The meticulously orchestrated media campaign by the Kingpin's network was nothing short of brilliant. It wasn't just designed to attract attention; it was designed to incite passion. The goal wasn't merely to get people to watch a fight—it was to make them emotionally invest in the fate of Chinese Kung Fu itself.
The strategy was subtle but devastatingly effective: if Huang Wen won, the millions who already supported traditional Chinese culture would be thrilled, turning the Wing Chun Hall into a legendary place of pilgrimage. Their likelihood of becoming future students would skyrocket.
Conversely, for those who initially sided with the mighty Champion Terry, a decisive loss would be a shock. However, this shock often transitions into grudging respect. It's like watching a seemingly invincible champion fall to a spectacular new talent.
Even if you bet on the old one, you can't help but cheer and acknowledge the overwhelming skill of the successor. (Of course, the disgruntled high-stakes gamblers remain the exception.)
It was Friday, a week after the fateful sparring session. The media storm had reached a crescendo, fueled by Terry's provocative statements.
Zhong Qiang and Reece Fisk, who were supposed to be attending classes, had rushed back to Chinatown. Their time with Huang Wen, however agonizing, had fundamentally changed them. The two boys, who had barely moved before, now found themselves restless and almost anxious if they missed two days of training. They felt a strange, addictive sore spot—the proof of progress.
This immediate transformation annoyed Uncle Zhong to no end. Before, Zhong Qiang was an occasional visitor. Now, he and Reece practically lived in the Wing Chun Hall, only emerging for lunch and dinner. Uncle Zhong often muttered under his breath: "They treat home like a restaurant, the apartment like a hotel. Only show up when they need to eat or sleep!"
Yet, there was a noticeable competitive spirit between the two new apprentices. Back at the Wing Chun school, they sparred and drilled with a fervent enthusiasm, desperate to show off their gains to Huang Wen, who watched them with an approving nod. Competition, indeed, bred progress.
The climax arrived in the form of a blinding array of camera lights. Representatives from The New York Times and CBS Television crammed into the dusty, quiet hall. The CBS reporter was the same sharp, well-known correspondent who had interviewed Tony Stark just weeks earlier—a clear testament to the Kingpin's immense reach and power.
The reporter began, thrusting a microphone forward: "Mr. Huang, what is your official response to Champion Terry's public declaration that traditional Chinese martial arts, including your Wing Chun, are nothing more than 'air and spectacle' and hold no practical use in modern combat?"
Huang Wen stood perfectly still, centered in the frame. His faint smile carried the weight of ages, yet his aura radiated a quiet, formidable power that silenced the noisy room.
"We, the practitioners of Chinese martial arts, are guided by a philosophy of humility and respect," Huang Wen stated, his voice calm but resonating with authority. "Normally, we dismiss the frivolous provocations of the unenlightened with a simple laugh."
His eyes sharpened, suddenly locking onto the camera lens—a moment of intense focus that sent a nervous ripple through the watching crew.
"But!" he continued, his tone hardening. "To insult the legacy and the essence of Chinese Kung Fu—a tradition painstakingly developed over millennia—is an act of profound disrespect that cannot be ignored. It demands a physical response."
"Since this 'champion' believes our art is merely for show, I extend an open, public invitation: let him come to the Wing Chun Martial Arts Hall and test his theory against me. I invite all of you—the newspapers, the television networks—to witness the truth."
Huang Wen then dropped the real bomb, turning the challenge into a legendary, winner-take-all confrontation.
"Furthermore, I hereby guarantee that if this Champion Terry defeats me on that day, I will personally give him one hundred thousand dollars of my own money. And that offer is not exclusive to him. From this day forward, any legitimate challenger who comes to this hall and defeats me will walk away with that same prize."
"However," he paused, letting the silence hang heavy, "I am not running a charity. To prevent this hall from being overrun by every low-grade challenger and opportunist, I require the same commitment: any challenger who accepts and loses must leave one hundred thousand dollars behind."
He stared straight into the camera, a predatory glint in his eyes. "The stake is high, the terms are clear, and the world will be watching. I wonder: Does Champion Terry have the courage to gamble one hundred thousand dollars on his conviction?"
The challenge was brilliant. It wasn't just a fight; it was a high-stakes duel of honor and finance, one that guaranteed maximum media attention.
Miles away, in his opulent private gym, Tony Stark, wearing only sweatpants and a satisfied smirk, watched the broadcast while Happy Hogan worked the punching bag.
