Blood, sweat, and roars filled the underground fight pit. Victor "Far East Tiger" Li stood under the blinding spotlight like a caged beast set free.
His shaved head gleamed. The massive crimson tiger tattoo from back to chest twisted with every flex of muscle.
The second the ref yelled "Fight!", Victor charged like a runaway tank at his opponent—Tom Hogan, a redneck farmer from Kentucky.
"MEAT EGG IMPACT!"
Some ringside drunk screamed Victor's signature move.
No curve in the charge—just a straight-line swing that baited Tom's guard wide open. Two punches landed clean on Victor.
But 361 pounds of muscle and fat slammed into Tom's gloves with a teeth-grinding THUD.
Tom staggered. Before he could reset, Victor's left hook howled in.
BOOM.
Fist sank deep into Tom's right side—fresh scar from last week ripped open like wet paper.
Tom doubled over. Victor's right uppercut followed perfect, same spot.
"URGH—"
Tom puked bile, vision blacking out.
He felt ribs crack—like a red-hot knife stabbing his lung.
"Two minutes twenty!"
Someone clocked it, voice dripping bloodlust.
Victor didn't let up.
He was a killing machine—every punch measured to the ounce.
Left hook to the liver. Right straight to the heart. Left swing back to the cracked ribs.
Tom slumped against the ropes, legs jelly, seeing three Victors.
"Fing yellow…" Tom mumbled, barely audible.
Victor's grin was pure predator.
Half-step back. Perfect right uppercut—through the limp guard, dead on the chin.
Tom's head snapped back. Body slid down like a puppet with cut strings.
But Victor wasn't done.
Before the ref could jump in, he dropped a left hammer straight onto the shattered ribs.
CRACK!
Bone snap echoed over the crowd's screams.
Tom curled like a shrimp, pink foam bubbling from his mouth.
"Two minutes thirty! Winner—VICTOR 'FAR EAST TIGER' LI!"
Ref raised Victor's arm. He stared down at the twitching body, ice-cold.
18th straight win. Easy.
But not everybody was cheering.
"F that guy!"
Antonio Cucci, Italian mob #2, crushed his cigar in a crystal ashtray. "We're down seventy grand this week! Every degenerate's riding Victor's bets—he can't lose!"
Cucci's office sat on the top floor of a nondescript brownstone, East River lights twinkling outside.
Three men in the room. Zero chill.
Irish mob's Sean White slammed a whiskey. "I'm out one-twenty. Dock workers bet their wives' grocery money on Victor."
He wiped sweat off his red nose. "We gotta do something, Antonio. These yellow bastards are squeezing us out."
Cucci opened his mouth—knock on the door.
Bodyguard poked his head in. "Boss, message from Mr. Sri."
The two mobsters swapped looks.
Sri—Third Master. Head of the Blue Dragon Society. Ran most Southside underground casinos and half the fighters. Controlled 1,900 armed men.
A message from him right now? No coincidence.
Cucci unfolded the gold-edged note. One line:
"Tomorrow, 3 p.m., Fragrant Full House. About Victor. No phones."
White leaned over, frowned. "What about Jack? He get an invite?"
Cucci smirked. "Looks like Sri finally knows who the real players are."
---
Fragrant Full House – Bamboo Charm VIP Room.
Sandalwood smoke curled.
Third Master, mid-50s, wore a navy Zhongshan suit, hair slicked back perfect.
He poured Pu'er tea like a priest at mass.
Door opened. Cucci and White walked in—patted down by guards.
"Sit."
Third Master didn't look up. Voice soft as silk.
The two bosses sat—three sides of the table. Most stable setup.
They ran their own streets like kings. But in front of Sri—the man with the most bodies on speed dial—they stayed respectful.
Not just the gambling empire. Anyone who crossed him? Poof. Gone.
"Victor," Third Master said, sliding two cups forward. "His winning streak ends. He's bleeding us dry."
White jumped in. "You're saying you can make him lose?"
Third Master smiled, crow's feet deep. "Already talked to him. He agrees—right now, cash matters more than glory."
Cucci whistled.
Hansen—Southside's human howitzer. Crude, but one punch could put you to sleep. Still a tier below Victor.
So the crew cashes in biggest. But everyone eats.
"Victor's gonna throw it?" Cucci asked, skeptical. "guys guard their rep like their junk. He'll tank an undefeated record?"
Third Master sipped. "Victor's loyal. I helped him. He listens."
White nodded like a lightbulb went off. Cucci stayed cautious. "Why tell us?"
"Profit. And I paid."
Third Master set the cup down. "Victor's streak cost me three-fifty large. Time to redirect the money flow."
He eyed them. "I suggest you get in."
"How much?"
"Ninety grand to Victor. Not counting the fifty-K first prize."
"Ninety? For one—"
"He's worth it. I'll put up thirty."
White: "I'm in for thirty."
Cucci: "Same."
"What about Jack?" White asked.
Third Master's smile vanished. "Jack Moss and his Black Panther Crew got greedy. Think coke lasts forever. Councilman tolerates gambling, immigration—not dope. And Chicago's too small for two top dogs."
He shook his head. "Some lessons you gotta learn the hard way."
Cucci and White swapped excited glances.
If Victor throws the next fight? Jackpot.
And Third Master's playing chess.
"Odds?" White asked.
Aide pulled out the sheet:
Victor: 1-to-1.2
Hansen: 1-to-4.5
"Thirty minutes before the fight, it'll shift: Victor 1-to-1.05, Hansen 1-to-6."
He paused. "Control your bets. Make sure Jack's crew can't cover."
Cucci was already calculating. Fifty large at 4.5-to-1…
Black crew can't pay out? Chaos.
Black gangs don't scare easy—they are the chaos.
But what if the chaos comes from inside?
Third Master dropped a number: "We've got sixty guys. Fifty to a hundred bucks each. They bet at Jack's books. He eats a massive loss."
White: "I can round up a hundred."
Cucci: "Same."
"Perfect. I'll get twenty more. Three hundred Black bettors? Jack's broke."
Cucci raised a flag. "Foucault know about this? That old fox don't play."
Third Master's voice dropped. "Foucault's on board. Everyone's got someone to protect."
Cucci laughed, raised his tea. "To our partnership!"
White: "How do we split?"
Split who? Jack's turf, obviously.
Third Master: "No split. Seed it with small crews—one or two dozen. Make sure the money flows up. Let them keep slinging dope. We control them with booze, gambling—and crush any crew that gets big."
White grinned. "Smart. Those guys are only good for grunt work anyway."
Third Master raised his cup, eyes bottomless. "We take Chicago. To victory."
"What about Victor after?"
"Foucault Gym signed him. We can't touch that kind of capital. Foucault and Old Jack? Both saved Rear Admiral William Fisher Dean's life. Military's got their back. Don't poke that bear."
---
Victor stood shirtless in the gym mirror, admiring his granite-meets-marshmallow build.
18 straight. Every win left a bruise—like medals.
"Next is Hansen," Michael said, pushing in, voice rough. "Day after tomorrow."
Victor grinned. "Hansen? Got it."
Michael stared. "You sure you gotta lose?"
Victor didn't blink. "Gangs are vampires. Politicians eat, wipe their mouth, walk away. Gangs? They swallow blood and meat. To leave the Southside, we feed them first."
"We could just bounce!" Michael argued. "Their reach don't stretch past the city."
Victor shook his head. "They don't let cash cows walk. Unless you're dead. Third Master's letting me go because I'm 'malnourished'—no more juice to squeeze. That's why I get to leave."
"How do we help?"
"Day after tomorrow—bring Kevin and the boys. You two can't carry me alone."