Future Masters in Modern Times

Chapter 43: Big Shots

With Max’s approval, the two of them were allowed to join the Siberian Training Camp. As for the other boxers without letters of recommendation, they either withdrew voluntarily or were killed or injured in their bouts against boxers from the Siberian Training Camp. At that moment, every boxer present felt an even deeper sense of awe toward the Siberian Training Camp. Legend has it that boxers who emerge from the Siberian Training Camp are not only fearless in the face of death, but every part of their body can become a terrifying weapon of death. They are usually able to deliver a fatal blow in an instant using their strongest body part, and that single blow often decides the outcome of a match. On the ground, there was nothing but splotches of blood. The bodies had been carried away, and the wounded had vanished without a trace; one could only imagine that their fates would not be a happy one. Alan stood to the side as the boxer who had also been accepted into the Siberian Training Camp extended his right hand to him. “Hello, Alan. My name is Berken,” he said. “Hello. You’re really strong,” Alan said, a look of admiration in his eyes, as he reached out to shake the man’s hand. Berken smiled. “You’ll be just as good—as long as you make it out of the Siberian Training Camp alive.” He patted Alan on the shoulder, then turned away, a darker, more somber look deepening in his eyes. Alan, of course, had no idea about any of this. He simply nodded, clenched his fist, and thought to himself, “I’m definitely going to make it.” He had always dreamed of entering the Siberian Training Camp, and now, that dream had finally come true. Now he had a new dream: to complete the training at the Siberian Training Camp and walk out of it alive. Just as the boxers present were lost in thought about everything that had just happened Max walked up to the table and spoke up, snapping them out of their reverie. “Don’t make a big deal out of this. It’s not uncommon for conditions in the training camp to be ten or even a hundred times more brutal than what you’ve just witnessed. I sincerely hope that by the time this cohort completes their training at the Siberian Training Camp, half of you will be able to stand before me again. That would be a tremendous success for us.” “What? A 50 percent survival rate is considered a success? Doesn’t that mean the survival rate at previous Siberian Training Camps was less than half that?” Many of the boxers looked grim. Although they knew the training at the Siberian Training Camp would be brutal, none of them had expected such a high mortality rate. A chill ran through their bodies, and when they looked at the smile on Max’s face, he seemed no different from a devil. “All right, everyone, line up and hand me your letters of recommendation so I can record your personal information.” Max reclined in his mahogany chair, tilted his chin upward, and said. So, all the boxers present stepped forward and lined up. Zhao Wuji moved at a leisurely pace, yet found himself at the very back of the line. Behind him were only the two boxers who’d been allowed into the Siberian Training Camp despite lacking recommendation letters. “First,” Max said coldly. His voice had taken on a hard edge at that moment. Strangely enough, Max’s tone and expression now felt natural to all the boxers—unlike just a moment ago, when he’d sounded somewhat sarcastic. “That’s more like it,” every boxer thought to themselves. The first to approach the desk was a Black man. Max gave him a once-over and said, “Black men are physically strong and easy to mold—ideal candidates for boxers. Now, please pay your tuition and hand over your letter of recommendation.” The Black man quickly produced his bank card. Max pushed the card reader toward him, gesturing for him to process the payment himself, then took the Black man’s letter of recommendation. The Black man entered his PIN, paid the $200,000 tuition fee, and then looked at Max, waiting for his next instruction. “Coach Mike was granted the right to recommend one candidate per year five years ago. Well, Coach Mike used to be a boxer at our Siberian Training Camp; he’s quite skilled, so naturally, his judgment is sound,” Max said with a casual nod, reaching over to pick up a silver medal. A string of numbers—2501—glinted on its surface. “From now on, 2501 is your code. Only when you’re able to leave the Siberian Training Camp will you be eligible to use your former name. Now, go stand over there.” Max tilted his chin toward an empty spot nearby, signaling 2501 to stand there. Next up was the second man, a white man. “White man, a regular in the underground boxing scene where strong fighters abound—your number is 2502.” The white man went and took his place. “A rising star from the Brazilian martial arts scene. Impressive—Brazilian martial arts are renowned in the underground fighting world, so you’re certainly no slouch. You’re 2503.” Max handed him the silver tag, and he, too, took his place to the side. The line was steadily shrinking, while more and more fighters were gathering on the open field—all of them having already registered. Finally, the fighter in front of Zhao Wuji stepped up to the table. “A fighter from Thailand—his punches pack a lot of power, and his style is ruthless. Not bad—just what Black Fist