"The two officers... uh." Huang Wen paused, a fleeting moment of confusion crossing his face. He knew their names, but calling them by name would expose his supernatural awareness, something he had to guard carefully.
"Just call me Agent Coulson. This is my partner, Agent May," Coulson supplied with a practiced, open smile, maintaining the charade.
"Agent Coulson, Agent May," Huang Wen repeated, offering a slight nod. "I don't know, is there something specific you're interested in? I'm afraid I'm rather busy preparing for a major martial arts challenge."
"It's about the Goren Gang," Coulson stated, his eyes fixed on Huang Wen's, analyzing every micro-expression. "We've established that the Goren leadership was responsible for the death of your father, Huang Hong. We're here to see if you have any information that could assist in our ongoing investigation into their activities."
"So it was them! Those miserable wretches!" A flash of ice-cold fury seemed to pierce Huang Wen's eyes—a performance of righteous anger that was entirely convincing. "I had heard the rumors. The Karate instructor, Benson, even came here to provoke us. I was actually planning to contact the police precinct myself soon to pressure them into finding the killers, if they had the guts to do their job properly."
"You don't need to worry about finding the killer anymore, Mr. Huang," Coulson said, keeping his voice placid and calm. "The Goren Gang, as an entity, no longer exists. All their key executives, their middle-to-upper echelons, were killed in the early hours of last Friday morning."
"What?" Huang Wen perfectly simulated a moment of genuine, startled surprise, followed by a harsh, cold laugh. "Well, that's poetic justice! They committed terrible, despicable crimes, and they received the retribution they deserved. A gang like that was bound to self-destruct."
"Mr. Huang Wen," Coulson pressed, his gaze unwavering, "you claim to be completely unaware of this event?"
Huang Wen gave a sharp, genuinely amused chuckle. "Agent Coulson, I am a martial arts instructor. I might be able to teach you a quick kick, but I am an ordinary citizen. How could I possibly dismantle an entire criminal syndicate, let alone one that employs hardened criminals and, supposedly, some highly specialized enforcers?"
"Then, for our records, what were you doing in the early hours of last Friday?" Coulson asked, the question delivered smoothly but carrying the weight of an official inquiry.
"Sleeping, of course," Huang Wen shrugged dismissively. "What else would a martial arts instructor be doing at 3 AM? Unfortunately, I sleep alone, so I can't offer you a character witness for my slumber."
"Why are your two young students so agitated, then?" Coulson pivoted, offering a friendly, non-threatening smile toward Zhong Qiang and Reece. "Is it common for people to be this nervous around federal agents?"
Reece Fisk, driven by a deep-seated arrogance that came from knowing his father held more power than any government agency, stepped forward slightly.
"It's natural to be cautious when law enforcement—or, detectives—arrive on your doorstep making veiled accusations about serious crimes," Reece laughed dismissively. "However, if you genuinely suspect our Master, please present the evidence. If you can't produce a shred of concrete proof linking him to the Goren incident, then you are wasting the valuable time of both the Master and myself."
"In that case, we won't keep you," Coulson said, rising smoothly. He offered Reece Fisk a long, analytical look, noting the boy's unearned air of authority, then nodded to Huang Wen. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Huang. Sorry for the intrusion."
"No need to see you out," Huang Wen replied, offering another polite salute, watching impassively as Coulson and May exited the hall.
Inside the unmarked sedan, driving quickly away from Chinatown, May finally broke the silence, a professional frown etched on her face. "Do you still believe Huang Wen is the suspect? He was too composed, too ready with his answers. And we got no reading on the device."
"He is absolutely the prime suspect," Coulson confirmed, shaking his head with a faint smile. "His story is too neat. His anger was rehearsed, but the underlying power wasn't. However, you're right, we have no physical evidence. And the media storm we just witnessed means he is now highly visible. Pressuring him publicly is pointless."
Coulson pulled out the small, mobile-phone-sized device. "This prototype Mutant Identifier did not react, which strongly suggests Huang Wen is not a registered Mutant, or at least, not the type we can track." He put the device away.
"Which leads to my next conclusion: He had help. An ordinary person, even one as skilled as he appears to be, cannot destroy a Mutant whose body is transformed into stone. His 'accomplice' is that surprisingly arrogant, chubby boy," Coulson stated, pointing in the direction of the Wing Chun Hall.
"That boy's attitude isn't the nervousness of a college student; it's the unearned entitlement of someone protected by an immense, unseen power. That boy is tied to the mysterious force that sealed off Chinatown. That's the real thread we need to pull—who is protecting Huang Wen, and why?"
May considered this, her expression thoughtful. "So the Goren Gang incident, the Mutant's death, and the Chinatown lockdown are all pieces of a larger puzzle being manipulated by a third party—a non-Mutant entity who also happens to have a son learning Wing Chun."
"Precisely," Coulson confirmed. "The Kingpin's name wasn't mentioned, but his presence is all over this."
Back in the now-quiet hall, Huang Wen shook his head at Reece Fisk.
