The next day, Saturday, was marked by an almost religious fervor in New York City. Despite neither Huang Wen nor Champion Terry having specified an exact hour, Chinatown began swelling with crowds by dawn.
The magnetic pull of high-stakes, celebrity violence was irresistible. Why watch a recording when you could witness history, danger, and a potential hundred-thousand-dollar knockout in person?
The sheer, staggering volume of people was unprecedented. Even the dozens of imposing, well-dressed men—Kingpin's orderlies, tasked with maintaining a semblance of control—struggled to keep the surging mass from completely paralyzing the district. They weren't fighting people; they were controlling rivers of onlookers.
The security operation, while effective at preventing chaos, could not prevent crowds from engulfing every available street. The spillover—thousands of excited spectators forced to wander the side streets—resulted in a spectacular, unforeseen boost to the entire Chinatown economy. Every noodle stall, dim sum cart, and souvenir shop was instantly overwhelmed by hungry, restless spectators.
Miles away, at the highest levels of surveillance, the spectacle was being analyzed.
"Kingpin Group," Agent Coulson murmured, leaning back in his chair as he reviewed the intelligence feed. "Just as the fat kid's arrogance implied. Their influence is definitely sufficient to erase the Goren Gang without a trace, and without a single leak."
He ran a hand over his face. "And since Champion Terry is firmly within the Kingpin's sphere of influence—a known associate on retainer—this entire, globally televised provocation is a complete farce, orchestrated from the top. A brilliant piece of psychological manipulation, actually. They manufacture a crisis of tradition, then provide the hero to resolve it, all while funneling attention away from their real activities."
Coulson immediately contacted his superior. After hearing the full intelligence report, Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD, leaned against his desk, his expression unreadable.
"The Kingpin Group," Fury repeated the name flatly. He considered the broader, strategic implication for a long moment. "Coulson, let the drama play out. Sometimes, having a single, consolidated entity managing the entire underworld is preferable to dealing with a hydra of smaller, uncontrollable gangs. A unified criminal front is a single, clear target. We ignore this for now."
"Understood, sir," Coulson replied. He grasped the political calculus: centralized crime was far easier to monitor and manage than disorganized chaos. A well-managed underworld, even a brutal one, was less destabilizing to the surface world.
Agent May, standing nearby, offered a rare piece of vocal insight: "If Kingpin is consolidating power using this boy as a proxy, it means he sees genuine value in Huang Wen. We need to focus on what that value is—the skill that killed the Mutant. Not the betting or the theatrics."
The crowd around the Wing Chun Hall itself was a mixture of fervent supporters and aggressive detractors. Betting pools were the only thing moving faster than the excited onlookers.
The odds reflected the conventional wisdom of the mainstream public: Kingpin's organization had set the betting spread. If Terry lost, the payout was an astronomical 1 to 10 (meaning a $100 bet won $1,000). If Huang Wen lost (the heavily favored outcome), the odds were a ridiculously low 1 to 1.1 (a $100 bet won only $10).
Despite the absurdly favorable odds for a Terry defeat, only a few hardcore risk-takers and contrarians dared place money on Huang Wen. The vast majority of the public was frenetically wagering on the Wing Chun master's defeat, convinced the traditional arts were no match for modern, professional boxing.
However, two massive, almost desperate bets were placed on Terry to lose: Huang Wen himself had scraped together the largest cash reserve he could muster, a full one million dollars, betting it all on his own victory. The second largest sum came from Zhong Qiang's family—a heart-stopping five hundred thousand dollars—a statement of unwavering, familial support.
When Kingpin learned of the two large sums wagered by his current protégé and the family of his new employee, he merely smiled, unconcerned. He knew the vast majority of the betting money was flowing into his coffers, thanks to the rigged odds. He could easily afford to let Huang Wen and his supportive family win a small fraction back.
Champion Terry, however, was paralyzed by fear. He wanted desperately to bet on Huang Wen, but the mere thought of Kingpin discovering he bet against his own performance—and Kingpin's own narrative—was enough to make his blood run cold. His mind conjured vivid, terrifying images of the East River.
At 3 PM, a sleek, black luxury RV, different from the one Kingpin typically used, pulled up to a controlled entrance point.
Out stepped Champion Terry. He was draped in an expensive, crimson silk boxing robe, a theatrical flourish meant to symbolize his dominance. Two gleaming Ultimate Fighting championship gold belts were secured around his waist.
"My fans!" Terry roared, waving with calculated arrogance to the cheering crowd. "I am here today to deliver a much-needed service! I am here to expose the truth: that this fraudulent 'plastering skill' is nothing but a ridiculous scam!"
"We support you, Terry!" screamed the wave of his supporters. "Beat those yellow-skinned monkeys back to the dojo!" The racist undertones were sharp and loud, further fueling the cultural divide and the tension. Terry's support was loud, aggressive, and undeniably vocal.
Terry swaggered into the Wing Chun Hall. The interior was bare. There was no ring, only a wide, empty space in the center, flanked by cameras from every major network. Huang Wen stood waiting, utterly still, perfectly centered in the room.
The moment Terry's eyes met Huang Wen's, the boxer's public bravado evaporated. He visibly swallowed, a thick knot of dread forming in his throat. The memory of the elbow strike and the subsequent knockout barrage was a fresh, searing phantom pain in his abdomen.
