final 10 slug it out over the last two weeks. Win percentage decides champ and runner-up.
Victor hadn't pledged to any crew, so he had to grind through the open qualifiers like everyone else.
He rolled up to the Bajiquan gym in Chinatown, nodded at Master Zhao, and stepped inside. The gym was one of 20 qualifier venues, with three rings set up.
About 170+ fighters were assigned here. Victor scoped it out—only five slots to advance. That meant seven quick rounds and you're done.
The open qualifier rules were simple: two-round fights.
Victor showed up at 8 a.m. sharp. Jason and Michael had his back—$20 a day each. Jason handled strategy and intel on opponents; Michael did cuts, logistics, and placed bets.
A thick fog blanketed the rundown Southside streets. That meant cold north winds were pulling moisture off the Great Lakes. Winter was about to hit like a freight train.
Victor tightened the wraps and gloves on his hands. His breath came out in white puffs in the freezing air.
"They say the Green Forest Bar started at 5 a.m.," Michael said, rubbing his hands together. "Some huge Polish dude got carried out with his guts spilling onto the floor."
Jason snorted. "The Irish never learned the phrase 'take it easy.'"
Victor didn't respond. His eyes were locked on the front door, sizing up every guy who walked in.
A crowd of jacked-up dudes was already there—some banging out push-ups, some smoking, a few slipping metal shards into their gloves when nobody was looking.
Inside, the gym reeked of sweat, blood, and desperation.
The three makeshift rings were set up in a triangle, packed with fighters and spectators. Underground boxing in this city? It's bigger than the Super Bowl.
Victor clocked a few middle-aged guys in suits whispering in the corner—gang "talent scouts" shopping for new muscle.
"Check it out," Jason nudged him with an elbow. "That dude in the red trunks? Russian guy they call 'The Bulldozer.' Last month at the docks, he snapped three smugglers' spines with his bare hands."
The registration line was long. The clerk didn't even look up. "Weight slip."
Victor handed over his paperwork. The guy glanced at the 361 pounds listed, smirked, and said, "Heavyweight, Group C. Rules: No biting, no eye-gouging. Everything else is fair game. You kill someone, you clean it up."
Standard. In the land of the free, if you die in the ring with no crew to back you, nobody cares. Unless your boys come looking for payback—and a payout.
Suddenly, the door exploded with noise.
Five toughs covered in blue dragon tattoos cleared a path for a wiry old man. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.
"That's Old Man Chen from the Xingyi Fist crew," Michael whispered. "The gang's top boss. They're taking this tournament seriously."
The old man's sharp eyes swept the room, pausing on Victor for a split second before locking onto Master Zhao and heading inside.
Victor felt the hair on his neck stand up. That look? Like a butcher sizing up livestock.
Noon. A rusty bell screamed through the air like a jagged knife.
Victor stood at the ropes, sweat already soaking his black tank top. His 361 pounds made the wooden canvas groan under his feet.
He rolled his thick neck—crack, crack.
"Don't let the guy's height freak you out," Jason muttered from the corner, handing over a water bottle with his two-fingered hand. "Mexicans are all bark. Especially the ones juiced up—they break easier."
Victor nodded, eyes on the 252-pound Mexican across from him.
The dude was pounding his chest like a gorilla, fresh needle marks on his neck glowing purple under the lights.
The ref did a half-assed glove check. Victor caught a whiff of the guy's breath—pure chemical rage. Dude had just shot up a cocktail of who-knows-what.
"Round 1!"
The Mexican charged like a bull seeing red, sloppy but powered by liquid fury.
Victor's 361-pound frame moved with freakish agility. He slipped to the side, abs rippling like armor, eating the impact and spitting it out.
As the guy stumbled, Victor snapped a jab like a cobra strike—dead center on the biceps.
BAM.
The crowd in the front row lost it.
The Mexican's arm ballooned instantly, but the drugs numbed the pain.
Victor followed with a left hook—perfect arc, all 361 pounds behind it, crashing into the guy's ribs.
CRACK. At least two ribs gone.
"Fing a man!" the Mexican spat, blood flecking the canvas.
He swung wild—glass shards glinting between his fingers. Victor's eyes narrowed.
The crowd went nuts. The ref? Pretended to tie his shoe.
"Watch his right!" Jason screamed, voice lost in the chaos.
Victor ducked. Glass scraped his scalp, slicing off a few strands of hair.
This is underground fighting: no drug tests, no fairness, no safety net.
Last week a Russian dude got his eye gouged out. The organizers just tossed sawdust on the blood and kept it moving.
The Mexican lunged again. Victor switched it up.
Stone-faced, his tree-trunk legs exploded forward. 361 pounds of pure momentum.
