Connor's wife operated the super-brain at home for a while, and before long, the golden section in the center of the smooth alloy dining table sank down and then rose up again—already covered with delicious dishes! Every famous hotel publishes its menu information online, and through hyperspace transmission technology, you can even sit at home and enjoy delicacies from renowned hotels several light-years away!

That day, Abner and Connor's family drank three barrels of beer. I only sipped a little; as a boxer, not indulging in alcohol or overeating is a rule of life. So even though I wanted to drink more, I held back—there is no pirate who doesn't like to drink.

The next morning, I got dressed and went to the training ground. The facilities here are excellent. In the left corner is an intelligent high-carbon material striker. I walked over and set the rebound force to 200 kilograms, then started practicing. The red numbers on the counter kept flashing, and when the number reached 400, I was sweating a little and decided to stop. With this kind of intelligent striker, only hits that reach the set rebound force count as effective, and the counter will display them.

I left the striker and stood on the treadmill next to it. Here, you can simulate outdoor environments. I chose the harshest terrain: mountains, rapids, deserts, swamps—everything included. The distance was still set to 100 kilometers. I found a 60-kilogram barbell in a nearby room, hoisted it onto my shoulders, glanced at the timer on the treadmill, and started running.

For the next dozen days, I trained almost entirely at the intensity of boot camp. Abner and Connor didn't disturb me. I had the right to use all the facilities in Connor's training ground as I wished. I secretly tested my heavy strike power. I kicked out, and with a "bang," the red speed on the dynamometer soared, quickly breaking through the 1,000-kilogram mark, then kept rising until it finally stopped at 1,500 kilograms. I nodded—my technique seemed pretty solid, able to unleash such powerful force.

The dozen days passed quickly, and tomorrow would be my first official match as a boxer. We didn't have a pre-match press conference. Even though any champion of any fighting discipline in the universe would be instantly knocked out in this ring, the aura they possess is something we don't have. Unlike many fighters who sit quietly in their rooms adjusting their state before a match, I, for the first time since arriving on Slate Planet half a month ago, walked onto the famous Joaquin Shopping Avenue.

I had neither the time nor the money, so naturally, I wouldn't come here just to stroll. But tonight, for some reason, I suddenly wanted to take a look. I told Abner I wanted to go out for a walk. He looked at me in surprise; in his impression, most boxers should be adjusting their state before a match, but I wanted to go shopping. But seeing the stubborn look in my eyes, he smacked his lips and said, "Alright, alright, go ahead. Do you want me to lend you some money?" I didn't really want to buy anything—just felt like walking for some reason—so I shook my head, "No, that's okay..." Before I could finish, Abner had already pulled out two 500-denomination cosmic bills and stuffed them into my pocket: "Take it, consider it your prize money in advance—if you win tomorrow, you'll get fifty thousand, enough for you to splurge for a while!" The prize for winning a top-level boxing match is 450,000, plus a 50,000 appearance fee, making the total prize money for a match about 500,000. The loser gets no prize, only the 50,000 appearance fee—but few losers can even stand up after the match, so all that money goes into the manager's pocket. And for organizing a top-level match, the manager can get at least 700,000 cosmic coins from ticket and betting revenue—more than the boxer earns. The income from other levels of matches is only a tenth of the level above. I'm at the advanced level now, so as long as I kick James Nelson to death tomorrow, I'll get fifty thousand—don't blame me for thinking this way; before a match, no boxer just thinks about defeating the opponent. Here, failure often means death, and we can't afford any sympathy, or else the one who falls will be you.

Since he insisted, I didn't say anything more, put the money away, and went out alone. I had already asked Connor for directions: walk half a kilometer straight down the street in front of their place toward twelve o'clock, then turn left—very close. Being able to live here shows that Connor is quite wealthy, which also reflects from another angle how lucrative the black market boxing scene is. Even a venue owner like him, who only makes money from renting out the place, can get rich.

Chapter 9