Professional instinct took over. He tossed the flamboyant cape to a subordinate and quickly removed the championship belts, laying them aside.
"Hey! You fraud!" Terry shouted, giving Huang Wen a deliberate, aggressive middle finger gesture. "Today is the end of your little trick! Prepare to be exposed!" He walked into the space, his movements stiff and rehearsed.
"Are we prepared to begin?" Huang Wen asked calmly, turning to the CBS host. He did not engage in the trash talk. "To ensure safety, I must advise everyone to maintain the greatest distance possible. I fear there could be accidental harm if you are too close."
"Accidental harm? Against you? I only need one move, and nobody will be harmed but you!" Terry shouted back, doubling down on his promise.
"The Champion is clearly overflowing with confidence, and Mr. Huang is eager to test his skills," the host exclaimed, his face flushed with adrenaline. He raised the microphone dramatically. "The stage is set! Let the Challenge begin!"
"Please," Huang Wen said, offering a concise, traditional fist-and-palm salute to his opponent—a gesture of respect that only highlighted Terry's crude arrogance. He adopted the classical, unassuming starting stance of Wing Chun.
Terry roared, a powerful, emotional sound, and launched forward with a furious, looping punch aimed squarely at Huang Wen's head. He knew he would lose, but Terry fought with the desperation of a trapped animal, putting every ounce of his power into the blow.
Huang Wen watched the powerful, muscular figure advance. He nodded, satisfied with the genuine ferocity of the attack. More power than last time, but just as telegraphed.
It was over in an instant.
Huang Wen executed the movement with blinding speed. He didn't block; he simply shifted his center, moving his body to the side of the punch's trajectory. His body cut directly into the line of Terry's extended arm, instantly nullifying the boxer's power. In the same, fluid motion, Huang Wen delivered a devastating, short-range One-Inch Punch into Terry's abdomen.
It was the same technique, but delivered with the surgical precision and kinetic force of a world-ending event. Terry was speechless, the sheer internal shock of the blow emptying his lungs of air and his mind of thought.
With a sickening, powerful thud, Champion Terry flew—not stumbled—more than ten meters backward, a human cannonball. He slammed into the far wall, knocking over the camera tripod for a local news outlet, before crashing heavily onto the ground.
Silence. Absolute, complete silence descended upon the hall and on the millions watching at home. Everyone, from the reporters to the camera operators, was frozen in disbelief.
"My God! What in the absolute world was that?" The CBS host yelled, his voice cracking, his face flushed scarlet. "Just… how much force could launch a man that size across the entire room? Cameraman! Did you capture that clearly?"
"N-no, sir, it was too fast," the cameraman stammered, frantically reviewing the recording. "But I have it in digital format. We can try slow-motion playback."
The crowd gathered around the monitors. Even at one-half speed, Huang Wen was a blur of efficiency—a figure of pure, concentrated energy that moved too quickly for the human eye to process. All that was visible was the initial greeting, the roar of Terry, and then the flash of movement followed by the sickening impact and Terry's flight.
"Incredible!" The host spun back toward Huang Wen, his professional skepticism utterly shattered, replaced by wild, unadulterated excitement. "Mr. Huang, if I were to begin training in Wing Chun, could I ever possibly reach your level of skill and power?"
Huang Wen gave a faint, almost melancholy smile.
"I'm afraid your chances are rather slim," he admitted softly, without a hint of arrogance. "That punch was not a miracle. That punch was the absolute, total culmination of twenty years of continuous, daily, single-minded training and conditioning."
He was not lying. He was simply leaving out the part about the system-enhanced stats, the Essence, and the ability to punch a man with the raw impact of a truck. He was building the legend.
In a high-tech lab, Tony Stark stared at the frozen, blurred frame of the punch, his own smirk gone. He had a million questions.
"Jarvis," Tony instructed, his voice serious. "Run a kinetic analysis on that impact. Terry weighs close to 220 pounds. Based on his flight distance and immediate incapacitation, I need a calculated estimate of the force delivered. Then, I want a comparison of that force to a controlled detonation of C-4 explosive."
Meanwhile, in a hidden SHIELD satellite office, Agent Coulson and May watched the playback, the quiet hum of their analysis equipment filling the room.
"Force reading consistent with a high-velocity, non-Mutant kinetic attack," May reported, her eyes wide. "It defies our current metrics for human strength, but the identifier remains silent. He is not a Mutant."
"He doesn't need to be," Coulson whispered, finally understanding. "He's just better. That punch didn't just break the sound barrier; it just broke the perception of human limits. This is what Kingpin bought. This is the new symbol of power."
Back in his penthouse office, Wilson Fisk watched the absolute humiliation of his champion. Terry was being dragged off the floor, his life spared but his career utterly ruined. The crowd was going ballistic, the noise a deafening testament to the success of the spectacle.
Fisk leaned back, a genuine, satisfied, monstrous smile finally spreading across his face. The betting money was already secured. The media narrative was perfectly established.
Huang Wen is not just a martial artist; he is a force of nature. And now, he is my force of nature. The Wing Chun Hall is no longer a martial arts school; it is a legendary fortress of unimaginable power. A power that the world—and the government—will now be distracted by.
Fisk lifted his glass, a silent toast to his new puppet master of Chinatown. Welcome to the spotlight, Master Huang. You have earned your $100,000... and your new role.