Victor stared at the numbers on the medical report, his fingers twitching with excitement.
The $6,500 full-body eval Frankie had recommended—half the average American's yearly income—delivered a result he never saw coming: his body could handle a max weight of 410 pounds.
Hit 400 pounds, and he'd peak at a threshold most guys never touch. Keep it clean, and he could hold that peak until around age 26.
"No way…"
He muttered, looking past the glass wall at Miami Beach. Bikini girls and jacked dudes glistened under the sun like they lived on another planet.
Dr. Smith pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses and pointed a laser at the projected CT scan of Victor's guts:
"Mr. Lee, your digestive system absorbs at 2.2 times the average rate. Most people use 12% of what they eat—you're pulling 26%. Every bite you take, your body's hoarding nutrients like a squirrel on steroids."
Victor poked his gut. Under that layer of fat was thicker visceral padding and a longer small intestine—explains the belly.
"So it's not just because I eat like a horse?"
"Part of it, but not all."
Dr. Smith pulled up the genetic report. "You've got elite hardware. Your organs pump out more stomach acid, bile, and enzymes. Small intestine's a third longer than average. That's why your heart's a beast—high red blood cell density to feed the furnace.
"And your PPAR-γ gene is mutated. Your fat cells differentiate like crazy."
Too technical. Victor looked lost.
Dr. Smith simplified: "Bottom line—you eat less, absorb more, and your body's built to store energy like a survival machine."
Victor got it. "So I'm just… built to get fat."
He flashed back to the bullying days—"Fat Victor"—and suddenly it clicked. It wasn't laziness or greed. His own genes had screwed him.
No—Chi Feiming had.
"Mr. Lee, it's not 'easy to get fat.' It's like… the grease from a kitchen hood is enough to keep you warm."
Victor blinked. So why the hell was he still cramming 20,000 calories a day?
"Good news," the doc continued, switching slides to Victor's muscle fiber map. "Your muscle mass and bone density are off the charts. Bones are thick, fascia's tough and plentiful. Gain weight right, and you'll stay scary mobile at 400 pounds. Just ease off when your heart's not 25 anymore."
Victor understood: his power could still skyrocket.
Leaving the center, his pager buzzed—Ethan.
Waiting in the parking lot, ocean breeze messing up his hair, a wild idea hit him:
If I can't cut weight… why not bulk the hell up?
---
One day later: Old Jack's Training Camp
"You lost your damn mind? 400 pounds? 180 kilos! Even hogs get slaughtered at 260!"
Old Jack slammed the table, gray curls bouncing, face pure disbelief. "Boxing's an art of speed, kid! Look at Ali! Look at Lewis!"
Frankie Dunn leaned against a heavy bag, chewing gum, thinking.
The coach famous for building heavyweights had a totally different take: "Jack, times changed. Average heavyweight's 240+ now. Victor's body? God's gift."
Ethan Lee: "Per the doc—body fat and muscle growth curves—he can safely hit 400 in 12 months. Faster, stronger, as long as muscle stays 45%+."
Victor sat on a weight bench in the corner, sweat soaking his gray tank.
He stared at the posters on the wall—Ali and Foreman. Two kings. Two paths.
"Frankie," Victor said, voice low and locked in. "If you train me—how?"
Old Jack looked up.
Frankie's eyes lit. He bolted to the whiteboard.
"First, ditch the fancy footwork. You're not built to float like a butterfly."
He sketched a ring. "We're building a steamroller. Pressure fighting—like young Foreman."
Old Jack snorted: "That old-school crap? Foreman crashed hard. Now he's a preacher with a gym."
"Jack, boxing's about winning."
Victor cut in, standing—bench screeching. "If my body's gonna be big, let's make it terrifying."
The meeting ran late into the night.
Victor picked Frankie's plan.
Old Jack grumbled but stayed to oversee results—no one knew winning fights like him.
---
5 a.m. the next day: Training kicks off
"Forget everything you learned."
Frankie tossed Victor a thick weighted belt. "From now on, you're a tank, not a sports car. Tyson's style doesn't fit—you're heavier, taller!"
Victor strapped on the belt. 80 extra pounds stole his breath.
Ethan handed him a protein shake: "Eggs, whey, chicken breast… 658 calories, 80g protein. Six of these a day."
Victor chugged it, eyes narrowed.
First drill: Modified shadowboxing
Frankie adjusted Victor's stance—lower center, shorter punch paths.
"Long hooks are for skinny dudes. Your fists drop like hammers—close range, smash down or swing up!"
Ray—the camp's sparring partner, a near-peak cruiserweight—stood in the corner in full gear, shaking.
Perfect sparring size: strong enough to challenge Victor, quick enough to mimic any opponent.
"Shoulder tag—go!"
Frankie blew the whistle.
Victor lumbered after Ray, trying to tap his shoulder.
