Jason Luo walked dejectedly through the streets of Chicago.
He had spent the entire day searching and still hadn't found a single job to make ends meet. The U.S. economy in 2020 was in shambles...
Everywhere he looked, people were out of work. For someone like him—just 18, with no education and no job experience—it felt like a hopeless struggle.
Jason had been born in the United States and once had a relatively happy family. But six years ago, his mother was killed in a car accident while riding with his father, who, as the driver, escaped with only minor injuries.
After that, his father, Henry Luo, fell into despair, drowning himself in alcohol and never working again.
Fortunately, unemployment benefits existed in America; otherwise, Jason couldn't imagine how he would have survived until now.
Jason wasn't afraid of death.
Truly—because his life held no happiness. Without his mother's gentle care, he was left with a father who, drunk, did nothing but hit or curse him.
And after every beating, Jason had to wipe his tears, clean the house, cook, wash clothes... Honestly, he'd had enough!
With such a family background, good grades were out of the question. His teenage memories were nothing but shades of gray.
Yet all those beatings had left him with a strong body. At 183 cm tall and solidly built, he looked powerful. He was only 18—if he grew a little taller, maybe he could break into sports in a country like America.
He gave a self-deprecating smile and turned down two streets, almost home. Just as he was about to buy a newspaper to look for opportunities, he heard a commotion up ahead—people were arguing loudly.
Jason immediately recognized one of them—it was his father, Henry Luo.
Several men were shoving him around, cursing as they pushed. It looked like things were about to turn violent. Jason rushed in and pulled his father behind him.
Henry was drunk again, babbling incoherently, the bottle in his hand swaying while the stench of alcohol made people frown.
Seeing that Jason was alone, the leader of the group sneered, "Hey, kid, who's this old man to you?"
Jason assumed his father had been at fault and restrained himself. "This is my father. What do you want?"
The men looked relieved to hear someone taking responsibility. Two of them tugged at their shirts. "Damn it, this old man got our clothes dirty. These are limited editions, you know. You came just in time—pay up!"
Jason gave a bitter laugh.
Money?
They had some at home, but if they paid, he and his father would be starving for the rest of the month.
"We don't have money. Please forgive us. If you'd like, I can wash them by hand..."
The men didn't bother listening further. In America, money was everything. Without it, nothing else mattered.
"Damn it, no money? Then what's the point of talking? Get him, boys!"
They rushed at him. Jason wasn't afraid of a fight, but he thought of his father behind him. These men wouldn't know how to hold back—what if something happened...
He sighed. He couldn't let it go, but he had no choice.
Clenching his teeth, he wrapped his arms around his father, shielding him with his body. One thought filled his mind: At least you gave me life. If it comes to it, I'll give it back.
Sticks, fists, even bottles rained down on his back. Maybe it was his refusal to resist that made them lose interest. After a while, they cursed and walked off.
When they were finally gone, Jason gritted his teeth and pushed himself up. Surprisingly, after years of constant beatings, his injuries weren't too bad. Other than a small cut on his neck, he was fine. Stretching a little, he helped his father up to head home.
Just then, a middle-aged white man stepped out of a car parked across the street. He approached, pulling a business card and fifty dollars from his wallet.
"Young man, I saw what happened just now. Your actions moved me. You've got great physical condition. I have a job for you. Interested?"
Jason helped his father sit down first, then took the card. It read: "Amateur Boxing Manager, Raul Anderson."
Amateur boxing?
God—was he inviting him to fight?
Boxing was huge in America. If he could make it in that sport, he could turn his life around!
Excited, Jason said, "Mr. Raul, that's great! My name is Jason Luo. I'd love to become a boxer. Thank you for giving me this opportunity."
Raul looked awkward for a moment before chuckling. "Oh, Jason, you misunderstood. The job is as a professional sparring partner. You know, someone who trains with boxers..."
Jason's smile froze. A human punching bag? That was a job?
Seeing his hesitation, Raul quickly added, "The pay's good—$30 an hour. It's really not hard. We're serious about this. Here, take this $50 as a supervision fee. Don't worry, I'm no scammer."
Jason glanced at the money, uncertain. $30 an hour was decent, but getting beaten as a sparring partner was hard to accept.
Just then, Henry muttered drunkenly, snapping him back to reality.
Forget it. He'd give it a try. In his situation, what choice did he have? At least it was work.
Raul saw him nod, wrote down an address, and told him to call when he arrived. Jason pocketed the note and helped his father home.
Watching them leave, Raul exhaled. Damn Reches, his punches were too heavy. Every week they had to replace sparring partners. He wondered how long this kid could last...
...
Their home was a run-down apartment. The house they once lived in had long been sold off by Henry—for alcohol, to drown his endless regret.
Jason didn't understand. Six years had passed. When would his father finally emerge from the shadows?
As a child, every beating made him hate his father—hate him for taking his mother away.
But gradually, Jason grew numb. His father seemed to have no affection for him, only endless demands... A meal not cooked right, clothes not washed clean—anything could be a reason for a beating.
