With the power of Ip Man's full repertoire thrumming beneath his skin, the newly empowered Huang Wen—a man who, for the record, was not going to start calling himself Huang Wudi (Invincible)—stepped out of the Wing Chun Martial Arts Hall with an air of deceptive calm.
"Wait, hold on." He stopped on the dilapidated porch, slapping his forehead. "Identity preservation first, superhuman antics second."
He glanced at the gaping hole where the front door's lock mechanism had been violently ripped apart by Benson's initial, aggressive entry. If he left the hall like this, the gym equipment—the bench press, the squat racks, the very tools that had validated his incredible 34 Essence Points—would be gone within the hour. This was New York. And while Chinatown might have a code of conduct, a smashed-in door was an open invitation to opportunists.
Grumbling about the immediate necessity of being a landlord before being a martial arts master, Huang Wen spent the next twenty frustrating minutes cobbling together a temporary fix. He used the strongest deadbolt he could find in the supply closet, reinforced the frame with a few hefty pieces of lumber and duct tape, and jury-rigged a locking mechanism that was more stubborn than secure. It'll hold long enough. Hopefully.
Finally satisfied that his precious starting assets were safe, he stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Chinatown was a sensory overload: a collision of ancient traditions and brutal American modernity. The street signs were bilingual, the air thick with the competing aromas of jasmine tea, roasting duck, and the ever-present, acrid exhaust fumes of New York traffic. It was exactly the kind of vibrant, slightly melancholic enclave he'd seen in countless films from his past life—a world unto itself.
He moved through the crowded streets, the original host's memories guiding his steps. The old Huang Wen, focused on boxing and his father, had rarely ventured outside this familiar, comforting maze.
"Right. Fuel." It had been days since the original host had eaten, and while the System integration had magically erased the starvation weakness, his stomach was now making insistent, rumbling demands. He needed protein, fat, and glorious spice.
His feet led him to a small, brightly lit storefront. Bayu Hot Pot.
"This looks excellent, and I know the management," he muttered, pushing aside the heavy velvet curtain covering the entrance.
The sight of the interior—the steaming tables, the red lanterns, the comforting warmth—was instantly welcoming. And the owner, a stout, kindly man in a perpetually oil-stained apron, spotted him immediately.
"Xiao Wen! You're finally out! Thank goodness!" Uncle Zhong, the owner, rushed over, his face etched with genuine relief and deep concern. He grabbed Huang Wen's arm and scanned the street through the window, then lowered his voice dramatically. "We were worried sick after you didn't show for days. And just now, I saw that brute Benson heading toward your place..."
Huang Wen offered a reassuring, practiced smile. "Don't worry, Uncle Zhong. I'm fine. The hall is secure."
Uncle Zhong pulled him urgently toward a secluded, semi-private corner booth, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Xiao Wen, listen to an old man. You must stop investigating your father's death. You need to let it go."
Huang Wen sat down, the gravity of the older man's tone making him tense.
"Benson's karate dojo is just a front. They have serious backers, Xiao Wen. We're talking about heavy, organized crime, the kind that controls judges and city permits." Uncle Zhong leaned in, his eyes pleading. "I know you have your father's spirit. He praised you more than once—said you had surpassed him, that you could carry the Wing Chun school further than he ever could!"
"But martial arts talent means nothing against a bullet! Just look at your father. He won the fight, he showed mercy, and what did he get in return? A sniper's scope on his back. You can't fight a ghost with a fist."
Huang Wen's gaze sharpened, cutting through the old man's fearful warnings. "Uncle Zhong, you know something. Don't just warn me—tell me. You wouldn't be this desperate if you hadn't found something out."
A heavy sigh escaped Uncle Zhong. He ran a hand over his slicked-back hair, his eyes reflecting the deep sense of helplessness that permeated the immigrant community.
"Sigh. You're right, Xiao Wen, you have a right to the truth." He lowered his voice even further, his eyes darting toward the empty tables. "All of us neighbors, we were heartbroken. Your father stood up for us constantly when those thugs tried to shake down the shops. He was our protector."
