At that very moment, Steve Rogers was standing in an alley behind a movie theater—facing down a towering, broad-shouldered man.
Moments earlier, a patriotic newsreel had played before the film. The sight of soldiers bleeding and dying for their country had stirred something fierce inside him. His chest burned with the urge to enlist, to fight.
But one young man in the crowd shouted impatiently,
"Who cares about this crap? Just start the movie already!"
Steve frowned. "Hey—show some respect."
The reel continued. On-screen, wounded soldiers were carried on stretchers through the smoke of battle. Around the theater, people sat in silence, eyes wet. Some women quietly wiped away tears.
Then the same heckler spoke up again.
"Enough already! Stop with this garbage—play the damn film!"
That was it. Steve snapped.
"Shut your mouth!"
The man stood, towering over him by a full head—broad, muscled, the kind of bully who'd never lost a fight.
Ten minutes later, the two of them were in the alley out back, ready to "settle it like men."
Of course, the big man thought he was about to have some fun. To him, the skinny kid in front of him was asking for a beating.
He looked down at Steve, sneering. "You really don't know when to quit, do you?"
But Steve met his gaze steadily.
Chen Mo's voice echoed in his mind: "When words don't work, let your fists do the teaching. Pain makes lessons stick."
Steve knew that from experience—his own bruises from training had been the best teachers.
The big man roared and swung.
Once upon a time, Steve would've gone down in the first hit. But not anymore.
To him now, the punch seemed slow—clumsy and full of wasted motion.
He stepped aside easily, driving his own fist hard into the man's exposed armpit. The blow landed with a dull thud. Pain shot through the thug's arm; it went limp instantly, hanging uselessly at his side.
Still refusing to yield, the man turned and swung again with his remaining arm—but his stance was off-balance, his movements sluggish.
Steve ducked low, darted forward, and slammed another punch into the man's ribs—right where the liver was. A strangled grunt escaped the brute as agony rippled through his body. His face drained of color; his knees buckled.
Before he could collapse, Steve stepped behind him and kicked hard at the back of his leg. The man fell like a sack of bricks, clutching his side and gasping for air.
Flat on the ground, he could only tremble. His whole body screamed with pain.
Steve raised a foot—and the man's eyes widened in panic—only for Steve to stop the kick an inch from his face.
"When you use your strength to bully others," Steve said quietly, "you'd better be ready to be the one getting bullied."
He lowered his foot.
"Out there, soldiers are dying for us—fighting real battles. And you? You use your strength to push people around."
His tone, his posture—it was all Chen Mo. The same calm, cold authority.
The thug could only stare up in disbelief. Bully the weak? he thought. You're the one bullying me!
"Use your power for the right reasons," Steve continued, "and you'll be a hero. Use it the wrong way, and you'll be a thug everyone despises. Which one do you want to be?"
Leaving the man lying dazed in the alley, Steve walked away—heart pounding, but lighter than ever before.
For the first time in his life, he had won a fight. His body ached, but his spirit soared.
So this is what strength feels like, he thought.
His mind drifted to Chen Mo—the man who had given him that strength.
"Master…" he murmured under his breath.
⸻
Stepping out of the alley, Steve spotted a familiar figure waiting on the street.
"Hey, Bucky!"
James Buchanan Barnes turned, grinning.
"Steve! What the hell, man? I was saving you a seat, and you disappear on me for ten minutes?!"
As Bucky approached, Steve noticed the crisp military uniform.
"You got your orders?"
Bucky's smile widened proudly.
"Sergeant James Barnes, 107th Infantry Regiment. We ship out for England tomorrow morning."
Steve fell silent for a moment.
"I should be going with you," he said quietly.
He meant it. In the past, the army had turned him away again and again. But now—after months of training—he knew he'd pass.
If not for Chen Mo's words: "Not yet."
Steve respected him too much to disobey.
Bucky, meanwhile, didn't take it seriously. He'd heard all about Steve's "training at some Chinese dojo" and figured it was just talk. He'd known Steve since they were kids—weak, sickly, always getting in trouble.
"Come on, pal," Bucky said, slinging an arm over his shoulder. "Last night in New York before I ship out. Let's get you out of that scrawny getup and into something proper."
"Where are we going?" Steve asked.
"The future," Bucky grinned, handing him a newspaper.
Across the front page was a full ad:
"The World of Tomorrow – World's Fair Opens Tomorrow!"
Steve blinked, half-smiling. Then his expression turned serious.
"Wait, I need to stop by the dojo first."
"For what?"
"Master said he had something to tell me this afternoon."
Bucky sighed, shaking his head.
"You and this mysterious 'master' of yours…"
⸻
"Master, I'm back!"
Steve's voice rang out as he entered the dojo, Bucky following curiously behind.
Chen Mo was in the middle of practice. With a flick of his wrist, a silver throwing knife shot through the air, slicing cleanly toward the far wall—twenty meters away.
Thwip!
It struck dead center of the target. The blade sank in halfway, joining a dozen others clustered in a perfect ring around the bullseye.
Bucky stared, mouth slightly open.
So… maybe Steve hadn't been exaggerating after all.