The first thing Huang Wen registered wasn't the searing pain, but the deafening, bone-jarring, final sound: BANG!
It was the sound of a powerful fist—a professional, bone-breaking punch—landing directly on his skull. In the fraction of a second before the lights truly went out, he saw his vision spiral into a starburst of agony. Then, nothing.
When he 'woke up,' it was a jarring, fractured experience. He wasn't in his body; he was floating above it.
He watched from a detached, ghostly vantage point as his own 25-year-old body, the one he had painstakingly chiseled and conditioned over seven years of gym devotion, collapsed onto the resin floor of the underground boxing ring.
The crowd's roar, which had moments ago been a symphony of bloodlust, softened into an echoing silence. He watched the paramedics rush in, watched the hurried but ultimately futile efforts, and watched with a terrifying, helpless dread as the official declared the time of death.
I'm dead. I actually died.
He struggled, thrashed, and screamed in a silent, metaphysical panic, trying to claw his way back into the familiar flesh and bone, but the separation was absolute. He was a spectator at his own funeral before the funeral even started.
Then, an overwhelming, dizzying force—like a cosmic vacuum cleaner—sucked his disembodied consciousness away from the stark, sterile hospital ceiling and into a blinding void.
The next time his senses stabilized, the world was dark, yet the internal noise was deafening. Two distinct lives, two complete sets of memories, were being forcibly blended and poured into his awareness like oil and water fighting for dominance. The resulting headache felt like tectonic plates shifting behind his eyes.
The first was his own—the fitness enthusiast, the white-collar worker, the newly minted underground boxer whose brief winning streak had ended tragically against a true master of traditional Chinese martial arts. A master who hadn't been fighting for sport, but with lethal, precise intent.
The second memory stream was entirely alien, yet strangely familiar. He was still named Huang Wen, but this version was a Chinese American, living in the bustling, often chaotic, heart of New York's Chinatown. His father, Huang Hong, was a martial arts Sifu—a master running a Wing Chun school. The mother had passed years ago, leaving the two men to manage the legacy.
Ten days ago, tragedy had struck the other Huang Wen's world.
For reasons that remained frustratingly murky, Sifu Huang Hong had accepted a challenge. He stepped onto the public stage for a life-or-death agreement against a formidable foreign opponent—a fourth-degree black belt in Karate. The stakes were professional pride, cultural validation, and perhaps a desperate attempt to bring students back to his increasingly deserted school.
Huang Hong had won.
In a display of impressive discipline, the Sifu had delivered the final, decisive blow, yet he intentionally checked the force, refusing to claim a life. A true master's forbearance.
Elated, anticipating the surge of new students that his victory would bring, Huang Hong hadn't even made it back to his own dojo. Just blocks from the safety of his home, the excitement was instantly extinguished by the vicious, cowardly crack of a single rifle shot.
An assassination.
The original Huang Wen, completely broken by the senseless murder, had inherited the dojo, the meager funds, and, most crushingly, the desperate, unfulfilled need for revenge. He had refused to eat, refused to drink, consumed only by a desperate, aimless rage. His body, starved and emotionally exhausted, had simply given up. The consciousness had dissolved, leading to brain death.
And that was where the first Huang Wen had found his new home.
"So, I've time-traveled... or maybe just body-snatched," the new Huang Wen murmured, pushing the heavy tangle of memories aside. He stared blankly at his hands, turning them over slowly. "I'm still called Huang Wen, a name my old self was very comfortable with. But now I'm a Chinese American kid in New York."
A wry, dark laugh escaped him. "Sigh, the 'Land of the Free.' Free to get shot just after winning a friendly sparring match. Classic."
He sighed again, running a hand through the coarse, short-cut hair that felt surprisingly thick. The prior owner's last, fading mental whispers were painfully clear: Revenge. And bring glory to the Martial Arts Hall.
"That's a hell of a death wish to inherit," he muttered, pushing himself up to a sitting position on the edge of the simple, worn mattress. "The problem is, buddy, I don't even know who shot your dad. Your old, revenge-crazed mind only suspected the foreigner he beat in the ring, but you had zero evidence, which is why you just sat around here starving yourself."
A more practical, immediate concern surfaced. "And more importantly, I don't know any of the martial arts taught here! Wing Chun, right? I tried a YouTube tutorial once. That's it."
He flexed his arms again, feeling an odd, humming vitality beneath the skin. "Wait a second. This body was supposed to die from chronic starvation and dehydration, right? Why do I feel... zero weakness?"
He slowly stood up, letting his weight settle. He stretched, testing his balance and flexibility. He executed a few quick punches and kicks, simple movements to gauge muscle memory and power. After a solid minute of movement, he stopped, frowning thoughtfully.
This body was a masterpiece of conditioning. It was strong, flexible, and perfectly balanced—a far superior foundation than his own previous, gym-developed physique. It was no wonder, given it was the son of a legitimate martial arts Sifu.