is looking for. Your number is 2534. Go stand over there! Next.” Max scribbled something on a piece of paper, and Zhao Wuji walked up to the table. Only then did Max look up and gaze at Zhao Wuji. “Hmm, from the mysterious East—Huaxia.” Max fell silent, lost in thought. “China—a land full of wonders. Let me think.” Max sank into his memories. “Over a decade ago, a man from Huaxia named Wang stood right where you are now. In that training camp, there were so many formidable fighters—pick any one of them, and they’d be a legendary figure in the underground boxing world. Wang was undoubtedly the most dazzling of that class. After he left the Siberian Training Camp, he made a name for himself in the underground boxing world.” ” A fiery gleam flared in Max’s eyes. He stood up, his gaze growing increasingly sharp yet tinged with nostalgia—as if a memory long buried in the recesses of time had been unearthed, releasing an endlessly lingering fragrance. “He’s Tiger Wang!” Max practically roared the name. Upon hearing that name, all the fighters present first stirred with a murmur, then fell into a prolonged silence. This was a legend—a figure revered as a god in the underground boxing world. He had reigned over the underground fighting circuit for a full decade; under his guidance, the knockout rate reached one hundred percent—not “almost,” but exactly one hundred percent. What a terrifying statistic! Yet that was the truth. Yet he was like a shooting star, streaking across the boundless night sky—incredibly brilliant, incredibly dazzling, yet incredibly fleeting. He died—not in the ring, but of illness. “It seems that since he passed away, the underground boxing world hasn’t produced anyone quite as dazzling.” As Max recounted the story, everyone felt as if they had traveled back through the river of time to over a decade ago—to the era when the underground boxing world had reached its peak, an era teeming with heroes—to pay homage to their predecessors and to that figure who stood head and shoulders above the rest: Tiger Wang. After a long silence, a deep sigh escaped him, and Max’s steps faltered slightly. He wasn’t young anymore. “I was fortunate enough to have met Tiger Wang,” Max said, his words striking a chord—Zhao Wuji sensed that the relationship between him and Tiger Wang must have been more than just a casual encounter. Max sat back down in his chair and let out a long sigh. “People from China are either completely unknown or make a sensational debut—which one are you?” With a hint of weariness, Max pushed the card reader toward Zhao Wuji, took his letter of recommendation, and casually opened it. “Karl? Are you one of his fighters?” Max asked, sounding a bit puzzled. “Of course not,” Zhao Wuji shook his head in denial. He had nothing but contempt for someone like Karl, who acted like a timid turtle. “That’s strange,” Max shook his head, muttering under his breath, “It’s just as well. He’s always hiding and sneaking around—nobody thinks much of him anyway.” At that moment, Zhao Wuji pulled out a deep black bank card that glowed with a faint, mysterious light. Max’s eyes lit up, and he nodded. “I see. It seems your boss is really something special!” It seemed Max believed that Zhao Wuji’s boss had secured this letter of recommendation for him. Zhao Wuji didn’t respond; he simply watched as Max opened the other letter of recommendation. “Huh? This is… Aleks!” Max was taken aback. Aleks was a former instructor at the Siberian Training Camp, where he held an extremely high status. Under his tutelage, he had trained Anthony—the champion who once dominated the United States underground bare-knuckle boxing scene. It’s safe to say that this letter of recommendation from Zhao Wuji carried tremendous weight. Judging by the tone between the lines, the letter practically praised Zhao Wuji as if he were a priceless jewel. This seemed way off! Aleks was a renowned figure in these parts. While it was surprising that he’d written a recommendation letter, it wasn’t entirely unbelievable—but the content of the letter left him truly unable to remain calm. There are only two possible explanations for this situation. First, the boss of this Chinese man has connections reaching to the highest levels—he’s an unquestionably influential figure whom even Aleksandr Lian feels compelled to curry favor with. Two, this Chinese man’s own capabilities compelled Aleks to write this letter of recommendation. But regardless of which possibility it was, it made it clear that this Chinese man’s own capabilities were absolutely not to be underestimated. No ordinary guy! All the boxers witnessed this scene, and in their eyes, Max spent the longest time with this Chinese man. “Boxer from China, please tell me your name,” Max said gently. “Zhao Wuji。” Max nodded, murmuring the name under his breath. “I hope that in a few years, your name will become a legend in the world of underground boxing,” Max said sincerely; it had been a long time since the Siberian Training Camp had welcomed such a prodigious talent. “As you wish,” Zhao Wuji said coolly, his tone betraying an unmistakable air of arrogance and contempt for everything else. Many fighters now harbored hostility toward Zhao Wuji; he had suddenly become the common enemy of the entire group. But did Zhao Wuji even care about any of this? Let the storm rage even more fiercely!