Aleksander conjured the Mu ren zhuang, also known as the Mook Yan Jong or the Wing Chun Dummy, from thin air. His father had always insisted that Aleksander train in various martial arts, not to rely solely on his powers, but to prepare for situations where magic might fail.
The Mu ren zhuang—a sturdy wooden training post equipped with three arms and a leg—served as the perfect tool. It simulated an opponent's limbs and body structure, helping to develop precision, technique, angles, and body structure in combat.Aleksander's training with the dummy wasn't just traditional—it was enhanced by his magical augmentation of his physical abilities, granting him tremendous strength and speed.
Aleksander stands in front of the wooden dummy, feet set in a practiced stance. He takes a breath, eyes narrowing, then launches into movement. His hands flick out—Tan Sao, Bong Sao, Pak Sao—striking and redirecting the dummy's wooden arms in rapid succession, his palms hitting with sharp, audible slaps.
Each move flows into the next without pause, his footwork shifting around the dummy's protruding leg, adjusting for invisible attacks.His speed is relentless.
Arms blur as he switches angles, deflecting and countering, elbows brushing past the dummy's arms, then snapping back to center.
Aleksander pivots, snapping a low Gan Sao across the dummy's leg, maintaining balance. His breath syncs with each strike, exhaling short and controlled, his torso leaning in and out with each movement.
The tempo rises. He strikes, pivots, blocks, and counters—all in one continuous chain, never hesitating, never repeating the same rhythm. Sweat beads on his brow, but his eyes stay locked on target. The wooden dummy rattles with each contact, but Aleksander adapts instantly, shifting his structure as if challenging a live, unpredictable foe.
When he stops, it's abrupt—his hands pressed lightly on the dummy, chest heaving, gaze steady.
Aleksander wiped the sweat from his brow, the moment tense and silent as his phone buzzed, Dorn's name cutting through the screen's glare. He picked up, instantly focusing.
Dorn's voice came through, steady and deliberate, "You've got quite an interesting individual here."
On the other end, Dorn sat before his computer, the monitor's pale glow slicing across his face. Lines of shifting data shimmered on the screen, and the reflection sharpened the focus in his eyes.
Dorn's fingers moved rapidly across the holographic keyboard. He cross-referenced the name Aleksander had given him. Moments later, the system flagged a result.
"There's a record for a Marilyn Thornhill," Dorn said, frowning. "But it doesn't add up. The real Marilyn went missing when she was fourteen—no further records after that."
He tapped a few more keys, eyes narrowing. "And get this—her digital footprint was completely dormant for decades. Then, suddenly, two years ago, the name resurfaces. Credit activity, education certificates, even a teaching license—everything comes online overnight."
Aleksander leaned closer to the display. "Forged identity?"
"Worse," Dorn muttered. "Facial recognition scans don't match the original. The bone structure's similar, but age progression algorithms say there's a sixty-eight percent discrepancy. Whoever's using this name isn't the same person."
He paused, pulling up the last location data. "Looks like our Marilyn Thornhill reappeared close to Nevermore Academy."
Aleksander hummed thoughtfully, his voice steady but carrying a note of urgency as he spoke into the phone. "Dorn, can you dig up detailed information about the Addams Family's enemies? Especially the normies—the ones who threaten them without any supernatural edge."
"On it," Dorn replied, his fingers already flying across holographic keys as he plunged into the vast databases.
Minutes later, Dorn's voice came back, calm and precise. "I'm sending what I've got so far. There are several notable encounters."He paused, then added, "I'll keep digging, see if anything else surfaces."
"Thanks," Aleksander said, his eyes scanning the incoming files. The names tugged a memory. He remembered movie versions of these characters.
Abigail Craven—also known by the alias Dr. Greta Pinder-Schloss—was a calculating con artist, a ruthless loan shark with a taste for skimming off the desperate and vulnerable.
Deborah 'Debbie' Addams, née Jellinsky, was even more dangerous. Once the wife of Uncle Fester, she was a psychopathic career criminal, a con artist and serial killer whose warped game was marrying wealthy single men to seize their fortunes before disposing of them.
Aleksander's eyes traced the grim history unfolding on his screen—The Gates Family, descended from Joseph Crackstone, one of the original pilgrims notorious for branding the outcasts evil and ungodly, was steeped in tragedy and darkness. Crackstone himself had led a fanatical campaign against the outcasts, culminating in a murderous spree that centuries later still shaped his descendants' fate.
Aleksander read on: After the death of Garrett Gates, a pivotal figure in the family, his father Ansel Gates spiraled into deep depression and succumbed to a fatal alcohol overdose. The devastating loss shattered the family, as Mrs. Gates took her own life by hanging herself, crushed by grief. As if the family curse were unrelenting, Laurel Gates, Garrett's sister, drowned under mysterious circumstances while being transported overseas to an orphanage. Notably, her body was never recovered—an interesting detail.
