That afternoon, Victor followed Coach Zhao back to the gym.
The inside was even more rundown than the outside.
A few rusty heavy bags hung from the rafters. Training gear was piled in the corners. The air stank of sweat, leather, and bleach.
Faded fight posters and old photos covered the walls, proof this place used to mean something.
"Shirt off."
Coach Zhao barked.
Victor peeled it off, showing off years of layered fat.
Zhao circled him, poking his shoulders, chest, and gut like he was inspecting a racehorse.
"Solid frame. Meat's dense—not just flab."
Zhao finally said. "But low muscle mass. You'll lift heavy to build it. Pro boxing ain't bodybuilding, though. Gotta keep at least 23% body fat for stamina and padding."
He pointed to the center of the floor. "One hundred push-ups. Let's see your gas tank."
Victor dropped and started—no real man backs down from hard work.
First ten were easy. By twenty-five, sweat poured down his back like a river.
Arms shaking, doing the butterfly flutter.
"Keep going!"
Zhao slapped his forehead, voice booming like a foghorn. "Pro fighters throw punches in the twelfth round! You'd gas out by the second."
Victor hit one-oh-five and collapsed, chest heaving like a busted bellows.
Zhao tossed him a towel.
"Five minutes. Then we test basics."
The next three hours were the toughest workout Victor had ever done—because he'd never trained a day in his life.
Zhao drilled him on jabs, hooks, uppercuts—every move had to be perfect. Said it was the simplest way to learn.
Any mistake? A thin wooden stick cracked the body part that screwed up.
"Again! Shoulders loose when you punch!"
"Footwork! Watch your feet!"
"Defense? You think the other guy's gonna stand there and eat it?"
By evening, Victor was dead on his feet, stomach empty, but Zhao wasn't letting up.
"Now, sparring."
Zhao gloved up. "Three rounds, three minutes each. Feel what twelve rounds of hell is like."
Victor's eyes went wide. "With you?"
Zhao smirked. "What, scared you'll hurt an old man?"
Round one started. Victor played it safe.
Zhao was way quicker than he looked. A few fakes, then a right straight slipped through Victor's guard and smashed his nose.
Victor staggered back, tasted blood, then hit the deck face-up.
"That's pro boxing, kid!"
Zhao's voice echoed. "Not the playground crap you played in high school bathrooms!"
Round two, Victor tried swinging back. Every punch got dodged or blocked easy.
Zhao's counters landed clean—ribs, chin, gut.
By the end of round three, Victor could barely stand. Vision blurry, breathing like a broken accordion. And that was with his fat padding his chin, gut, and ribs.
"Call it a day."
Zhao pulled off his gloves. "Rest up. I'll wake you tomorrow. Don't be late. Kitchen in the back's got food—cheap."
Victor stumbled to the locker room, every inch of him screaming.
He sat on the bench, ice pack on his left eye, suddenly wondering if he was cut out for this. Then he passed out right there.
Missed dinner. Woke up in the dark. Ate two pounds of rice at a diner down the street.
The next three days were the most painful—and fullest—seventy-two hours of Victor Lee's life.
Day One – 5 a.m. Sky just turning fish-belly gray. Zhao kicked in Victor's door.
Victor jolted awake. Before he could gripe, a wet towel smacked his face.
"Up, fat boy."
Zhao's voice scraped like sandpaper. "First session before the sun's up."
Victor wobbled to his feet. Every bone protested. But last night's two pounds of rice and pound of steak had done wonders—fast metabolism healed fast, broke down lactic acid quick.
Still, half a day of yesterday's beating left him wrecked.
Zhao gave zero warm-up time.
Training ground was a chalk-squared patch in the backyard—about 20 feet by 20.
Hard-packed dirt. Old bags in the corner. Weird gear Victor didn't know the names of.
"I'm new to boxing, but any fighting art lives in the feet."
Zhao stood with hands behind his back, morning light making him look like cast iron. "Today: footwork."
Forward shuffle nearly killed him.
Zhao demanded weight stay between the legs, tiny quick steps, toes never lifting more than half an inch.
Victor waddled like a drunk penguin. Ten minutes in, calves cramped.
"Center of gravity! Watch it!"
Zhao whipped a bamboo stick across Victor's shaky thigh. "This ain't a stroll—this is survival!"
Backward shuffle? He was drenched.
Zhao showed the move: back foot first, front follows, body balanced, ready to strike or block.
"Picture a psycho with a knife in front of you,"
Zhao said, sliding back smooth as mercury. "Too slow, and you're gutted."
Victor tried. Third rep, he tripped himself and ate dirt hard.
Zhao didn't help. Checked the ankle. "With your weight, falling on the canvas is suicide. Up. Again."
Lunch break: hands shaking so bad he could barely hold chopsticks.
Zhao tossed him saltwater and a bowl of boiled eggs. "Eat. Side shuffles and basic punches this afternoon."
Side steps were torture.
Zhao: toes turn first, then body.
"Turn the toes! Not your ass!"
His yell echoed. "You're dodging punches, not waltzing!"
By the end of day one, Victor was a puddle.
Every muscle screamed. Blisters on his soles. Knuckles swollen.
Zhao loomed over him.
"Know why we start with footwork?"
Voice surprisingly calm.
