While Victor was laid up in the ICU, word got out; officially, he "fell at home."
A tiny blurb in the Chicago Tribune sports section read: "Boxing Beast Victor Rings in the New Year with Bad Luck; Slips at Home, Breaks Ribs; June Fight in Doubt."
Insiders who knew the score just shook their heads; tough break, career probably toast.
Only a handful might've raised an eyebrow, but nobody could guess the insane plan behind it.
In the hospital bed, Victor gritted through every breath; sharp, stabbing pain; face pale from blood loss and agony. But his eyes, locked on the ceiling? Bright. Almost satisfied.
Michael stood bedside, looking worse than Victor.
The plan's early "success" didn't spark joy. Watching his buddy suffer that much? Guilt and what-ifs nearly drowned him.
"You see it, Michael…?"
Victor's voice was weak but buzzing with excitement. "The twelve new fractures; bone density up 30% from last time… once they heal… it's like armor. No more worrying about body shots."
Michael didn't answer. Just gripped the bed rail till his knuckles went white.
Those two "DO NOT PERFORM" reports haunted him.
Now more than ever, he got why the hospitals said no; not just risk charts, but a line in the sand for sanity and humanity.
And him? The smart one? He'd become the guy who made it happen.
Victor suddenly asked, "How hard can that senior disciple really hit?"
Michael shook his head. "No idea. But he once stopped a guy's heart with one punch."
"His power's too focused!"
Victor pressed, "Would practicing Taiji help me now?"
"Ribs are brittle; 500 pounds is enough to snap 'em. I prepped the strike; maybe 800-900 pounds max. Plus, it was a sneak attack while you were relaxed; that's why it worked so well. In a real fight? No shot."
The senior disciple walked in. "I've seen your power. I can't hit like that."
Victor didn't buy it, but the guy doubled down:
"No magic. Just strength and accuracy. Big power + precision = dead. If Taiji could really make you punch like a bullet, we'd be chucking pebbles and dropping cops. Who needs rifles?"
Victor and the crew cracked up.
The next few days? Pure hell for both.
Victor lay there, every cough or shift like torture.
Docs wanted to pump him with the strong stuff; he said no. Dull aches and sharp stabs followed him everywhere.
He refused to stay still long; muscles would atrophy, throwing off balance. That helpless feeling gnawed at a heart that lived for the ring.
But the real kicker? Doubt.
Would this crazy theory even work?
Were the hospitals right to refuse?
Bad healing, permanent damage; career over.
Fear slithered in at night, eating his confidence.
He kept rubbing the three older ribs; thicker now; for any shred of comfort.
Michael ran ragged; hospital, gym, PR firm; caring for Victor, covering tracks, fielding press and boxing commission questions.
And the mental weight? Crushing.
He was in on it. An accomplice.
Seeing Victor in pain tore him up with self-blame.
He'd wake in cold sweats, dreaming the plan blew up or Victor ended up crippled.
They barely talked.
When pain made Victor snap, he'd lash out at Michael for "sloppy planning."
Michael took it or fired back cold: "Your call, psycho."
The banter wasn't fun anymore; just pain, fear, and heavy reality.
Their friendship was a boat in a storm, ready to capsize.
But then? Victor's freakish recovery kicked in.
Pain eased. X-rays showed callus growth way better than expected.
Even the head doc was stunned: "Mr. Li, your healing's the best I've ever seen. Those bones can probably take 600 pounds now. Athlete genes, huh?"
That line hit like a shot of adrenaline; refilled their tanks.
Victor's fire roared back; hotter than ever.
He started tiny, safe muscle-maintenance moves in bed.
Michael watched; guilt lightened a bit, swapped for a mix of worry and hope.
Maybe this lunatic pulls off another miracle?
···
Three weeks later, Victor walked out; miracle.
Chest still wrapped tight, face pale, but back straight as steel.
Didn't go home. Had Michael drive straight to the gym.
Stood in the center, took a slow, deep breath; still a twinge, but he felt it; those twelve broken-and-healed ribs, tougher, ready for war.
He peeled off his jacket, touched the gnarly new calluses under the mirror.
"They said no, Michael."
Voice calm but powerful. "With ink and rules. My body answered with bone and pain."
Michael leaned in the doorway, quiet a beat: "The price was brutal, Victor. And this was just round one."
Victor spun, first real, feral grin since the injury; teeth flashing cold.
"Then let the answer hit harder."
Eyes on the frigid Chicago sky out the window, already seeing June's ring.
"Ribs ain't enough!"
Michael's gut dropped. That ice-hot flame in Victor's eyes; he knew the madness wasn't done.
Victor opened his eyes wide: "One more time!"
Michael stared, brow knotted: "You're serious?"
Victor nodded.
"It only hurts once!"
"You're insane!"
Michael roared: "You almost died last time!"
Victor didn't flinch: "I said again!"
"You nearly croaked!"
"Michael… help me!"
"You're a damn lunatic!!! You were in the ICU five days!!!"
"You cool with it?"
"No way I'm letting someone else swing at you."
"What's that mean?"
"I'll do it."
"Huh?"
"I made a rubber baton. Trust me; it'll crack bone just right."
Victor looked at Michael, then at Liz Chen beside him: "So we keep going?"
Michael held up the baton: "Hell yeah! Your theory checks out! With this, we can micro-fracture the surface; your immune system kicks in and reinforces. Controlled damage = stronger bones!"
"Got it!"
Victor puffed his chest: "Can I get Rocky-level durability?"
"Uh…"
Michael paused: "Dude's on cheat codes."
"Fine!"
Victor threw his arms open: "What now?"
"Now? We burn off the 15 pounds of hospital chow you packed on!"
Ethan came down from upstairs. Michael stepped back. Ethan grabbed a packed schedule:
"Victor, you ate like a king in there; gained 15! One month; gone!"
"Let's do it!!!"
···
5:00–6:30 AM: 5K interval runs, out and back.
Morning: Footwork drills.
Afternoon: Anti-strike training; limbs, core, ribs, neck, chin, forehead, cheeks.
Evening: Strength work.
Sledgehammer swings, tire flips, sand runs…
Victor missed the hospital; just lie there, grow meat. Easy.