What truly struck him, however, was the uncanny resemblance. Height, build, even facial structure—it was almost a mirror image of his own previous life, only slightly younger and leaner.
Fate must have a sick sense of humor. Or maybe the Universe is just lazy with character models.
He was, after all, a former fitness enthusiast. Seven years of dedicated iron worship meant his body screamed for movement if it missed a single day. He remembered that crippling defeat clearly: two moves, and the old master of Xingyi Quan had rendered his arm useless before delivering the final, concussive blow that sent him here.
"Xingyi Quan," he whispered, a tremor of respect and fear running through him. "Tai Chi takes ten years to master, but Xingyi can kill someone in a year. I saw that lethal skill firsthand."
He refocused. "Wing Chun," he said, recalling the style taught here. "Sifu Huang Hong's lineage. The same Wing Chun as Ip Man."
A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "Is this also some kind of destiny? We both share the 'Wen' character in our name. If this were one of those silly online video parodies, I could be ranked right alongside Ip Man, Hung Man, and all the others. The legendary 'Wen' generation."
Driven by an irresistible urge to move, Huang Wen went downstairs. The building was a classic Chinatown setup: two stories. The second floor was the living quarters—kitchen, dining area, and four small bedrooms, each with a small bathroom.
The ground floor was the heart of the operation: the training hall.
It was a vast, open space, easily 200 square meters. The perimeter was lined with classic Wing Chun wooden dummies—the Mù Rén Zhuāng—their wood polished smooth by years of forceful impact. Interspersed among the traditional implements, however, was a thoroughly modern array of chrome and steel: squat racks, bench press stations, and a full line of cable machines.
It was a jarring, yet practical, blend. Huang Hong had wisely added the gym equipment a few years back. When the 90s Kung Fu craze had subsided, business dried up. The fitness equipment was a desperate attempt to survive, allowing the facility to double as a makeshift, low-cost gym. A resourceful move, even if it didn't save him in the end.
Huang Wen felt a rush of adrenaline. He stripped down to a simple tank top and sweats and gravitated instantly toward the weights.
In his past life, he was comfortable with 50 kg dumbbells for his routine. He grabbed the 65 kg pair, expecting a serious struggle. They felt surprisingly light. Effortlessly light.
He moved to the bench press, stacking the plates cautiously. In his old life, his personal best was respectable but nowhere near elite. He loaded the bar conservatively, starting with an easy 150 kg for a quick warm-up. It flew up.
He kept adding weight, plate after plate, fueled by astonishment. 200 kg. Easy. 250 kg. Smooth. He finally hit a mind-boggling, record-shattering 300 kilograms. He pressed it once, with a grunt of effort, but complete, controlled power.
He racked the weight and stared at the bar, his chest heaving not from exertion, but shock.
"Holy crap! Are you kidding me?" he exclaimed, pacing the length of the hall, shaking his head. "Three hundred kilograms? How did they train this guy? Is Wing Chun some secret Kryptonian martial art? It's not supposed to be power-based!"
He massaged his temples. His entire physical world had just been rewritten. His old world's bench press record was only around 455 kg, achieved by dedicated behemoths whose entire lives were protein shakes and squats.
"I scoured the fitness world in my past life and never saw raw strength like this. Not even those guys in the Captain America spandex—" he paused, shaking his head. "Maybe only the head coach at my old gym had this kind of freak strength."
He chuckled darkly at the memory of that legendary man. His arms were thicker than Huang Wen's thighs, and he once witnessed the man casually lift a 60-kilogram barbell with one hand—not a dumbbell, but a barbell. "From then on, I mentally renamed him Lin Daiyu uprooting the willow tree… wait, no. Lu Zhishen."
His mind was still reeling from the sheer, impossible physical gift he had received—a body already tuned to an impossible peak—when his thoughts were utterly demolished by a sound that echoed the beginning of this whole nightmare.
BAM!
The front door of the martial arts hall, a thick slab of reinforced wood, didn't just open—it exploded inward, ripped from its hinges and hitting the opposite wall with a shattering reverberation.
The sunlight that flooded the dusty training hall was instantly eclipsed by a massive figure filling the doorway.
He was a foreigner, burly and imposing, easily over 1.9 meters tall, towering a full head above Huang Wen's 1.81 meters. His face was a mask of furious, granite-like determination, his eyes blazing with a predatory hunger.
The moment he stepped past the ruined doorframe, recognition slammed into Huang Wen's gut like a second, unexpected punch.
Benson.
It was the same foreigner who had fought—and lost—to the Sifu, Huang Hong, in the ring ten days ago. The man suspected of hiring the killer. The man who had just delivered the real Sifu's final, terrible wish right to the new Sifu's doorstep.
Revenge, indeed. The curtain had just risen.