Now, at 18, Jason felt differently. He began to understand—maybe even pity. Yes, perhaps his father was the most pitiful person of all.
...
That night, Jason couldn't sleep. Truthfully, he had little interest in the sparring job. He wasn't stupid—if it were a good job, Raul wouldn't be recruiting people off the street. But with no education, no experience, and a father to take care of, finding decent work was nearly impossible.
The next day, he followed the address to find Raul, who brought him to a boxing training gym.
Since Jason had no sparring experience, Raul didn't let him jump in right away. Instead, he carefully explained the basics and rules.
There were different types of sparring partners: physical training, technical, and live sparring. Usually, sparring partners wore punching pads or defensive shields—special pads for blocking attacks.
Jason's job would be as a physical training sparring partner. That meant staying passive—defending and parrying, not counterattacking. A good physical sparring partner helped boxers stay aggressive while minimizing injury to themselves.
Raul's expectations weren't high. He just hoped Jason could withstand Reches' attacks for more than half an hour. That would count as qualified.
Looking at the thick round pad in his hands, Jason thought it wouldn't be too difficult. His body was strong—lasting thirty minutes shouldn't be hard. He nodded.
Before the match, Raul reminded him, "Be careful of Reches' rear-hand punches. Don't take them head-on if you can avoid it."
Jason felt Raul was genuinely looking out for him, which warmed him a little. Stepping into the ring, he even felt excited.
So this was the boxing ring? The canvas under his feet was soft, comfortable. Maybe this job wouldn't be so bad after all.
Reches was tall and broad-shouldered, his arms thick with muscle—a power fighter through and through.
When he saw Jason step in, he frowned. "A rookie? Damn it, Raul, I told you to find someone stronger. This kid won't last."
Raul, leaning on the ropes, shot back, "Shut up, Reches! You know how many guys I've brought you already. None of them lasted. At least give this kid a chance."
Reches shrugged but still looked down on Jason. "Alright, kid. Let's see how much punishment you can take. I haven't had fun in a while."
Jason didn't like the confrontational atmosphere, but Reches' contempt made him bristle. He raised his guard.
Raul pressed his stopwatch. "Begin!"
Reches smirked, tapped his fists together. "Focus, kid. I'm coming."
He stepped in with a jab.
Jason caught it on the pad. Whoa—so much power! If that landed, it would hurt like hell. He immediately grew serious.
But that jab had only been a test. The next moment, Reches unleashed a flurry of combinations, his punches faster, heavier, relentless.
Jason struggled to keep up. The jab blinded his vision with the pad, and the moment he braced for it, Reches' hook crashed into his ribs. When he shifted to defend, Reches switched to straight shots followed by crushing rear-hand blows.
Reches' rear-hand punches were brutal. Even through the thick pads, the shock rattled him, driving him back step by step.
Then, just as he was bracing, an uppercut slipped through—cracking him on the jaw.
"Bang!" Jason collapsed on the canvas.
That punch was brutal!
His head felt like a computer that had just crashed—everything slowed, the sounds around him distant, unreal.
It took a long moment before he came back to himself.
Raul climbed into the ring and helped him up. "How are you, Jason? You alright? Come down and rest."
Jason nodded weakly. He had no fight left. The force of that punch had terrified him.
Thank god for the gloves. They'd cushioned the blow. He was only dizzy. Once he stepped off the ring, the vertigo faded.
Raul handed him a bottle of water and sat beside him with a smile. "Feeling better? When you spar, you have to focus—otherwise this will happen often! Now tell me—do you still have the guts to keep this job?"
Honestly, Jason wanted to quit.
That punch had been no joke. For a little money, was it worth this kind of pain?
But then he remembered what Reches had said earlier—and defiance surged up.
He turned to Raul. "How long did I last just now?"
Raul checked the timer. "Twenty-seven minutes. But if you quit, I'll pay you for the full hour."
Jason shook his head. That wasn't it. He couldn't accept failing to last even half an hour.
"Mr. Raul, I want to try again. I don't believe I can't pass the minimum."
Raul cracked open the water bottle for him. "Jason, you've got great physical condition. Keep your eyes open, learn as you go. You'll be fine. Reches is preparing for the Chicago Golden Gloves Championship, so he won't hold back. Just watch his rear-hand punches—you'll manage."
Jason had already noticed that Reches' right rear-hand punches were devastating, but his jabs weren't much of a threat. He'd just been too nervous before. This time, he was determined.
Raul didn't let him back in immediately. He let him rest, then went over to speak to Reches.
They were too far away to hear, but Reches looked surprised, glancing at Jason again and again.
When Jason stepped back in for the second round, Reches seemed more relaxed. He grinned. "So, Raul says your name is Jason? Strange name. But you took one of my heavy shots and bounced back fast. You've got talent. I hope you last—but don't expect me to hold back. I've got a match coming soon."
Jason met his eyes. "Don't worry. I'll hold out."
Reches nodded and shouted to Raul, "We starting?"
Raul hit the stopwatch.
This time, Jason locked onto Reches' rear-hand punches. He took several jabs but endured them all—until Raul finally called time.
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