Basic agility drill—short bursts, not endurance. Still a nightmare at his size.
After the third fall, Victor pounded the mat, stone-faced.
"Up! No extra moves!"
Frankie roared. "Your fat's laughing at you! Show it who's boss!"
---
Lunch break: Victor collapsed on the locker room bench, muscles trembling.
Michael walked in with ice packs and a massage gun: "Lactic acid worse than expected, but fiber damage is controlled."
"So… tired," Victor panted. "I want a beer. Lungs are on fire!"
"Frankie said if fights are stacked, no sex, no waste. I'm not calling an escort."
Ethan slapped electrode pads on Victor's back, fired up the EMS unit: "Rome wasn't built in a day. We're resculpting how you move, breathe, think."
Afternoon: Brutal
Frankie designed anti-body-shot training—slamming a 16-pound medicine ball into Victor's gut and ribs.
"Heavyweights die from organ shock."
Frankie explained, then blasted the ball into Victor's abs. "Your fat eats impact, but liver and spleen are still soft. We toughen them."
Dinner: Two whole roasted chickens, three cups brown rice, a huge bowl of veggies, two spoons olive oil—then Michael blended it into mush.
"Michael, just cook it and serve. No need to liquefy."
Victor chewed mechanically, taste buds numb.
"Sorry, man. Next three days, no chewing. Blended = max absorption."
Michael's plan tracked every gram of carbs—muscle gain, not fat.
"Tomorrow: hex ball drills."
Frankie said, watching young Foreman crush opponents on tape. "Reaction speed has to match weight gain. Power spikes need clean fundamentals or you're a sitting duck."
---
End of Week 1: Victor up 8 pounds—6 muscle.
Bench press up 15%—Frankie's core strength program working.
"See?"
Frankie bragged to Old Jack, showing data. "Punch efficiency up. Same swing, 30 extra pounds of force."
"You're building a battleship!"
Old Jack nodded reluctantly. "Power's there. But fights ain't powerlifting. Next week—I test sparring."
---
Week 2, Wednesday: Victor in custom weighted training suit for mock fights.
Ray told to hit-and-run—move, angle, strike.
First two rounds: disaster.
Victor slogged like a bull in mud, chasing Ray. Heavy shots whiffed. Ate counters.
"STOP!"
Frankie yelled before Round 3.
He grabbed Victor's headgear, furious: "What the hell are you chasing? Control with hooks, threaten, make him come to you! Own the center—shrink the ring!"
Switch flipped.
Victor stopped chasing. Planted in the middle.
When Ray closed, Victor exploded—short uppercut grazed Ray's chin. Even with headgear, Ray dropped cold.
"That's it!"
Frankie jumped on the ring apron. "You're not the hunter—you're the trap. Let 'em walk in!"
Michael and Liz Chen dragged Ray off. He was out two hours—Victor banned from full-power punches in sparring.
---
That night, recovery done: Victor stood in front of the mirror.
Changes subtle, but he felt it—the beast waking. Muscles responding. 400 pounds wasn't a death sentence. It was a goal.
---
One month later: Progress test
Weight: 385 pounds
30-meter sprint: only 0.3 seconds slower
Punch power: +12%
- Raw fist: 1,086 pounds
- Through 10cm pork: 830 pounds
Old Jack stared at the gauge, finally smiling: "Kid, one punch could kill a hog!"
Frankie wasn't done.
He brought in a pro wrestling heavy bag—special fill to mimic body feedback.
"Regular bags teach bad habits."
Frankie wrapped Victor's hands. "This one fights back. Goal isn't knockdown—it's destruction."
Victor's first punch thudded. Rack shook.
Second punch snapped a ceiling chain.
"Holy shit!"
Frankie half-laughed, half-panicked. "Ethan—recalculate his power curve!"
Ray rubbed his bruised jaw from sparring, half-joking: "Boss, I need a raise."
Foley nodded: "Train hard. When Victor goes pro, you're his undercard!"
Ray was thrilled.
---
Month 2: Victor adapted.
Steps heavy but grounded. Punches shifted from rotational to core-driven drops—Frankie called it "drop-hammer" style.
"Watch Foreman tape. Heavyweight fights don't need tricks. Throw, protect, outlast. It's who can take it!"
Frankie pointed at the screen. "His power was unreal. We couldn't figure out how to stop it!"
Michael tweaked nutrition—more BCAAs, Omega-3s to control inflammation.
Visceral fat tightly capped.
"Your liver's 15% bigger than average," Michael said, pointing at ultrasound. "Advantage and risk. We keep it from overloading."
Hex ball drills—Victor's nightmare. Six-sided balls fired randomly. Touch the color Frankie yelled while balanced.
Day 1: 2% accuracy
Week 6: 70%+
"Reaction speed decides how far you go."
Frankie logged progress. "Tyson had 0.18-second reactions. We want 0.25 for a 400-pound giant—that's still terrifying."