Aleksander stared at the file, his mind racing with possibilities. Laurel Gates' body was never found after the alleged drowning. He knew the rules—without a body, or the proof of visions or ghosts connected to the individual, it was safer to assume she was still alive.
While after meeting Wednesday, Marilyn Thornhill was boiling with hatred beneath her calm exterior. Keeping her fake, friendly smile felt like forcing glass under her skin.She knew Wednesday had a friend named Aleksander Morozova. The name alone made her uneasy. Every source she'd ever consulted said the same thing: "Don't mess with the Morozovas."
Marilyn understood what that meant—he was a problem. Back in her quarters, she shut the door quietly and pulled out her laptop. Industrial-grade encryption sealed the system; no one got in without her permission.The screen flickered to life.
The dark web interface blossomed with codes and threads until she entered a secure channel—The Continental. Twelve unseen figures ruled it, each rumored to control entire syndicates.
The Continental was less an organization and more an empire of crime, an apex council that decided who lived and who vanished.They had strict laws and enforcers to enforce it.
She had used it before. Gomez Addams had been her target once, but every time, he slipped away untouched.Her fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, then she began typing.
A new contract. Two hundred million.Within seconds, notifications erupted. The chat filled with names—Wolf, Lemon and Tangerine, Gambol, Lion Guard, and others. Killers, mercenaries, ghosts in the system.One by one, they confirmed interest.
Questions started streaming in. Payment. Target details. Escape clauses.
Marilyn leaned back in her chair, convinced Aleksander Morozova's days were numbered.Then she typed the name.Aleksander Morozova.
The moment she hit enter, the screen went black. Every chat window suddenly was quiet. A chill crawled up her spine. But she ignored it.
Across the world, on encrypted lines she would never trace, Wolf, Lemon, Tangerine, Gambol, and Cassian—the Lion Guard—stared at their own screens.They all knew that name. And none of them wanted to touch it.
Inside a dim apartment in London, two brothers stared at the screen glowing in the dark.
Lemon squinted at the name on the encrypted chat. "Is she for real?" he asked, voice incredulous, a mix of humor and warning in his tone.
Tangerine leaned forward, elbows on the desk, calm but sharp-eyed. "I don't think she's got the slightest clue who the Morozovas are," he said evenly, the rhythm of his voice carrying that smooth British confidence.
Lemon shook his head, gold earrings catching the low light. "Lucky for her, ignorance ain't fatal—most of the time," he muttered. Then, more seriously, "You think we should tell Ilya about this?"
Tangerine adjusted the cuff of his vest before replying. "We should. But even if we didn't, Wolf's on that thread. He'll make the call before we do."
The brothers fell silent for a beat. Both knew what it meant when that name—Morozova—came up. Lines were drawn, and you didn't cross them. Not and live to tell it.
South of the equator, in a candlelit hacienda lounge outside Mexico City, The Wolf sat back in his chair, a half-empty glass of mezcal in hand. The moment the name flashed across his laptop, his expression hardened.The man was handsome in a dangerous way, dark curls brushed back, a pristine white suit patterned with black roses, a wolf-head pendant glinting at his chest. He traced it with his thumb—a ritual he'd picked up from his late mother.He knew who the Morozovas were.
He owed them everything.Years ago, when El Saguaro's cartel faced an assassination plot, it was Ilya Morozova's quiet warning that saved his boss—and The Wolf's wife—from certain death. That day, loyalty became debt.
Now, seeing someone bold—or stupid—enough to target that name stirred something deep and cold inside him.
He stood, grabbed his phone, and dialed without hesitation."Señor Ilya," he said, voice low but steady, "you may want to hear this."
In a quiet, modern dojo hidden in Osaka, Zero watched the encrypted thread vanish from his tablet screen. The dim light reflected off his clean-shaven head as he slowly exhaled, amusement flickering behind his sharp eyes.
He turned to one of his students kneeling nearby. "Did you see that?" he asked mildly, as if discussing something trivial."
The student nodded uncertainly. "Yes, sensei. It looked like a hit request."
Zero smirked faintly, lowering the tablet. "Not just any request. Someone just dropped a contract on a Morozova." He paused for effect, an eyebrow lifting. "Tell me—are they out of their mind?"
The student remained silent, unsure if it was rhetorical.
Zero continued with that calm, easy confidence he always carried. "You don't touch a family like that. Not unless you've already bought a coffin—and even then, they'll dig you back up to make sure you learn the lesson properly."
He stood, adjusting his tunic, every move precise and deliberate. "The amateurs think money makes them safe. But there are names that never show up on screens for a reason."
As he crossed the dojo floor, katana slung casually over his shoulder, he stopped at the edge of the tatami mats and looked back at his students."If the Morozovas are involved," he said quietly, "the world just got a little smaller."
[Can you guess who these characters are?]