That night, Huang Wen had to essentially carry a groaning Zhong Qiang back to the Bayu Hot Pot. He passed the jar of medicinal wine to Uncle Zhong, who simply sighed, shot a look of exasperation at his pathetic son, and hauled him upstairs.
The next morning, Zhong Qiang was absolutely immovable. It was unclear if this was genuine physical collapse or a clever strategy to avoid another agonizing session of the "Two-Character Clamping Sheep Stance".
"You call that effort? Trying to learn your brother's techniques when you can't even get out of bed?" Uncle Zhong shook his head, looking down at the lump beneath the blanket. "Get up, slacker. Your friend is coming over, remember? I need to go buy some special ingredients for lunch."
It was nearly noon when Zhong Qiang's phone blared, cutting through his heavy slumber. He answered it with a muffled, instinctive groan.
"Hello?"
"Alarm Clock, are you still in bed?" Reece Fisk's voice was sharp with amusement. "What time is it? Did your brother's training completely wipe out your vital energy?"
"Completely decimated, Reece," Zhong Qiang replied dramatically, stretching slightly and immediately regretting it as every muscle screamed in protest. "I trained for what felt like twelve hours yesterday. I have zero strength left. I'm just about to take a quick rinse. How close are you?"
"About twenty minutes out," Reece replied, having checked with his driver.
"Alright, I'll be ready."
Zhong Qiang finally won the wrestling match against his blanket. As he showered, feeling the stiffness of his body, the truth sank in: this Wing Chun training was brutal, unforgiving labor, completely unlike the easy-going aerobic classes he was used to.
Shortly after, a sleek, intimidating luxury SUV, black as pitch and heavily tinted, glided silently into Chinatown and pulled up in front of the humble hot pot restaurant. A burly man immediately jumped out of the driver's side and opened the passenger door with obsequious deference.
Zhong Qiang, who had just stepped out to greet them, immediately recognized the figure emerging from the car.
"Terry, the Boxing Champion?" His eyes widened, and he quickly turned to Huang Wen and Uncle Zhong. "Brother Wen, Uncle Zhong, that's Terry! He's a Grand Slam champion in multiple kickboxing and MMA organizations, a two-time UFC heavyweight champion! He's the most famous fighter they could possibly bring!"
It was clear Reece's father wasn't doing favors cheaply—he was sending a statement.
Reece Fisk, the college roommate, emerged next. "Alarm Clock! Your neighborhood has character," the chubby young man joked, looking around. He looked genuinely friendly, but Huang Wen, observing keenly, noticed the constant, subtle scrutiny in Reece's eyes, a calculating assessment disguised by a pleasant expression.
"It's cozy enough," Zhong Qiang said, shaking off his awe. "I can't believe you brought Terry... wait."
ZMid-sentence, Zhong Qiang suddenly felt a crushing psychological weight, a strong, almost physical sensation of pressure that made him involuntarily stop talking and take a quick half-step backward.
He stared at the figure slowly emerging from the RV—a man of immense scale, easily over two meters tall, a literal mountain of flesh encased in an expensive, perfectly tailored suit.
Huang Wen stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Zhong Qiang's shoulder, steadying his nervous friend. He then looked up at the colossal figure and nodded. "Huang Wen."
The behemoth offered his hand. "Wilson Grant Fisk."
Their hands met with a soft, ominous snap.
An astounding, focused burst of raw power surged into Huang Wen's palm. It wasn't brute force, but calculated, terrifying strength. Huang Wen was momentarily surprised—this force was nearly equal to his own 34 Essence, a power that completely defied the natural limits of a human being. This man was not just obese; he possessed inhuman physical strength.
"Mr. Huang, you have remarkable strength," Wilson Grant Fisk noted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, acknowledging the unexpected resistance he met. He spoke Huang Wen's name with correct Chinese respect.
"Mr. Fisk, you're too kind," Huang Wen replied, withdrawing his hand, his expression calm. The name "Wilson Grant Fisk" meant nothing to him, but the man's power was unforgettable. This man is not a Mutant, but he is certainly a superhuman.
Fisk's eyes gleamed with undisguised curiosity. "If you don't mind, Mr. Huang, I would like to have a friendly sparring session. Would that be acceptable?"
He stared intently at Huang Wen. "The terms are simple: Regardless of the outcome, you may use Champion Terry for any promotional material you wish. We will even handle the initial publicity arrangements ourselves. What do you say?"
The proposition was a massive bait. Using Terry as an endorsement would guarantee the success of the publicity mission.
"I accept your offer," Huang Wen nodded readily. He was eager to gauge his own power against a non-Mutant, natural powerhouse of this magnitude. "Come to my martial arts hall. It is spacious enough for us both to move freely."
Huang Wen turned and began walking the short distance toward the Wing Chun Hall. Wilson Grant Fisk fell into step beside him, seemingly disinclined to use his vehicle. Zhong Qiang, Reece Fisk, and the champion Terry followed in a bewildered huddle. Only Uncle Zhong, seemingly unfazed by the presence of a world champion and a giant of a man, stayed behind with the driver to continue preparing the feast.
Wilson Grant Fisk... why does that name feel so unnecessarily complex? Huang Wen mused internally as they walked. Is he a Mutant? Or some kind of genetic enhancement project? That level of strength is far beyond anything I've ever seen in a normal person.
He opened the door to the Wing Chun Hall, revealing the dusty, echoingly empty practice room.
Fisk surveyed the interior, his gaze cold and analytical. "Mr. Huang, this space is, as you say, somewhat underutilized."
"Indeed," Huang Wen replied, acknowledging the lack of students. "Chinese Kung Fu requires a deep commitment and consistent, daily practice. It's difficult for most modern people to maintain the discipline required." He was referring to his father's previous, fleeting students who had failed to persevere.
Then, Fisk stopped, turning to face Huang Wen directly. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"Mr. Huang," Fisk said, his eyes drilling into him. "You don't recognize me, do you? You must have known that I run a rather significant organization."
"I apologize," Huang Wen shook his head simply, refusing to show confusion or fear. "I am not deeply familiar with local business figures or, as you say, 'organizations.' I am afraid the name Mr. Fisk does not ring a bell."
Fisk gave a small, chilling smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps you would know my other name, then. You may call me... Kingpin."
"Kingpin?" Huang Wen paused, his mind filtering through the vast, random archive of Marvel knowledge the system had given him. He stared at the mountain of muscle and suit. The name, the physique, the intelligence, the ruthless command... The Kingpin.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me! Huang Wen thought, a wave of dark amusement and profound annoyance washing over him. I randomly wiped out some minor neighborhood thugs, and now I've somehow summoned the underworld emperor of New York? I was aiming for local fame, not national supervillain attention!
He instantly recognized the man: Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin. The meticulous, incredibly intelligent crime lord whose body was almost pure muscle, capable of tearing down structural walls with his bare hands. The man who sought to control every criminal enterprise in America and establish a secret, dark empire.
So, my revenge just put me on the radar of a world-class martial artist who is also the biggest crime boss on the East Coast. And I'm about to spar with him, Huang Wen concluded, the gravity of the situation settling over him. I need to be very, very careful about how much of my true power I show this man. He's the type who never forgets, and never forgives.