"You shouldn't have stepped forward like that," Huang Wen reprimanded softly. "It doesn't help you or your father. Showing such contempt for the FBI is an unnecessary display of your background."
"My father would actually approve," Reece countered, a small, stubborn smile on his face. "A mere FBI agent, or whatever 'detective' they truly are... My father's organization views them as a minor bureaucratic annoyance. My job is to protect your integrity, Master." We, the Kingpin Group, do not concede ground to such nuisances, Reece's internal thought finished with a hint of Kingpin's own icy certainty.
Huang Wen simply sighed. He knew the depths of the Fisk family's power, but he needed to drill some humility into the boy.
"Tch, 'integrity.' You can barely hold the basic stance for ten minutes and you're talking about protecting the Master's integrity," Zhong Qiang sneered, stepping forward and poking Reece's soft belly. "You talk a big game. If your father's power is so limitless, why haven't you managed to lose weight?"
"Oh, like you're one to talk, Alarm Clock," Reece retorted immediately, not to be outdone. "Your family owns a hot pot restaurant—a daily temple to gluttony—and yet you're just skin and bones. You don't have an ounce of muscle on you!"
"Alright, enough, you two," Huang Wen intervened, shaking his head at their petty squabble. "Instead of bickering, go practice your Two-Character Clamping Sheep Stance until your legs lock up. You are both starting this martial path too late. You will have to exert ten times the effort of a normal child to achieve anything worthwhile. Understand?"
"Yes, Master!" Reece Fisk snapped to attention, already rushing toward his spot.
"Got it, Brother Wen!" Zhong Qiang complained good-naturedly, dragging his aching body toward the center of the floor.
Meanwhile, the Kingpin's capital machine was working overtime. Journalists from The New York Times and various television stations were scrambling to find Champion Terry.
They moved with such ferocious urgency because James Wesley had greased the wheels with an unbelievable amount of cash. Under the crushing power of capital, media outlets stopped caring about ethics; they just chased the spectacle.
The cameras caught up to Terry at a boxing gym. The reporter, giddy with anticipation, thrust the microphone at him.
"Mr. Terry, the Wing Chun Master, Huang Wen, has just issued a public, $100,000 challenge! What is your immediate response to his accusations and his high-stakes wager?"
Terry forced a wide, confident grin, his fear masked by a lifetime of professional bravado. "Hmph! If this Master wants to gift me one hundred thousand dollars for free, what possible reason do I have to refuse?" Terry declared, looking straight down the lens. "Consider this my official acceptance! I'll be at the Wing Chun Hall in Chinatown tomorrow to collect my payment!"
The truth, however, was a constant, icy knot in his gut. He knew he was no match for Huang Wen. The memory of the single, devastating, focused punch that had incapacitated him lingered like a phantom ache in his core. He could only pray Huang Wen was true to his word and held back enough to prevent a fatal injury.
"It seems our Champion has accepted the challenge!" The reporter beamed excitedly. "Mr. Terry, a final question: Against this Wing Chun style, how many rounds will it take you to defeat the Master tomorrow?"
Terry slowly raised one finger, holding the camera's attention.
"One move!" Terry shouted, his voice ringing with false confidence. "I will only need one single move to end this charade!"
One move and I'll be sent flying, Terry's inner monologue finished for him. But the statement he did utter had just set the final spark to the blaze, escalating the match from a challenge to an inevitable, history-making showdown.
Later that evening, Terry stood stiffly in front of the Kingpin, waiting for his final instructions.
"Boss, how did I perform?" Terry asked, his expression almost fawning.
Kingpin, calm as ever, simply nodded. "Satisfactory. The media narrative is exactly where I require it to be." He leaned forward, his massive hands resting on the desk. "Mr. Huang has informed me that for the sake of tomorrow's authenticity and maximum impact, he will not overtly hold back. However, he has promised that he will not deliver a killing blow."
Terry's breath hitched in his throat. Not holding back meant pain, humiliation, and a crushing, career-ending defeat. But the alternative—disobeying the Kingpin—was death.
"Be prepared," Kingpin concluded, his voice utterly devoid of sympathy.
Alone in the Wing Chun Hall, Huang Wen stood before his wooden dummy. His finger bones still throbbed faintly, a reminder of the Kingpin's incredible, natural power. He knew tomorrow was not just a fight against Terry; it was a performance for Wilson Fisk and the clandestine agents of SHIELD.
The Kingpin wants a spectacle to legitimize the Wing Chun Hall, not just as a business, but as a power hub he can exploit. SHIELD is watching me, trying to link me to a Mutant incident and the secret lockdown.
He struck the wooden dummy, the wood shuddering under the impact, but making no sound. I must deliver a perfect performance. The force must be overwhelming, but controlled. I need to make the public obsessed with Wing Chun, not with the source of my power.
Let the world talk about the $100,000 challenge and the death of a champion's reputation. Let them focus on the 'air and spectacle' of Chinese Kung Fu. Everything else—Fisk, Coulson, the Mutants—will fade into the background. The path to power starts now.