That afternoon, Victor rolled up to a private hospital.
At check-in, the nurse asked, "What department?"
"Uh… gastroenterology?" He wasn't sure. "Or… maybe nutrition?"
They sent him to Dr. Andre, a general practitioner.
Dr. Andre was a friendly fifty-something guy in round glasses, looking like your favorite uncle.
"So, young man, what's bothering you? You're actually willing to drop seventy bucks to see a doc—got fat in your brain too?"
He flipped open the chart.
Victor, a little embarrassed, explained his weird cravings for mineral water and liver.
Dr. Andre nodded, scribbled a bunch of tests.
"We'll do a full work-up. Could be a micronutrient deficiency."
Blood draw, X-rays, ultrasound… Victor burned the whole day and eleven hundred bucks.
Late afternoon, he was back across from Dr. Andre, waiting on results.
The doc pushed up his glasses, looking surprised.
"Mr. Lee, your results… are interesting."
Victor's stomach dropped.
"What's wrong?"
"First, you're mildly anemic. That explains the liver cravings—your body's screaming for iron."
He tapped the blood panel. "But the real shocker? Your bone age test shows your skeleton's still growing."
"What?"
Victor's eyes went wide, brain short-circuiting. "No way. I'm eighteen."
"Rare, but not unheard of," Dr. Andre said. "Especially in high-intensity athletes. Your bones can keep developing into your early twenties. Yours are growing fast—bone density's spiking like crazy."
Victor felt dizzy. "What does that mean?"
"It means you need more minerals—calcium, magnesium, iron. More meat, eggs, dairy. Not crash-dieting and over-training to burn fat. That'll just weaken you and make you less fit for heavyweight boxing."
He wrote a prescription. "Up the dairy, dark greens, red meat. Maybe a multivitamin."
Walking out into the sunset, Victor clutched the script, mind racing.
Eighteen and still growing?
That explained the extra inch and a half he'd gained in six months. But bone density going nuts?
Damn, you never study until you need it!
That night, Victor tossed and turned.
At 2 a.m., he bolted upright, a lightning bolt in his brain.
"Steel bones and iron frame!!!"
He whispered it like a prayer.
The system's last words before it vanished.
He'd thought it was just hype. But now…
"Did the system actually rewire my body?"
He stared at his thick-knuckled hands, imagining the bones inside shifting, changing. He thought all night. His situation: the mob quietly pulling strings, the gym treating him like a backup plan, his weaknesses glaring. One thing was clear—if he wanted to survive, he had to live different.
…
Fight day came fast. The Chicago Elite Boxing Gym was packed to the rafters.
Cigar smoke and expensive perfume hung thick. The crowd roared with every punch.
Forty fights total, split over two days—first round's eighty had blown through in three.
10 a.m.: Victor Lee vs. Russia's "Siberian Bear" Drailovski, heavyweight.
Victor strode in under a red robe stitched with a golden dragon. The crowd lost their minds.
He peeled it off, revealing a tattooed tank of a body—a white-browed tiger snarling from back to chest.
361 pounds. Every step thudded the canvas.
Across the cage, Drailovski was a moving glacier.
Six-foot-seven, muscles like twisted cable, thick blond chest hair gleaming under the lights.
He pounded his pecs, roaring like a beast. Russian mob guys in the stands blew shrill whistles.
The bell cracked the underground arena's noise like a bloody wound.
Victor and Drailovski charged like raging bulls, colliding center-cage.
The octagon's chain-link rattled with their steps, hyped for the carnage.
Victor's narrow eyes glinted cold under the spots.
His 80-inch reach swung like the Grim Reaper's scythe. First jab snapped through Drailovski's guard.
CRACK. The Russian's nose broke clean. Blood sprayed like a busted faucet, blooming red on the canvas.
"Ura!"
Drailovski roared, ignoring the shattered nose.
He wound up a sledgehammer right hook, Siberian-winter wind behind it, aimed at Victor's temple.
Victor ducked just enough—the punch grazed his cheekbone, pain exploding across his skull.
He stumbled back two steps, slamming into the cage. The chain-link dug into his sweat-soaked skin.
"Now that's a fight!"
Victor spat blood, grinning like a maniac.
On the canvas, he loved this pain—like a kid craving candy.
Down below, Frankie Lee puffed a cigar, squinting at the Russian's footwork—heavy but solid, like a bear bulking up for hibernation.
Round two bell. The underground casino was at fever pitch.
Air thick with sweat, booze, and rust-blood.
Spotlights turned sweat into oil slicks on the mat.
Cash flew between gamblers. Whiskey and Bloody Marys sloshed, staining tables like dried blood.
"Kill that Russkie!"
"Drail, rip his guts out!"
Screams hit Victor's ears like waves.
He spat more blood. The cut above his left eye oozed again.
Drailovski was a pissed-off Siberian brown bear, blond chest hair matted with sweat, rising and falling with heavy breaths.
They ditched all technique—center-cage slugfest, pure meat-on-meat.
No fancy footwork, no feints. Just fists and flesh smashing.