"We tried to help with the funeral and the estate because he deserved it. If it wasn't for some of the old connections we called in, your inheritance wouldn't have been settled so cleanly, especially while you..." he trailed off, sparing Huang Wen the shame of his previous depression.
"Uncle Zhong, what exactly did you find?" Huang Wen asked, his voice firm. He locked eyes with the old man, projecting the confidence of a Grandmaster. He felt a flicker of anticipation, hoping this was enough information to trigger the System's first task completion.
"The karate dojo where your father fought—the 'Goren' dojo—it's only a clean business on the surface," Uncle Zhong finally revealed, his face grim. "Beneath it is something darker. I couldn't get much, but I found out it's the headquarters of a serious outfit called the Goren Gang. Benson, that brute, he's just the big, obedient dog they put out in front of the shop. He's the one who takes the falls."
"And the Goren Gang? What's their business?" Huang Wen asked, a knot tightening in his stomach. He was disappointed to see the System's Task Page stubbornly remain at 0/3 (Incomplete). Come on, System, 'Goren Gang' is a pretty key piece of information! Why can't you be smart like a classic quest log?
Uncle Zhong leaned back, the worry in his posture radiating outwards. "Everything, Xiao Wen. They're involved in everything you don't want to touch: firearms trafficking, high-stakes gambling, health product scams, and..." he paused, his face twisting with revulsion, "even drug distribution. And yes, underground boxing."
That familiar phrase—underground boxing—snapped Huang Wen's attention back. That was his world, the place where he had died and been reborn.
"Underground boxing... I'll start there," Huang Wen decided, patting Uncle Zhong's shoulder reassuringly. "But don't worry. I won't do anything rash. I'm not running out there with a chain punch."
"But Xiao Wen..." Uncle Zhong reached out, trying to stop him. "I already contacted the Star Gang. They're an older crew, formed by some of the first martial arts schools who came over. They might help us out of courtesy to a fellow compatriot..."
"Don't bother them!" Huang Wen cut him off sharply, shaking his head.
The Star Gang was not a benevolent ally. They were a rival, hostile to Sifu Huang Hong because he had been too successful, too dominant. Huang Hong had effectively marginalized their influence over the years. Asking them for help would be exchanging one viper for another.
"But who else can we turn to?" Uncle Zhong pleaded.
"Uncle Zhong, I haven't eaten for days!" Huang Wen deflected, standing up and forcing a change of subject with a broad, hungry grin. "Quickly, fire up the pot! Tripe, beef, lamb—the whole works! I need enough protein to feed a small village."
Defeated, Uncle Zhong sighed, "Alright, alright!" He flipped the switch to ignite the burner beneath the waiting steel pot and reluctantly turned to grab the ingredients.
Huang Wen watched the slow, mesmerizing rise of bubbles in the broth, anticipation overriding his anger. He ate like a man possessed, completely unafraid of the scalding temperature—his 34 Essence Points apparently granting him a phenomenal resistance to heat and a monstrous metabolism.
As he was demolishing a third platter of sliced lamb, Uncle Zhong, having seen to the last of the afternoon's quiet customers, flicked on the large, wall-mounted television, leaving it tuned to the local news.
"...Our reporter exclusively reports that Tony Stark has developed a new type of missile called the Jericho missile..."
Huang Wen froze, a piece of tripe halfway to his mouth.
Wait. Tony Shit? Did I just hear that right?
He slowly lifted his gaze to the screen. And there he was. A painfully familiar face, clad in a sleek designer suit, his hair slightly unkempt, a cocktail in hand, radiating a self-assured smugness that could choke a saint. Tony Stark.
The news anchor was talking about a new missile, but all Huang Wen could hear was the sudden, shattering confirmation of his situation. This was not just a world of gangs and underground boxing. This was the world. The one with a green rage monster, a man in metal pajamas, and a cosmic threat known as Thanos looming on the horizon.
On the screen, Stark—oblivious to the existential crisis he was causing a martial artist in Chinatown—smiled with that arrogant, perfect charm.
"This is just something I created on a whim," Stark slurred slightly into the microphone. "I could create something better, but there's no need. This is enough... Oh, what's it called again? The Jericho? Right."