Victor shook his head—no energy to speak.
"Because boxing ain't two idiots standing still trading haymakers."
Zhao crouched, eye to eye. "Footwork is the soul. Plant your feet, you hit. Move fast, you live. Tomorrow, 5 a.m. Don't make me kick the door again."
Day Two – Victor woke before the alarm.
Even with fast recovery, his body felt like roadkill. Every move shot pain.
But some weird pride dragged him to the yard on time. Swinging a sledgehammer was worse than this—so no more sledge.
Zhao gave a tiny nod—maybe approval, maybe nothing.
"Punch training today,"
he said. "But first, show me yesterday's homework."
Victor ran through forward, backward, and side shuffles.
Still clumsy, but no falls.
Zhao nodded. "Barely passing. Buy a mirror and practice. Now, gloves."
He tossed Victor a beat-up red-and-black pair.
Victor fumbled them on. Zhao tied the straps tight, impatient.
"Gloves ain't jewelry,"
he said, yanking. "They're your armor—and your opponent's nightmare."
Punch drills started with jabs.
Zhao stood behind, hands on Victor's hips and shoulders, adjusting stance and angle.
"Shoulders loose. Elbow in,"
his voice right in Victor's ear. "Power comes from the ground—legs, hips, back, fist."
By jab number one hundred, Victor's shoulder was numb.
Zhao still wasn't happy. "Again! Your punches are spaghetti! Picture the asshole who humiliated you—wanna drive his nose into his brain? Then hit!"
"You wanna go back to servicing fat housewives? Don't you want hot girls? Don't you want blondes with legs for days? PUNCH! GIVE ME PUNCHES!"
Afternoon: defense.
Zhao tested rib guard—one shot dropped Victor to his knees, dry-heaving.
"Your ribs are paper. More fat there—it absorbs."
Zhao was brutal. "On the canvas, that defense lands you in the ICU."
Shifted to head defense.
"Guard ain't for show,"
Zhao showed the stance. "It's your shield. Chin tucked—you don't even gotta try, your neck's already built for it.
Forearms down, eyes on the opponent—but really watch the shoulders. That's where the punch starts!"
He gloved up, threw fast but light taps to test reactions.
"Block! Don't close your eyes! Rookie, closing eyes is surrender!"
"Punch coming! Don't blink—take it on the arms or something solid, watch the next one!"
"Idiot! No guts to trade, why box at all?"
"See it? When they swing, that's your opening—close the gap, then smash—ribs, gut, chin. Trust me, they'll feel it too!"
Day Three – Victor hit his limit.
Muscles sorer than ever. Breathing hurt his ribs.
But something shifted—moves got smoother. Body started remembering.
Zhao noticed.
No praise, but cranked intensity higher.
Taught combos and counters.
"Left jab, right hook, snap back to guard,"
Zhao flowed like a 60-year-old panther. "Attack is the best defense, but brainless swinging is suicide. You're a counter-puncher—need stamina to eat shots and fire back!"
Victor tried the combo. Coordination still trash.
Zhao attacked—a right straight at Victor's face.
Instinct kicked in. Victor's arm shot up and blocked.
"See that?"
Zhao pulled back. "Your body's learning. That's progress."
Afternoon: Zhao dragged out an ancient VCR. Played fight tapes.
"Study these."
Screen showed names Victor knew—but wrong:
Tyson Fury, Oleksandr Usyk, Anthony Joshua, Deontay Wilder… then Muhammad Ali losing his belt, George Foreman vs. Lennox Lewis, Klitschko brothers fighting each other…
"This… this is impossible…"
Victor's jaw dropped. "These champs are from different eras!"
Zhao gave him a weird look. "What eras? These are all current kings. Greatest era in boxing—legends fighting each other, pushing the sport to insane levels."
He pointed at a young fighter trading with Joe Frazier. "That rookie? Twenty-two. Already beat three former world champs."
Victor realized: in this parallel world, pro boxing and the 100-meter dash were the pinnacle of sports. Boxing was huge—raw, direct, electric.
Most heavyweight legends were active at the same time. The level was unreal.
One thing missing: the man who ended it all.
"So now you get what you're up against?"
Zhao paused the tape—Foreman's uppercut launching a guy into the air. "In this world, boxing isn't a sport. It's war. And you? You ain't even a recruit."
Final Night – Training ran past midnight.
When Zhao finally yelled "Stop!", Victor face-planted into the dirt.
Couldn't lift a finger. But a weird fullness filled his chest.
Zhao crouched beside him—rare near-smile.
"Started from zero. You survived, kid."
Victor rolled over, stared at the stars. "I… still got a long way… right?"
"Long as the Earth to the moon—or a Black guy becoming president!"
Zhao stood. "But at least you know how to stand now. With your gifts? You might make it."
Victor wanted to thank him, beg to stay—but Zhao shut it down:
"You can't train here anymore. This gym's under Old Shan. His guys are my students. If you beat one, I'm in a tough spot."
Victor thanked him, packed up.
Zhao's parting advice: "Go home and drill. Don't waste that body on women!"
Victor laughed bitterly. "I'm just a fat guy."
"A fat guy who trained this hard at your size? You're not regular fat."
Zhao shut the door. "Two hundred years earlier, slap some armor on you—you'd be a goddamn warlord."