Beijing, The New Republic
The wind that swept across the tarmac was biting, carrying the grit of the Gobi Desert and the scent of coal smoke.
China was a wound trying to heal.
Ernst stood at the top of the airplane stairs, his trench coat flapping in the wind. He adjusted his glasses, scanning the landscape.
He saw a nation in the throes of a painful rebirth. The infrastructure was shattered by World War II and the subsequent Civil War.
The economy was held together by duct tape and sheer willpower.
To the west, he saw smokestacks belching black smoke, primitive, inefficient, but alive. He saw thousands of workers moving like ants, carrying baskets of earth, rebuilding roads by hand because there were no trucks.
It was impressive. It was resilient.
"Bleak," Azazel muttered, standing behind him, his tail hidden inside oversized trousers, a fedora pulled low to hide his pointed ears and red skin.
"It smells of dust and desperation."
"It smells of opportunity," Ernst corrected.
"Desperate men sell their secrets cheap."
He walked down the stairs.
A delegation was waiting on the cracked concrete. At the front stood a man in a simple, olive-drab tunic with a red star on his cap.
He was short, weathered, but his eyes were sharp.
Major General Xu.
Ernst didn't know the man.
History had forgotten him, which meant he was a functionary, a cog in the machine. Perfect.
"Dr. Ernst!" General Xu stepped forward, extending a calloused hand.
His smile was genuine, or at least, the relief in his eyes was.
"Welcome to China. The journey was long?"
"The journey is always long when the destination is the future," Ernst replied in fluent Mandarin.
The General froze. The soldiers behind him exchanged glances.
They had expected a German arrogance, a need for a translator.
Instead, they heard the crisp, perfect tones of a Beijing scholar.
"Your Chinese is... flawless," Xu stammered.
"I am a student of the world, General," Ernst lied smoothly.
"One cannot understand history without understanding Asia."
Ernst signaled to Azazel, who handed over a heavy, locked briefcase.
Ernst took it and presented it to Xu like an offering to a temple god.
"In here," Ernst said, his voice lowering, "is the future I promised. Geological surveys of the Daqing Oil Fields. Blueprints for blast furnaces that use 40% less coke. Agricultural chemical formulas to double your rice yield."
Xu took the case. His hands trembled slightly.
He knew what this meant. It meant food. It meant tanks that didn't run out of fuel. It meant survival.
"China will not forget this friendship, Doctor," Xu said solemnly.
"I count on it," Ernst replied.
'I'm banking on it.'
----
The State Guesthouse
The dinner was a calculated affair.
The table was laden with food that the common people outside could only dream of: Mapo Tofu swimming in red oil, Braised Lion's Head meatballs, and delicate Sixi Balls.
Ernst ate with chopsticks, his movements precise.
"The peppers used in this Mapo Tofu," Ernst noted, picking up a piece of silk tofu, "were introduced to Sichuan only a few hundred years ago from the Americas. But the Doubanjiang bean paste... that is the soul. Fermented for three years?"
General Xu blinked, his chopstick pausing mid-air.
"You... you know our cuisine?"
"I know that food is chemistry," Ernst smiled.
"And history. The Lion's Head... dates back to the Sui Dynasty, does it not? Emperor Yang? It represents the mane of the lion, a symbol of power."
Xu laughed, pouring Ernst a glass of Baijiu.
"You are more Chinese than some of my officers! It is rare to find a Westerner who appreciates the nuance. Most just ask for 'Chop Suey'."
"I have no interest in diluted things," Ernst said, taking a shot of the fiery liquor.
It burned like gasoline. He metabolized the alcohol instantly.
They talked for hours.
Ernst played the role perfectly.
The Sinophile. The admirer of the culture. He fed Xu's ego, praising the resilience of the people, the depth of the philosophy.
He watched Xu relax. He watched the suspicion fade, replaced by the warm glow of validation.
'Human psychology is the easiest lock to pick,' Ernst thought.
'Tell a man his house is beautiful, and he will give you the key.'
By the time the meal ended, Xu was red-faced and beaming.
"Dr. Ernst, you must rest. We have prepared the west wing."
Xu stood up, straightening his tunic.
"I must report to the Chairman. But I leave you in good hands."
He gestured to the corner of the room.
A man stepped out of the shadows.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a stillness about him that screamed violence.
He wore a simple grey tunic, but the way he stood, balanced, weight on the balls of his feet, betrayed a lifetime of discipline.
"This is Captain Zhao Guohua," Xu introduced.
"He is the head of my personal guard. He will be responsible for your safety and your needs while you are in Beijing."
Ernst looked at Zhao.
He scanned the man with his enhanced senses.
Heart rate: 45 BPM. Resting pulse of an athlete. Hands: Calloused heavily on the ridge of the palm and the knuckles.
Bone density in the hands was abnormal.
Iron Palm conditioning, Ernst analyzed.
'Repeated impact training to deaden the nerves and calcify the bone.'
Zhao Guohua looked at Ernst. His eyes were cold, dismissive.
He saw a scientist in a suit. A soft man.
A man who used words because he couldn't use his fists.
"Dr. Ernst," Zhao nodded, his voice gravelly.
"Captain Zhao," Ernst replied.
General Xu left, the door clicking shut behind him.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
The guards outside relaxed, lighting cigarettes. But inside, the air was tense.
Zhao crossed his arms.
"I will have men posted at the door and the window. Do not leave the compound without informing me. This city is not safe for foreigners."
It was an order, not a suggestion.
