radicalducati Page 94
Page 94
Ethan added, "Use these twenty men as you like; the second batch will arrive first thing tomorrow morning!"
Viktor understood.
"Mr. Trump arranged accommodation for us, three rooms in total."
Viktor scanned the group of eager young people. "Remember, you're here to assist with training and treatment, not to fight."
After settling the team in, Viktor held a tactical meeting in his suite on the top floor of the hotel.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the neon lights of Atlantic City resembled a flowing galaxy, but his thoughts drifted back to three days ago, two days ago, and one day ago—the burning anger in his chest when Fujimoto Kyotaro, after the signing press conference, called Asian athletes "weak as women" and used insulting words to humiliate them.
But America is a country governed by the rule of law—Victor can't just use gangster methods to bury them.
"Victor?"
Liz Chen's voice brought him back to reality, "Your back still needs one last acupuncture treatment."
Liz's fingers were icy cold, and the slight pain from the silver needles piercing the acupoints made Victor frown.
She is Michael's girlfriend, specializing in acupuncture, and is the youngest therapist on the team, yet she possesses a composure beyond her years.
"Formal training begins tomorrow,"
Victor addressed everyone in the room, saying, "This match is more than just..."
A rapid knocking interrupted him.
Foucault walked in with a grim expression: "The Japanese team checked in early, right downstairs from us. There are four of them, more than before."
Victor glanced at Ethan, who nodded.
The conflict at the restaurant came sooner than expected.
The next day at noon, when Viktor and his team went to the hotel restaurant for lunch, Fujimoto Kyotaro and his teammates happened to walk by from the opposite side.
Fujimoto, wearing a T-shirt with the Japanese flag printed on it, deliberately raised his voice when he saw Viktor: "Look, the Chinese are here with their circus troupe."
The restaurant fell silent instantly.
Viktor felt the heavy breathing of the martial arts students behind him, but he simply picked up his water glass calmly.
"What, afraid to speak?"
Fujimoto approached Victor's dining table. "Where did your courage go during the signing ceremony?"
Zhang Ming suddenly stood up, the chair scraping loudly on the floor.
Viktor gestured for him to sit down and said clearly in Chinese, "Not here."
Fujimoto clearly understood a few words, and he responded mockingly in broken Chinese: "Scared? You... Chinese... pig..."
A thin crack appeared in the glass in Victor's hand.
He took a deep breath, put down his cup, and said in English, "Let's go somewhere else..."
"right here!"
Fujimoto suddenly grabbed a plate from the table and threw it at Victor.
Viktor tilted his head to dodge, the plate grazed his earlobe, hit the wall behind him, and shattered on the floor.
At that moment, time seemed to freeze—he saw the anger in Zhang Ming's eyes, the terrified expression on Liz's face, and the other diners in the restaurant beginning to back away…
I'll pay the medical expenses and bail.
Victor yelled in Chinese, "Consider it a work injury!"
The next thirty seconds passed like a storm.
The twelve martial arts school disciples pounced on the six Japanese athletes like tigers released from their cages.
Zhang Ming delivered a side kick that sent a Japanese bastard flying three meters, knocking over two dining tables;
Two members of the Eagle Claw School used grappling techniques to pin a Japanese fighter who was attempting a sneak attack against the salad bar counter, and then dislocated his arm;
······
Viktor stood there, his fists clenched so tightly they ached, but he didn't join in.
He noticed that after the Japanese were knocked down by Zhang Ming, what flashed in their eyes was not fear, but a deeper hatred.
This is not a performance; this is genuine hostility.
Fujimoto, however, remained standing still—it seems everyone is the same, wanting to use legal means to prevent the other from participating!
When hotel security arrived, the six Japanese athletes were already lying on the ground groaning.
A Japanese man's nose was crooked to one side, and blood stained his Japanese flag T-shirt.
"Everyone, leave the hotel immediately!"
The security supervisor roared.
Ethan calmly pulled out his credit card: "The loss will be deducted from this."
Even after being kicked out of the hotel, the Japanese man, supported by his teammates, still couldn't resist taunting, "Three days from now, at the dock, dare to come?"
Just as Zhang Ming was about to respond, the second group of martial arts school disciples arrived—twenty burly men in uniform emerged from three Fords and stood silently behind Victor.
Fujimoto's expression froze, and he was eventually pulled away by his teammates.
That evening, newspapers reported the conflict under the headline "Battle between Chinese and Japanese forces unfolds at Trump Hotel".
The accompanying image shows Victor standing calmly in stark contrast to the chaotic fighting scene.
