The news report faded into an aggressive, synthesized jingle, but Huang Wen barely registered the shift. The image of the billionaire playboy genius had already done its work, ripping away the comforting illusion of a small, manageable world.
Tony Stark. That single name confirmed everything. This wasn't just a world with extraordinary people; this was The Marvel Universe.
He didn't need to listen to the rest of the broadcast. He knew the script by heart. The usual Tony Stark press conference routine: "What do you mean, Tony Stark cares about money? I only care about whether you're richer than me. Hint: you're not." Or: "I, Tony Stark, spend my life eating, drinking, and being fabulous, yet the gadgets I casually develop on a napkin are still better than the combined efforts of all your world-leading defense scientists."
It was an undeniable reality: Tony Stark was a genius, rich, arrogant, and utterly indispensable.
The confirmation of the setting instantly explained the System's six terrifying tiers: Mortal, Extraordinary, Legendary, Epic, Fabled, and Mythical. Anything less than Mythical would be utterly useless against a character with the power of the Infinity Gauntlet.
Huang Wen desperately hoped this was the Cinematic Universe (MCU). He was intimately familiar with Tony Stark's face—the face of a beloved actor—and while the comics featured countless alternate versions, the general plot points of the MCU were at least navigable.
If this is the comics world, I'm finished before I start. The comic books were a chaotic, constantly retconned mess of multiversal wars and power levels that shifted with every new writer. Events were "like pigs wearing bras"—utterly nonsensical and structurally unsound. Even as a devoted fan of explanation videos, he wouldn't last five minutes in that unpredictable chaos.
The MCU, while more linear, was still dangerously unstable.
Safe? My ass!
Forget the ultimate crisis—the purple space giant known as Thanos—and his universe-halving snap. Even if the population eventually returned five years later, the social and psychological damage was permanent. But that was the far future. The immediate reality was the constant, rolling carnage:
Hulk tearing Harlem apart.
Iron Man vs. Whiplash tearing up a racetrack.
The catastrophic Battle of New York.
Ultron trying to drop a city on the planet.
The movies might cut away from the collateral damage to show a hero saving a family, but the Sokovia Accords—which resulted in the Civil War—were written in the blood and rubble of countless, forgotten civilians.
Huang Wen was still a civilian.
He looked down at his own stats, feeling the colossal weight of his power—34 Essence Points, officially registering as Extraordinary.
He inflated his chest slightly. Against the Avengers?
He knew he certainly couldn't beat Captain America, who, even without a System, was pushing the 20-point human limit and possessed hyper-developed combat instinct. A straight toe-to-toe fight with the Shield-Slinger would be a brutal, likely losing grind.
Hawkeye and Black Widow were more manageable. Close quarters against Hawkeye? Confidence level high. But if Hawkeye drew distance, Huang Wen, with zero ranged attacks, would be reduced to a frantic blur of dodging.
Black Widow was a question mark, proficient in every black-ops fighting style imaginable. But Huang Wen now had the overlaid, refined skill of two Wing Chun masters. Two Ip Mans! That had to count for something.
Yet, despite his internal boasting, a cold dread coiled in his gut.
"I am still just human," he muttered, stirring the broth. "I can run fast, and I can hit hard. But guns? Cannons? The Extremis virus? Alien laser pistols? The Hulk stepping on me because he tripped? I'm absolutely doomed."
Even Captain America needed the Divine Power of Mjölnir to truly shine against Thanos in the final battle. Huang Wen, for all his 34 Essence, was still playing at the lowest rung of the MCU's power ladder.
"No matter," he decided, the fear crystallizing into grim resolve. "The danger is the excitement. This is the world that makes the Mythical lottery tier necessary."
He took a long, final breath, suppressing the adrenaline that threatened to make him jump out of his skin. He needed to be pragmatic, not panicked.
"I need to complete these missions ASAP."
If he could just get one or two draws—an Extraordinary Skill or an Item—he might get a ranged attack, a healing factor, or, heaven forbid, a plot-mandated shield. Anything to provide a defense against things that went boom.
He stood up, pulling his thoughts back from cosmic war to local organized crime.
"Full?" Uncle Zhong looked up, a warm smile on his face, glancing at the thoroughly cleaned pot. "Want another round? I'll feed you until you burst."
"No need," Huang Wen shook his head with a wide, polite smile. "How much?"
"You're going to haggle with your old Uncle Zhong?" The owner glared, feigning irritation. "Eat here every day, I don't care!"
"Uncle Zhong, I would, but your business isn't exactly booming," Huang Wen joked, gesturing to the deserted restaurant. "If I start eating for free, you'll go bankrupt on my account."
Uncle Zhong chuckled, shaking his head. "I can make sure you're well fed."
As he turned to argue further, Huang Wen quickly slapped a wad of crumpled cash onto the table. It was over a hundred dollars.
"Alright, Uncle Zhong, I'm out. Keep the change for the next meal. And seriously," Huang Wen's voice dropped, firm and serious, "do not contact the Star Gang."
He then darted out of the hot pot restaurant in a few incredibly swift steps, disappearing around the corner before Uncle Zhong could even protest the lack of formality.
"Martial arts practitioners are fast runners, alright!" Uncle Zhong laughed, picking up the cash. He sighed, looking around the empty dining room. "But he's right, business has been terrible this year... Wait a minute."
He counted the bills slowly, his expression shifting from amusement to confusion. "He ate three plates of meat and half a pot of broth. And he left... one hundred and thirty dollars. This kid. It's barely enough to cover the cost of the raw lamb!"
Unaware that he had severely underestimated the price of a Grandmaster's appetite in New York City, Huang Wen was already several blocks away, back on the streets of Chinatown, meticulously planning his next steps.
"The Goren Gang is the first target," he thought, walking with a deliberate, smooth rhythm that masked his inner focus. "But rushing the dojo is suicide. Benson is the bait, but the Goren Gang means guns, and guns mean instant death. The thugs are manageable, yes. I can break bones before they know what hit them. But a surprise muzzle flash..."
He visualized the scenario: the sharp report of a firearm, the instantaneous, near-supersonic velocity of the bullet.
"Even with my 34 Essence reaction speed, I might hear the shot, and I might twitch, but I won't have time to properly dodge the trajectory. I need information, a distraction, or, failing that, something to catch the bullet."
He had the location of the underground boxing ring from Benson's note. That was the Goren Gang's cash cow, their soft underbelly.
I need a way in that doesn't involve walking through the front door. I need to find the truth behind the murder, and I need a shield.
The planning phase had officially begun.