The first official round after the Southside Thug Boxing Tournament qualifiers smelled like sweat, blood, and pure adrenaline.
This time, the rings were set up inside the Chicago Elite Boxing Club in the Southside. Every corner was packed with fans from different crews, companies, and city departments.
There's no real boxing commission down here—just the Police Athletic League running the show. The talent pool? Let's just say it's not world-class.
Besides the rowdy fight fans, you've got stone-cold gamblers, gang spotters, and corporate scouts—all sizing up fighters like they're stock picks.
And the rarest of all? A handful of Chicago reporters and out-of-town boxing talent scouts, praying for a diamond-in-the-rough heavyweight. Even a one-in-a-million shot.
Victor Li stood in the ready area by the ring, his 361-pound frame casting a shadow like a moving mountain under the dim lights.
His cousins Michael and Jason were slathering Vaseline on his shoulders and back. The greasy shine on his bronze skin wasn't just for show—the slicker the surface, the less damage from punches.
"Listen up," Michael whispered in Hakka to keep it coded, hands still working. "Your opponent's from a security firm—not some street punk. Rules are tighter this time, but it's your chance to show the room what you've got."
Ethan chimed in: "People from Chicago Boxing Club, Chicago Golden Gloves, Chicago Park District Boxing Program, and the Illinois Athletic Commission are all here."
Victor cracked his neck—pop, pop. "I know. Eighty from the qualifiers, eighty from the big players. I'm not wasting this shot."
Jason checked Victor's hand wraps. "Blue Dragon Crew sent three guys. Viet gang's got two. And those Russian dudes… but the security company vets? They're the real threat. They don't give a damn about rules."
The ref's whistle cut through the chatter.
Victor peeled off his warm-up jacket, revealing his bronze torso. The crowd lost it—partly because of his insane size, partly because of the full-back tiger tattoo that looked ready to pounce under the lights.
He got the ink right after dropping Mark—hit up a Chinatown tattoo shop. It gave him, Michael, and Jason an alibi… and turned "Victor Li" into a name people wouldn't forget.
In the land of the free, if you don't want your rep to blow away like a Midwest tornado, you need a brand. A snarling Far East tiger? Perfect. Chest: tiger head. Back: tiger coming down the mountain.
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"Ring 3 – First Round Elimination!"
The ref barked:
"Red Corner – Southside Security's 'Iron Wall' Johnson! 6'5"! 27 fights, 27 wins!"
"Blue Corner – Qualifier killer, the Far… East… Tiger… Victor Li! 6 fights, 6 KOs!"
Victor's opponent was a buzz-cut white dude, pushing 6'6", muscles like stacked steel plates.
Tattooed across his chest: "NEVER BACK DOWN." Eyes carried that thousand-yard stare—straight off a battlefield.
When they touched gloves center-ring, Victor caught a whiff of tobacco and whiskey on the guy's breath.
"Yellow fat pig," Johnson growled under his breath. "I'm turning that face purple."
Victor just grinned, flashing bright canines.
Bell rings. Fight's on.
Johnson Crawford stood center-ring, lightly tapping his blue gloves to his forehead—his pre-fight ritual for fallen brothers.
Ex-Marine. Muscle memory faster than thought.
The second the ref yelled "Fight!", his body snapped into combat mode.
Come on, F***.
Eyes locked on the mountain three yards away.
Victor Li—184 cm, 361 pounds. Quiet. Hooded eyes cold as ice.
Blue trunks. Thick layer of fat over a frame that screamed forged in fire. Johnson's gut told him: That ain't just blubber. That's armor over steel.
DING!
Johnson exploded forward like a coiled spring—left jab snapping at Victor's face, right hook aimed at the liver. Marine Corps combo. Dropped plenty of loudmouths in bar fights.
But Victor's reaction made Johnson's eyes narrow.
The big man slipped the jab with a slight turn, elbow perfectly blocking the liver shot.
Didn't even blink. Like he'd seen the punches in a dream.
That's not an 18-year-old kid.
"That all you got?" Victor taunted in thickly accented English.
Then he fired.
Right hand—cannonball. All 361 pounds behind it.
Johnson crossed his arms to block—still got blasted back three steps, spine slamming the ropes.
Impact numbed his forearms like he'd caught a speeding car.
"Holy shit!"
The crowd erupted. Nobody expected a giant to move that fast—or hit that hard.
Johnson shook out his arms, reset his breathing.
27 amateur fights. 27 wins. Never met anyone like this.
