Huang Wen knew the brutal truth: the ability to clearly see a bullet or track its trajectory by the sound of the gunshot was a power level reserved for characters far beyond his 34 Essence Points. That was the realm of cinematic speedsters or reality-warpers, not a martial arts Grandmaster—even an overlaid, optimized one.
The word "invincible" had officially been retired from his internal vocabulary. He wouldn't dare use it again until the System started dispensing items like the Vajra Staff or the Nine Yin Manual.
He quickly wrestled his internal turmoil into focused calm. His priorities were razor sharp:
Immediate Safety: Acquire sufficient skills/items to survive surprise firearm attacks.
Karmic Debt: Complete the original host's missions (Revenge & Promote the Hall).
Future Proofing: Become strong enough to participate in, and eventually manipulate, the major Marvel storyline.
Crucially, he had to act fast. He remembered the existence of the Ancient One and other mystic guardians. While he felt perfectly fine now, the longer he remained a time-displaced soul occupying a body whose karma was unsettled, the higher the risk of drawing unwanted spiritual attention. He needed to fully and truly become "Huang Wen of this world" by completing the System's settlement tasks.
"Avenging the Sifu and promoting Wing Chun aren't just good deeds; they are literal survival requirements," he determined.
His first task was scouting. He couldn't just barge into the Goren Dojo based on Benson's taunt. He needed surveillance.
He quickly purchased the classic spy uniform of the budget vigilante in Chinatown: a dark baseball cap, dark sunglasses, and a simple black cloth mask—practical and common enough in a densely populated city to avoid instant profiling.
Soon, he arrived near Benson's Goren Karate Dojo. The facility was jarringly different from his quiet, dusty Wing Chun hall. This place was lively. Dozens of people were inside, engaged in the aggressive shouts and snapping movements of Karate. It was a well-funded, bustling operation.
Benson, being merely the figurehead boss for the Goren Gang, was nowhere to be seen among the regular instructors. A boss of that caliber wouldn't waste time teaching basic forms.
Huang Wen observed the location, noting the blind spots and the flow of street traffic. To maintain his cover and avoid looking like an obvious stakeout, he chose a nearby coffee shop, selecting a window seat that offered a clear, panoramic view of the dojo's front and sides.
He reluctantly ordered a coffee. He grimaced slightly at the thin, bitter taste—definitely inferior to his own instant mix. His mind drifted to the news story he'd seen about racial profiling in American coffee shops, where a black patron was arrested just for waiting for a friend without ordering.
It's a 'free' country, but only if you follow the unwritten rules and spend money. Gotta keep the head down and avoid unnecessary confrontations until I have true capital, he thought, sipping the mediocre brew.
As the evening wore on and the streetlights flickered to life, bathing the neighborhood in a strange, exotic glow, the mundane flow of the dojo changed dramatically.
The regular students gradually filed out. Then, a new, steady stream of traffic began to enter.
These newcomers were different. They weren't in gis; they were in expensive suits. Most were conspicuously overweight, exuding the soft, decadent confidence of wealth, not the lean tension of martial artists.
"The underground world," a realization flashed through Huang Wen's mind.
The Goren Gang's entire operation—gambling, underground boxing, and high-end trafficking—was catering to the rich. It wasn't a desperate corner operation; it was a high-profile entertainment venue for the city's elite looking for thrills. When the lights came on, the front became a door to the party. The fact that a local like Uncle Zhong could uncover the Goren Gang's name confirmed their notoriety and their scale.
Suddenly, a quiet, timid voice startled him. "Hello, sir, we're about to close."
Huang Wen looked up to see a young, freckle-faced waiter standing awkwardly by his table.
"Oh, sorry, I completely lost track of time," Huang Wen apologized, standing up. "I thought this place was 24 hours?"
"Sorry, sir, just the morning shift," the waiter shook his head politely. "It's 10:30 p.m. We're locking up."
"Understood." Huang Wen nodded, gathering his meager belongings. In just a few smooth strides, he was out the door and around the corner, blending into the deeper shadows of a nearby alley.
The waiter paused, shivering slightly as he glanced back at the recently occupied table. "Huh? Where did he go?" He looked up and down the alley entrance, then quickly dismissed the oddity, rushing back inside to close up shop.
Huang Wen endured the cold, watching the dojo entrance like a sentinel, until the first hint of dawn began to paint the sky a weary gray.
He watched the clientele trickle out—rich men with tired, disheveled expressions, clearly spent from a long night of debauchery. Yet, he still hadn't seen Benson.
Yawning, Huang Wen finally conceded defeat for the night. He needed rest and food. He returned to the Wing Chun Hall, slept for a few hours, and then reapplied his disguise, returning to the coffee shop window seat by late afternoon.
The freckled waiter, Paige, spotted him again. This time, there was a noticeable shiver of fear in her demeanor, replaced by a deep, nervous curiosity as the hours passed. Huang Wen's ability to vanish without a trace clearly hadn't gone unnoticed.
As night fell again, Paige finally mustered the courage to approach him. "Hello, my name is Paige," she asked hesitantly. "May I ask your name, sir?"
"Paige?" Huang Wen's lips twitched involuntarily, his mind momentarily derailed by the association with a certain fictional cartoon pig.
"Oh, excuse me. My name is Huang Wen. And yes," he glanced at the setting sun, "I believe it is closing time."
He smiled apologetically and stood up, once again leaving the coffee shop and walking quickly toward the darkness.
"Huang? Wen?" Paige murmured, sounding the syllables out. "Is he Chinese?" She looked up, only to find the alley entrance empty again.
Huang Wen was already in position, hunkered down for another long, boring night of observation.
Just when he thought the second night would be as fruitless as the first, an extraordinary sight unfolded at 5:00 AM, just as the last of the wealthy patrons were leaving.
Benson finally emerged. He was smiling broadly, leading a corpulent, wealthy-looking man to a waiting luxury car. Benson was practically bowing, showing the utmost, deferential respect. After the fat man was securely in his vehicle and driven away, Benson straightened up, wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, and looked around, seemingly satisfied.
Instead of re-entering the dojo, Benson stretched once, hailed a passing cab, and drove off along the main road.
That's his schedule, Huang Wen realized. Benson is the clean-up crew. He closes the party. And when he leaves, he heads home.
He had found the necessary information: Benson's appearance was tied to the close of the Goren Gang's operation, and critically, he was vulnerable on the road after leaving the protected compound.