"One hundred grand? What an audacious little showman," Tony scoffed, though his eyes betrayed his interest. He removed his gloves and tossed them carelessly to Happy. "Happy, seriously, if you weren't wearing those ridiculous gloves, how fast could you put this kid on the mat?"
Happy Hogan, a former boxer and Tony's head of security, was instantly cautious. "It's hard to say, boss. Terry is arguably the most dominant fighter in the world right now—peak performance. If this kid, Huang Wen, can genuinely defeat him, then I wouldn't stand a chance. That kind of speed and power isn't natural."
"Jarvis," Tony commanded, "Keep a detailed analysis on this Wing Chun prodigy. Log the fight, the speed, the force. We need to know what he's drinking. Now, that's enough for today, I have a date that requires my full, undivided attention."
Meanwhile, in the dimly lit corner of the Bayu Hot Pot restaurant, two people sat nursing bowls of hot broth, their conversation low and intense.
"May, is Wing Chun really as formidable as they claim?" Agent Phil Coulson asked Agent Melinda May.
"Very formidable," May confirmed, stirring her broth slowly. "I trained here years ago, under the old master, Huang Hong. He was a master—easily better than me at the time. As for this son, Huang Wen, I don't have enough data."
Coulson lowered his voice further, referencing the critical point of their covert investigation. "Better than you, May? And this is the family of the man who supposedly died at the hands of the Goren Gang, only for the entire Goren leadership—including the Mutant enforcer Fist Stone—to be wiped out by an unknown force shortly after."
May nodded grimly. "That's why we're here. Huang Hong was strong, but he was human. The strength required to pulverize Fist Stone—a body literally turned to granite—goes far beyond the limits of human physiology. It's impossible for a conventional fighter. We can't rule out that Huang Wen is either a Mutant himself, or has access to other, specialized abilities."
"Is there any possibility of recruiting him?" Coulson's eyes lit up with the pragmatic idealism of a SHIELD recruiter. "His martial arts skill is unparalleled. If we could teach all our agents just a fraction of Wing Chun..."
"Martial arts is about quality, not quantity, Phil," May countered, shaking her head. "Wing Chun and arts like it require years of dedicated practice. Our agents' training is efficient and effective for our needs. More importantly, masters like Huang Wen don't pass on the advanced, secret methods to outsiders—especially not those associated with government agencies."
"A shame," Coulson sighed, finishing his broth. "But let's not forget the bigger picture. Last Saturday, the night the Goren Gang was eliminated, the entire Chinatown area was sealed off by a mysterious force—someone with enough pull to override local and federal jurisdiction. We need to find out who was responsible for that lockdown. It suggests a far larger game at play here. Let's go, the interview is over. It's time we pay Mr. Huang a visit."
May rose, placing cash on the table. "Coulson, you blew the per diem budget again. Remember to transfer me the difference."
Uncle Zhong, who was restocking napkins nearby, watched the two visitors leave, his brow furrowed. He hadn't heard the conversation clearly, but the serious tone and the mention of "Mutants" and "sealed off" sent a chill down his spine.
Are they looking to cause trouble for Xiao Wen? he wondered. They certainly didn't look like police officers. If this continues, I may need to call some of my old connections to vouch for the boy.
Back in the Wing Chun Hall, Huang Wen was supervising the two students, occasionally demonstrating a technique on the wooden dummy.
Suddenly, Huang Wen stopped, his head snapping toward the entrance.
Two figures entered the dusty hall—a slightly rumpled, kind-looking man, and a severe, exceptionally poised woman.
Huang Wen fixed them with a calm, penetrating gaze. "Who are you?"
The man, Coulson, smoothly pulled out a wallet, flipping it open to display a polished badge. "FBI," he introduced himself with a practiced, friendly smile. "We have a few questions we'd like to ask Mr. Huang Wen."
"FBI?" Huang Wen raised a skeptical eyebrow, though his expression remained perfectly composed. He nodded slightly. "Come in. I confess, I'm curious what matter requires the FBI to visit my small martial arts school."
"FBI?" The word hit Zhong Qiang and Reece Fisk like a thunderclap. Zhong Qiang's face paled, while Reece, whose very family survived on avoiding the Bureau, instantly went rigid with panic. Both students abandoned their training and scrambled to Huang Wen's side, their eyes wide with fear and suspicion, instinctively placing themselves between their master and the two official-looking strangers.