Victor's size and power were pro-level. Worse? His technique. That defense. That counter-timing.
Not amateur. Not even close.
"Don't let him scare you, John! Use your footwork!" his coach yelled from the corner.
Johnson nodded, started circling.
He was nearly 100 pounds lighter—speed should be his edge.
But every time he tried to cut an angle, Victor's bulk rotated like a tank turret, always facing him square.
Round 1 turned into a one-sided power demo.
Johnson threw combos—every heavy shot felt like punching a greased-up concrete wall. Victor's fat layer ate the impact like a pillow.
But Victor's counters? Sledgehammers on balsa wood.
He only threw seven punches. Each one rattled Johnson's skeleton.
Uppercut grazed the chin—teeth clacked, blood on the tongue.
Body shot to the ribs—lungs seized like they'd been vacuum-sealed.
DING!
Round 1 bell. Sweet relief.
Johnson staggered to his corner, collapsed on the stool, gulping air.
Sweat and nosebleed dripped onto his thighs. Right eye swelling—vision going blurry.
"What the hell is this guy?" he spat blood.
Coach Mark iced the eye, face grim. "Never seen an amateur like this. Defense is textbook—but not textbook. It's efficient. No wasted motion. And—"
He dropped his voice. "His stance, his power generation… traditional martial arts. stuff."
Across the ring, Victor sat calm. Barely sweating.
Michael leaned in: "Don't play around. Tomorrow's still Round 1. Day after? Round 2. Win this, next one's brutal. Save your gas. Don't get hurt."
Jason was already scouting the next fight.
Victor nodded, eyes locked on Johnson across the ring.
Tougher than expected. Too lean. Can't eat punches.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the surge in his core. Targeted striking drills made his body shrug off anything under 260 pounds. This amateur stuff? Just a warm-up.
DING!
Round 2. Victor's eyes changed.
No more testing. Tiger on the hunt.
Johnson barely got his guard up—Victor feinted, then unloaded three hooks in a row, blowing through the arms.
BAM! Left hook—Johnson's jaw.
The security stud froze like he'd been tased. Pupils blown wide.
Before he dropped, Victor's right swing crashed into the ribs.
BOOM!
250+ pounds hit the canvas like a sack of bricks.
Arms twitched. Then nothing.
Ref dove in—fight over. Medics swarmed.
The entire Chicago Elite Boxing Club went dead silent for one second.
Then the section exploded.
Victor turned back to his corner without a glance at the body.
"1:23," Michael checked his watch, nodding. "Faster than planned."
Victor wiped his face with a towel. "He ate more than I thought. Figured two punches in Round 1 would drop him."
Medics worked on Johnson—out cold, foam at the mouth.
Crowd buzzing:
"Who is this guy?"
"Never seen a heavyweight this scary…"
"He's like Foreman… just shorter…"
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"FAR EAST TIGER! FAR EAST TIGER! VICTOR! VICTOR!"
Victor raised both arms, did a slow turn for the fans.
His eyes scanned the stands—northwest corner: Blue Dragon Crew in green tang suits, faces dark, scribbling notes.
VIP section: white guys in suits—corporate or city hall—whispering, pointing at the ring.
"Nice work!"
Jason climbed the ring, tossed Victor a towel. "Odds were 1:1.11—we just made eleven hundred bucks!"
Victor wiped sweat, grinned. "Who's next?"
Jason's face tightened. "370-pound lumberjack. Same style as you, but taller. Built like a freight train."
Medics hauled Johnson out on a stretcher.
As Victor left the ring, he caught a guy in gold-rimmed glasses watching him.
Sharp gray suit. Two uniformed cops as bodyguards. When Victor looked over, the man raised a champagne glass in salute.
"Who's that?" Victor muttered to Michael.
"Mr. Chen. Southside PD special advisor," Michael said, expression complicated. "Also one of the main organizers of this tournament. Looks like he's got his eye on you."
Victor snorted. "Cops and gangs running a fight night together. Real ironic."
"This is the land of the free—screw freedom!" Jason cut in. "Cops, gangs, corporations… all the same. Long as there's money, someone's making it for you."
"When's the next fight?" Victor asked, heading to the locker room.
"Two days," Michael said, counting cash without looking up. "Could be the Russian crew's 'Siberian Bear'. Fast-Blade Chen probably can't touch him—we just watched. Bear's built bigger than you. Odds not out yet."
Victor nodded. "Then we make a play. Big one."
"Hell yeah."