Victor knew at this level, skill was extra. Knock him out or get knocked out.
His combos fired like a machine gun into the Russian's ribs.
Left, right, left—three hooks, precision-guided missiles. Each packed the power he'd built swinging a sledgehammer on construction sites.
Years of cracking rebar till his arms went numb, palms split—for six hundred bucks a week!
Now it was invisible power, 200+ pounds per punch, targeting liver and spleen.
Ugh—
Drailovski, a thick layer of fat over muscle, grunted. Foamy spit leaked from his mouth.
Victor saw his pupils blow wide—gut-shot reflex.
But the Russian wiped his mouth, grinned bloody.
"Хорошо, маленький американец…" (Good, little American…)
He slipped an uppercut through Victor's guard, crashing into his chin.
White flash. Ears ringing like sirens—but no big deal. Victor's real chin was buried under three layers.
He backed up, cage cold against his back.
Jason slipped cash into Drailovski's coach's waistband: "Doesn't matter. Just make him uncomfortable."
"Hang in there, Victor! He'll slow like an icebreaker in round three!"
Frankie roared from ringside, ice bag crushed in his fist, melted water dripping onto the sawdust.
Victor caught Frankie glancing at the second-floor VIP box—custom-suited guys, one bald dude scribbling with a gold pen.
Victor tuned it out. His world: the bloody Russian giant in front of him.
Drailovski's "Siberian Cannon" still hit like a freight train—ten years swinging a pickaxe in Arctic mines.
A right hook grazed Victor's ear. Instant buzzing—like a beehive in his skull.
Warm liquid trickled. Sweat or blood? Who cared.
Last minute of round two, Victor switched gears.
He circled like a wounded but quick hog.
The Russian's steps were heavier—every turn like an icebreaker grinding through frozen sea.
Victor timed it. Backhand straight crushed the nose again.
CRUNCH. Like a ripe tomato exploding.
Blood fanned across the canvas. A few drops hit a front-row guy's drink.
A gold-chained gambler licked blood off his hand, raised his glass to his buddy.
Round-end bell screeched. They were still swinging.
Drailovski's hook grazed Victor's temple. Victor's fist smashed the Russian's mangled nose.
Ref and three cornermen jumped in, prying them apart.
Victor collapsed on his stool. Blood-sweat dripped from his brow.
Michael slapped an ice pack on his eye, shoved a brown vial in his mouth.
"Drink. Makes the pain disappear."
Victor knocked it away. "I'll kill him sober! No opium!"
Before round three, Drailovski's coach muttered Russian, shoved something in his mouth.
Victor clocked the Russian's pupils dilating, breathing like a steam engine.
Bell rang. Drailovski was slower, but every punch carried crazier power.
Victor used his thick gut like soft armor—absorbing blows normal men couldn't.
In a clinch, Drailovski dropped low, headbutted Victor's brow.
BANG!
Pain. Warm flood blurred his vision.
Ref jumped in, but too late—three-centimeter gash over Victor's eye, blood pouring, soaking his white trunks and half his chest.
"That all?"
Victor licked blood off his lips. Iron taste fired him up.
He grinned, teeth red.
The second the ref warned Drailovski for the illegal headbutt, Victor unloaded an uppercut from hell into the Russian's unguarded chin.
CRACK!
Mouthguard and teeth flew, landing in a mink-coated Russian woman's lap. Screams.
The giant staggered, eyes glassy for the first time.
Before round four, Frankie whispered: "See? Right shoulder's toast. Finish him!"
Victor squinted. Sure enough—Drailovski could barely lift his right past chest level. Joint wrecked in the brawl.
Bell tolled like a funeral.
Victor exploded like a cheetah. Right straight blasted through the guard, dead center face.
Knuckles felt the nose shatter.
Drailovski's fierce blue eyes went blank. He timbered like a redwood—back of his head slamming canvas, dust cloud.
"One! Two! Three!"
Ref's count echoed in the sudden hush.
Victor stood center-ring, blood-sweat pooling dark red at his feet.
At "eight," Drailovski's corner threw in the white towel.
"Winner—Far East Fat Tiger… VICTOR!"
The announcer's voice crackled through cheap speakers.
Deafening cheers and curses. Winners waved cash. Losers smashed beer bottles.
Victor climbed the ropes, raised bloody fists to the crowd.
Then front-row Russians in black suits stood.
Scarface leader roared in thick-accented English: "This just the start, yellow pig! You'll pay!"
Cheers died. Dangerous whispers took over.
Victor knew the guy—Ivan Petrovich, Russian mob #2, famous for icing traitors with an ice pick.
Frankie vaulted the cage, snatched the mic.
His skinny face wore a gambler's crazy grin: "Tell your boss—wanna play? Double the bet next time. You in?"
Frankie repped the mob. Petrovich's face twisted purple. He slashed a throat-cut gesture, stormed out with his crew.
Michael and Jason hauled a dead-tired Victor down the steps, whispering: "We got big problems, kid. But bigger problems, bigger payday."
Victor laughed, hiding the bone-deep exhaustion: "Patch me up! We got two days!"