Rain slid off Victor's waterproof jacket, leaving dark streaks on Chinatown's slick cobblestones.
He looked up at the faded red sign—Zhao's Bajiquan Gym—the characters glowing weirdly under the neon.
"This is the spot. Master Zhao's guys are Three Grandpa's favorites because they can fight."
Old Joe clapped Victor's broad back, voice low. "Keep your mouth shut unless he asks. Zhao's big-time around here, old-school, hates bullshit."
Victor nodded. His 380-pound frame looked like a fridge in the narrow alley.
The gym door creaked open. A wave of sweat, herbs, and old wood hit him.
A dozen students in black training gear snapped through stances, their hiyah! shouts echoing off the hardwood floor in perfect rhythm.
"Jojo, long time no see."
A raspy voice drifted from the back room. "You said you brought me business?"
Dim light, thick sandalwood incense.
Master Zhao sat in a rosewood armchair—mid-60s, gray hair slicked back, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
Dark blue mandarin-collar shirt, sleeves rolled, forearms like twisted rebar covered in calluses and scars.
He gripped a solid copper pipe, blue smoke curling from the burning tobacco—woke you right up.
"Master Zhao," Old Joe said, tipping his cap—rare respect. "My nephew, Victor. He's in deep. Got signed up for a fight in a month."
Zhao's gaze sliced across Victor like a scalpel.
He stood—barely chin-high to Victor—yet the pressure was instant.
"Turn."
Heavy-accented English.
Victor spun. Felt those eyes X-ray every inch of muscle.
"Southside Toughman?"
Zhao asked, then answered himself: "He can fight. Won't die."
Victor and Joe swapped shocked looks.
"How'd you know?"
Victor muttered.
"You walked here without huffing. Stamina's solid—not some blind idiot who can't see his own shoes."
Zhao eyed the fat-wrapped muscle. "With that bulk, you just gotta stand your ground. You're already in the top tier of guys who can take a beating. Southside barely has 300-pounders. Only way they kill you is a lucky chin shot."
Joe beamed. "So we're good?"
"Ten bucks."
Zhao loved cash.
Victor paid happily, asked straight: "Any shot at top 16?"
Zhao snorted, poured tea from a purple clay pot. "Southside's full of amateurs, broke pros, old guys who don't care about brain damage. They've trained. You think you're eating that rice bowl?"
Victor didn't blink. "How much to up my odds?"
"Six hundred. Three days."
Zhao locked eyes. "You've got the meat. I can teach you to survive those low-tier pros."
"What?!"
Joe's eyes bugged. "You usually charge two—"
"Over 300 pounds needs special gear and diet."
Zhao cut him off, still staring at Victor. "Teaching a grown-ass adult with zero base not to get murdered in a month? Price is fair."
Victor didn't hesitate.
Pulled a cloth bundle from his underwear, counted six crisp hundreds, slapped them down. "I've got one month."
Zhao pocketed the cash faster than a street magician.
"We're going to the hospital."
"Hospital?"
Victor blinked.
"You think kung fu is feeling pulses blindfolded?"
Zhao grabbed his coat. "Times changed. Read a damn book. Modern medicine sees clearer than me. That's survival."
---
St. Mary's check-up center had never seen this combo: an old Asian dude in traditional garb hauling in a walking billboard of a fat guy.
Nurses whispered—then laughed when Victor peeled off his shirt. Yup, just a fatty.
Then:
"Dear God."
Young doctor pushed up her glasses. "I've never seen muscle density like this… bone density… wait, his tendons—this isn't right…"
She stared at the X-ray. "That's one sexy stick!"
Zhao leaned in, rare grin cracking.
"Extra one."
Muttering : "Born for war."
Results floored the staff:
- Height: 6'0" (184 cm)
- Reach: 79" (201 cm) — way above average
- Weight: 379 lbs (172 kg)
- Muscle density: 47% above normal
- Bone density: 32% above normal
- Tendons: One extra major tendon per limb
"You're a damn freak," Zhao said, pinching Victor's elbow. "Explains why you can bang 300-pound broads all night without tapping out."
He glared at Joe: "Body built for combat, and you sent him to hustle lonely housewives, you bastard!"
Back at the gym, Zhao parked Victor in front of a custom force plate.
"Hit it your way."
Victor twisted from the hips—construction-site steel-bar swing.
Machine screamed: 458 lbs.
"Again."
Zhao adjusted stance. "Not just arms. Punch from the ground."
Second shot: 487 lbs.
Excitement flashed in Zhao's eyes, then gone.
"Power's there. No need to teach force—just feel it, repeat. But your footwork…"
He shook his head. "Drunk monkey's got better balance."
"Don't worry. I'll fix it."
To Joe: "Drop him to 320 lbs, he'll be one of the scariest heavyweights alive."
---
Old Joe pushed through the creaky door of Old Oak Tavern, grin brighter than a summer noon.
Faded denim jacket swaying, work boots thudding on the wood floor.
"Hey, Joe—your cougar finally spring for drinks?"
Bartender Tom looked up, glass gleaming. "Or did your nephew leaving free up some cash?"
Joe didn't answer. Strolled to the bar, milking the suspense.
The few old-timers turned—Chinatown stuck together. Joe's family drama was prime gossip.
"Whiskey, Tom."
He slapped the bar, scanned the room—everyone listening. "Got news gonna light up all of Milton."
Amber liquid poured with a crisp glug.
Joe swirled it, knocked it back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—eyes shining proud.
"My nephew—"
Dramatic pause.
"Victor—signed up for the Southside Toughman!"
Dead silence. Even the ice clinking stopped.
Tom's rag froze mid-swipe.
"You shittin' me?"
Raspy voice from the corner: "Kid can't even hustle right—how's he gonna box? 300 pounds! He move?"
Joe slammed another shot. "Told ya—his build's made for fighting!"
"Oh, Joe, you got scammed. Only thing he's good for is lonely fat chicks nobody else wants!"
"Shut it! Who's beating a 300-pound Victor?"
Someone knew the school story: "Victor yeeted a 160-pounder across the bathroom. I believe it!"
"Oh my Gawd!"
"For real?"
"Southside punks—one got his jaw wired right here in my shop."
"Jesus, Joe—this is huge!"
Tom poured again. "Kid's what, twenty?"
"Twenty-three inches!"
Joe corrected, stroking a photo. "But he's eighteen. I want him to have a future! Y'all come watch!"
He gestured wild. "Right hand hits 485 pounds! That power, that speed—born boxer!"
Place erupted—Southside fights had betting pools.
Joe center stage, shot after shot, retelling how Victor left-hooked a bully's teeth into orbit, KO'd five guys in a row at school.
"Proudest moment—my nephew finally manned up. Didn't run. Stood tall!"
Joe got teary. "I set him up with a 300-pound client once—he didn't even flinch! Wanted to kill him back then!"
Laughter roared.
"300 pounds? Damn… Victor's a real one!"