"Twenty years of dedicated effort!" The host's voice, now utterly devoid of skepticism, crackled with raw excitement. His body trembled slightly as he looked at Huang Wen with the reverence of a true believer. "So, we only need to train for twenty years to possess that level of devastating power?"
"That's the exact philosophy," Huang Wen confirmed, allowing a warm, approachable smile to replace the look of intensity. "Perseverance is the true secret to success in martial arts. However, you must begin at the very beginning. I've structured Wing Chun into six clear developmental stages: Apprentice, Beginner, Proficient, Expert, Master, and Grandmaster."
He continued, laying out the roadmap to power: "Once you achieve the Proficient level, defeating a conventional champion like the one you just witnessed would present no significant challenge. The subsequent levels—Master and Grandmaster—are attained through decades of dedicated honing, fighting experience, and profound internal understanding."
"Then, Master Huang," the host quickly interjected, already picturing his own headline, "what level of mastery do you, yourself, currently possess?"
"Naturally, I am at the Grandmaster level," Huang Wen declared softly, though the faint confidence in his eyes was almost intimidating. "As you just observed, a Grandmaster requires only a single, focused punch to decisively handle a world-class professional boxer."
"Master Huang," the host pressed, his eyes wide with desperate curiosity, "what are the fees to enroll at the Wing Chun Hall? I would like to sign up for classes this afternoon."
"I shall not discuss the pricing on live television, as that would diminish the integrity of our cultural exchange and turn it into a mere commercial advertisement," Huang Wen said, shaking his head with a politician's grace. "However, anyone genuinely interested in studying Wing Chun is welcome to visit the Hall. As you can see, the space is limited, but we welcome serious students."
He offered one last public challenge, his voice ringing with a subtle dare: "And, to reiterate my earlier point: if anyone still harbors doubts about the effectiveness of Chinese Kung Fu, feel free to present your challenge. But remember to arrive with one hundred thousand dollars in hand. I will not engage in trivial, low-stakes sparring."
The live broadcast concluded abruptly, far shorter than the networks had planned, yet it was arguably the most impactful piece of sports television in a decade. It didn't just end a boxing match; it shattered a global perception of physical limitations.
The world knew that Champion Terry was peak human. People understood that athletes fade, but they couldn't comprehend a man being sent flying ten meters with zero perceptible wind-up. There were no wires, no props, and no camera tricks—it was undeniable reality.
The dream of Kung Fu was instantly reignited across America. People who had long dismissed martial arts as tradition now saw it as a shortcut to overwhelming personal power. If Proficient level can beat a champion, why aim lower? they reasoned. Twenty years is nothing for that kind of strength!
The crowds surrounding the Wing Chun Hall were no longer spectators; they were pilgrims. Aside from a few miserable-looking gamblers who had just lost their life savings betting on Terry, everyone looked at Huang Wen with fervent expectation, desperately wanting to enroll. If Kingpin's men weren't present, maintaining a rigid cordon, the Hall would have been instantly overrun.
"Mr. Huang, please, now that the cameras are off, what is the cost of membership? I am genuinely serious about training!" Bud, the CBS host, approached Huang Wen immediately, his microphone dropped, his professional demeanor discarded.
Reece Fisk and Zhong Qiang stepped forward, eager to take charge of the booming business operations they had helped design.
"The annual membership fee is eight hundred dollars," Reece explained, adopting the dry tone of a business manager. "That grants you access to all the training equipment and sparring facilities."
"We've structured the formal instruction into scheduled classes," Zhong Qiang added, feeling a sudden surge of entrepreneurial pride. "We'll divide classes into groups of around fifty people, and each session runs for an hour and a half. There are two classes in the morning and four in the afternoon. Each member is entitled to three formal instruction classes per week. Of course, you can use the open practice area anytime."
Huang Wen had reviewed this initial business plan—a smart model that balanced high-volume enrollment with personalized instruction and maximized the Hall's small footprint—and had approved it without modification.