Left jab feint—right straight through the guard—uppercut from hell, right on the chin.
The Mexican spun mid-air. Victor saw a gold tooth fly out, sparkling under the lights.
BOOM.
The body hit the canvas so hard, beer foam sloshed in cups.
The dude twitched, pink foam bubbling from his mouth, piss soaking his shorts.
A worker in a red vest dragged him out by the ankles like roadkill. An old guy mopped the blood with a dirty rag.
"Winner—Victor Li!"
The announcer yawned like he'd just watched a cartoon.
In the locker room, Victor iced his knuckles.
Michael spiked his water with a splash of vodka—micro-dosing alcohol opens blood vessels, boosts cardio.
"Next round's Mark Horn," Jason said, spitting on the floor. "Second place in last year's state bodybuilding contest, youth division."
"Dude's pale as printer paper, but jacked. Arms thicker than my thighs."
Half an hour later, Victor stepped back into the ring. The crowd erupted louder than ever.
Down the aisle came a walking Greek statue—over 6'6", inverted triangle frame glowing under the lights.
Brand-new gloves with sponsor logos. Eight-pack abs flexing with every step. Rich ladies in the VIP section stood up and screamed.
"Yellow pig thinks he belongs here?"
Mark Horn leaned in as the ref read the rules. "I'm gonna make you crawl out in one round."
He slapped Victor's fat-covered gut with his glove. The crowd roared with laughter.
Victor remembered Master Zhao's words: "361 pounds isn't a burden—it's a gift from God. A weapon."
The bell ripped through the smoky air.
Center ring, spotlights stretched their shadows across the ropes.
Mark Horn—blonde, blue-eyed, looking like a vampire fitness model—dropped into a textbook stance: feet at 45 degrees, lead hand out, rear hand glued to his jaw.
His pale skin glistened with sweat, abs pulsing like a machine. Straight off a gym bro magazine cover.
"Come on, slum rat."
He grinned, perfect whitened teeth flashing behind his mouthguard. "You fing Japanese piece of—"
Victor didn't answer.
But in his head? Death sentence issued.
Eyes narrowed to slits, locked on target.
Victor's guard wasn't pretty—lead hand low, rear hand not fully tucked—but it was his.
The ref's hand dropped. Victor flipped the switch.
Left jab—lightning fast, air hissing.
Mark blocked on reflex, smirking. Too obvious, rookie.
But as Mark shifted back to counter, Victor's right hand cannonballed through the gap—dead center on the sternum.
BOOM.
The thud echoed like a gunshot in a basement.
Mark's perfect muscles shuddered.
He staggered, back slamming the ropes. For the first time—panic in his eyes.
No fat to cushion the blow. The impact rattled his heart like a gong.
The crowd went feral.
Betting slips flew like confetti. Most were on Victor—everybody knows weight rules in heavyweight.
Sweat, blood, cheap beer—air thick enough to chew.
"1:1.7 odds! End him in the first!"
A scarred-up dude with gold teeth screamed, banging the cage.
Victor didn't let up.
He was a programmed killing machine—jab, straight, hook, swing—storm of violence.
Every punch thrown like swinging a sledgehammer. Not sport. Destruction.
Mark's headgear took the facial shots, but Victor wasn't aiming for the face anymore.
Uppercut slipped through—left ribs.
CRACK.
Mark doubled over—right into a swinging right that shattered the other side.
"Stop… stop…"
Mark choked on blood.
His vision blurred. No more country club sparring with padded gloves.
This was a massacre.
Victor's eyes were ice. Street rule: hit the second punch before they finish saying "stop."
Final right hand speared through the crumbling guard. Broken rib pierced lung.
Mark's eyes bugged out. Blood poured from his mouth, staining his perfect mouthguard.
The bodybuilding champ crashed like a felled oak, twitching on the canvas.
Medics rushed in. Mark was out cold, lips turning blue.
"Punctured lung! Need surgery NOW!"
The doc yelled into his radio, voice steady but hands shaking—with excitement. "Big payout! Big payout!"
Victor stood in the center, slowly peeling off his gloves.
The crowd's roar felt miles away.
He looked up to the second-floor VIP box.
Old Man Chen, in a custom suit, gave a slight nod. Approval in his eyes.
He'd heard the (bakayaro)"Japanese" slur too. So he'd let the carnage slide. Half the remaining fighters just decided to sit this one out.
As the medics hauled Mark away, Victor caught a smile from a guy in a silk shirt in the VIP section.
The man raised a champagne glass in toast. A jade pinky Punishment ring glinted cold under the lights.
"Jade Dragon—Lin Guohao," Jason said, grinning ear to ear.
"That's Frankie's top boss!"