“Victor Lee, you’re a genius at creating buzz.”
The following morning, Donald Trump, holding a glass of champagne in his private office, said, "The pool has grown by a third."
Victor swirled his wine glass and casually agreed.
But their gazes fell on the silent young man in the corner of the room—Mike Tyson, who at only 19 years old had already quietly shaken the entire boxing world.
He wore an ill-fitting suit, looking like a wild beast locked in a cage.
"Mr. Tyson,"
Viktor walked over and said, "I've seen all your amateur tournament videos."
Tyson looked up, his eyes wary: "So?"
"Your dodging is the most perfect I've ever seen; your punches are as precise and deadly as cannon fire."
Viktor sincerely said, "If possible, I would like to ask you to give my team a demonstration."
Tyson's expression softened slightly: "Keton said you acted more like a mob boss than a boxer."
Viktor laughed: "Sometimes the battles off the field are more complicated than those on the field."
Trump stepped in, putting his arm around both men's shoulders: "Two future boxing champions! Maybe you can support each other?"
At the end of the dinner, Victor and Tyson exchanged contact information.
On the way back to his room, Foucault said excitedly, "It's fantastic to have gotten in touch with Tyson! His agent is looking to expand into the Asian market."
Viktor did not respond.
He looked at himself in the elevator mirror—dressed in a suit and tie, with a composed expression—but then he remembered the hateful look in Fujimoto's eyes when he left.
All of this has gone beyond the scope of business operations and has become something more dangerous.
The pager vibrated; it was a message from Ethan: "Fujimoto's team just released a statement saying they're going to 'settle everything' in the ring."
Viktor turned off his phone, and the night enveloped him through the window.
The match on the 11th was no longer just a commercial show, but a real showdown.
He took off his suit jacket and began warming up—no matter how much scheming there was off the field, in the end, it was all about fists, and he was about to use a head to demonstrate his strength.
······
On March 9, the lights in the corridor on the 43rd floor of the Trump Plaza Hotel appeared exceptionally pale at 3 a.m.
When Victor's door was banged on, Ethan was analyzing Fujimoto Kyotaro's boxing moves in front of a video camera—he knew he needed time to grow, so he was very serious.
A reflective badge flashed in the cat's eyes. As soon as he unscrewed the safety chain, six people in anti-doping agency uniforms squeezed into the room.
"AIBA conducts surprise doping tests."
The woman, who appeared to be of Asian appearance, flashed her identification, and half of a Mitsubishi zaibatsu emblem cufflink was visible on her sleeve.
The four burly men behind her had already lifted up Victor, who was wearing a bathrobe—Victor did not resist. The remaining man rushed straight to the bathroom, his movements as practiced as if he had rehearsed rummaging through the medicine box.
"Damn it! WADA stipulates that flight drug testing must be conducted no later than 23 PM!"
Ethan blocked Victor from collecting blood samples with his body, only to find that the blood collection tube was printed with "Yokohama Life Science Institute"—a private testing agency controlled by the Fujimoto family.
The sudden flash of light from outside the window was so bright it made me open my eyes, and I could vaguely see the reflection of reporters' cameras on the rooftop of the building across the street.
Meanwhile, at a top-tier members-only bar in Atlantic City, Kyotaro Fujimoto smashed a whiskey glass in front of a Citibank manager.
Amber-colored liquor splattered on the other man's custom-made suit, mixing with the front-page photo of the Mainichi Shimbun on the table—Victor looked like a mafia boss, and Fujimoto Kyotaro looked like a thug.
"Is this all you do? How boring! You should hire some hired guns!"
The manager remained calm: "Mr. Fujimoto, America is a country ruled by law, not Japan where gangsters run rampant. This garment is worth eight thousand dollars. Give me the check later."
Fujimoto looked at him, feeling helpless.
Trump's call came in at 3:17 a.m.
Victor stared at the third urine sample that had been forced to be expelled from the toilet, and heard the background noise from Mar-a-Lago coming through the satellite phone.
"The president of Citigroup Asia called me personally,"
The words on the other end of the line were abrupt: "That Japanese bastard's uncle has three of our mortgage-backed securities—you know what subprime loans are, right?"
Ethan suddenly snatched the phone: "They drew 200cc of blood! That's way too much for a drug test!"
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, followed by the rustling sound of pages turning in a checkbook.
"Then tell Viktor that he must win."
Viktor's eyes looked like he wanted to kill someone.
Chapter 76 Professional Boxing First Match: First Round KO