"Eight hundred dollars? Done! I'm signing up right now!" Bud, the host, nodded quickly. "My name is Bud. I look forward to your guidance!"
Bud knew that Reece Fisk was the son of an extremely powerful figure—a piece of knowledge he hadn't shared with the viewers. His sudden eagerness was not just for martial arts, but a desperate attempt to ingratiate himself with the Kingpin's organization.
"Excellent, follow us." Zhong Qiang and Reece Fisk smiled, leading Bud toward a makeshift sign-up desk. "Just leave your name and contact information. We'll let you know when your instructional class starts. You are free to begin using the practice equipment immediately, though."
Bud emerged minutes later, a Wing Chun Hall membership card clutched in his hand, a look of elation on his face. His photographer colleague quickly handed over his camera, practically shoving it into Bud's hands, and rushed inside to pay for his own membership.
"Let them in! Keep the line moving!" Reece Fisk commanded the Kingpin's security personnel, whose purpose had shifted from crowd control to customer management. The imposing, muscular figures of the Kingpin's organization now served as silent, intimidating customer service representatives.
The $800 annual fee was precisely calculated: it wasn't cheap (most standard gym memberships were around $500), but given the promise of "Grandmaster-level" martial arts—the ability to fly-kick a champion—it was perceived as an unbelievable bargain.
Hesitation lasted only a moment before the floodgates opened. Americans with disposable income, driven by a renewed dream of power, lined up to pay for their cards.
Champion Terry, his ribs aching and his career shattered, had long since slunk away, utterly humiliated, to face his master's brutal efficiency.
In his secure monitoring location, Agent Coulson chuckled grimly as the reports poured in. "One punch, and the Hall is an overnight sensation. They won't even need to actively advertise. They really didn't bother to stage it, did they? They just had Terry rush in and get annihilated. Utterly fearless."
Coulson looked at the detailed financial report. "They must have made an absolute fortune on the betting odds alone. Kingpin is playing a completely different game."
Across town, Tony Stark was just shaking off the effects of a late night when Jarvis's synthesized voice cut through his attempts at relaxation.
"Sir, the challenge between Champion Terry and the Wing Chun Master, Huang Wen, has concluded."
"Oh, that loudmouth?" Tony asked dismissively, picking up a glass of orange juice. "How many moves did the kid lose in?"
"One move, sir," Jarvis replied instantly. Before Tony could mock the brevity of the fight, Jarvis continued, the synthetic voice carrying a hint of gravity. "One move, and Master Huang sent Champion Terry flying over ten meters."
Tony choked on his juice, his casual demeanor instantly vanishing. He dropped the glass onto the counter. "How is that even remotely possible? Was he juiced? Steroids? Jarvis, dig up everything! That kid cheated, I guarantee it!"
"I regret to inform you, sir, that after repeated analysis of the fight footage and kinematic data, while there was clearly a pre-arranged narrative between Terry and the Kingpin Group—who orchestrated this event—the fight itself was entirely authentic," Jarvis stated clinically.
"I have analyzed the velocity and kinetic energy released by Huang Wen's punch. I firmly believe that among what we define as normal humans, there is no one who can match his raw power."
"A normal human?" Tony frowned, a familiar scientific excitement overriding his shock. "Then he's a Mutant. Simple as that. The energy output suggests superhuman strength."
"Negative, sir," Jarvis countered after a pause. "My bio-signature scan, cross-referenced with SHIELD's known Mutant registry data, shows no match. He is, by all available evidence, a pure human being. However, his physical abilities have surpassed the known biological limits of the human body. He is, functionally, a Class A enhanced human, similar to the profile of Captain Rogers during his active service days. Though, I must note, he has not yet achieved the Captain's full potential strength."
Tony Stark's lips curled into a thoughtful, dangerous smile. "Interesting."
But as Pepper Potts walked into the room, her presence instantly eclipsed the mystery of the Wing Chun Master. Tony turned his attention back to the more immediate—and far more beautiful—challenges in his life. The Grandmaster would have to wait.