Ernst wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up.
"You have trained in the Iron Palm," Ernst stated. It wasn't a question.
Zhao's eyes narrowed.
"I have."
"And judging by your stance," Ernst continued, walking around the table, "you favor the Northern styles. Long fist? No... Xingyi. Linear power."
Zhao scoffed. "You read books, Doctor. Reading about a tiger is not the same as fighting one."
"True," Ernst agreed. He extended his hand.
"But sometimes, the reader is the hunter."
"I see you have calluses too," Ernst lied. His hands were smooth, reconstructed by the Reality Stone, but he projected the confidence of a veteran.
"I have dabbled in the arts. Kung Fu. Perhaps we can exchange knowledge?"
Zhao looked at the extended hand. He hesitated, then took it.
He intended to give a firm squeeze, a "warning" grip to show the foreigner who was in charge.
Zhao squeezed.
He expected the scientist's hand to crush, the man to wince.
Instead, Zhao felt like he was gripping a hydraulic press.
Ernst's hand didn't give a millimeter.
It was as hard as a diamond.
Ernst smiled with a cold, predatory expression.
"Is that all?" Ernst whispered.
He squeezed back.
CRACK.
The sound of knuckles grinding together.
Zhao's eyes went wide. Pain shot up his arm, but his discipline kept him from screaming.
He tried to pull away. He couldn't. Ernst's grip was absolute.
"You underestimate me, Captain," Ernst said softly.
"You see a lab coat. You should see a predator."
Ernst released the hand.
Zhao stumbled back, nursing his fingers. He looked at Ernst with shock, then anger.
"You... you are a master?"
"I am a scientist," Ernst said, walking over to a heavy wooden chair made of solid oak.
"But I study physics. And martial arts is just applied physics."
He placed his hand on the back of the chair.
He didn't wind up. He didn't shout. He simply applied force.
Short Power. Inch Punch.
SNAP.
The solid oak shattered. The chair exploded into splinters as if hit by a sledgehammer.
The noise was deafening in the quiet room.
Outside, the guards shouted.
The door burst open, and two soldiers rushed in with Type-50 submachine guns raised.
"Halt!" Zhao barked, raising his uninjured hand.
"Stand down!"
The soldiers froze, looking at the shattered chair, then at the scientist who was calmly dusting sawdust off his sleeve.
"But Captain..."
"Get out," Zhao ordered.
"Close the door."
The soldiers retreated, confused.
Zhao turned back to Ernst. He bowed. It was a deep, waist-bending bow of genuine respect.
In the martial world, strength was the only rank that mattered.
And Ernst had just displayed power that Zhao couldn't comprehend.
"I apologize, Master Ernst," Zhao said, his voice humbled.
"No need to apologize," Ernst said, sitting on the edge of the table.
"Appearances are deceiving. That is the point of camouflage."
Zhao straightened up. The skepticism was gone, replaced by a burning, fanatical curiosity.
"That strike... no wind up. Pure Fa Jin. What style is that?"
"I have practiced many," Ernst said.
"Neijia. Tai Chi for the flow. Xingyi for the intent. And Iron Palm for the finish."
"What level?" Zhao asked breathlessly.
"Peak Mastery," Ernst replied.
"I have moved beyond form."
It was a lie, technically. Ernst hadn't spent thirty years meditating in a temple.
He had rewritten his biology with an Infinity Stone and downloaded combat data from a spaceship.
But the result was the same.
Zhao looked at him like he was a deity.
"Peak Mastery... the realm of legends. The Grandmasters say it is when the internal and external become one."
Zhao took a step forward, his eyes blazing.
"Dr. Ernst. I have a request. An arrogant request."
"Ask."
"Fight me."
Zhao clenched his fists.
"My lifelong aspiration is to attain that level. I have been stuck at the bottleneck for ten years. I need to see the peak. Even if you kill me... I need to feel it."
Ernst looked at the man. He saw the desperation of a seeker.
He smiled.
"Very well. The courtyard. Five minutes."
----
The Courtyard
The space was open, paved with grey stones. The moon was high, casting long shadows.
A dozen soldiers had gathered on the periphery, watching in stunned silence.
They whispered among themselves.
"Captain Zhao is going to kill the foreigner."
"Look at Zhao's arms. He can break granite."
"Why is the Doctor taking off his glasses?"
Ernst handed his glasses to Azazel, who was leaning against a pillar, eating a peach he had stolen from the kitchen.
"Don't break him, boss," Azazel whispered.
"We need him to carry the luggage."
Ernst walked to the center of the ring. He stood relaxed, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. He looked completely open, undefended.
Zhao Guohua stood opposite him.
He adopted the Santi Shi stance, the Trinity Stance of Xingyi. His breathing changed, becoming deep and rhythmic. His body emanated a palpable pressure.
He knew he was weaker in raw strength. He had felt Ernst's grip.
Speed, Zhao thought.
'I must use speed and hit the soft points. The throat. The eyes.'
"Begin," Ernst said softly.
Zhao moved.
He was fast. A blur of grey.
He closed the distance in a heartbeat, stepping inside Ernst's guard. He launched a palm strike directly at Ernst's ribs.
It was a vicious blow, carrying the weight of his entire body, aimed to shatter the liver.
Ernst didn't move.
He didn't block. He didn't dodge.
He smiled.
THUD.
The palm connected.
The soldiers winced, expecting the sound of cracking ribs.
Instead, there was a sound like a mallet hitting a solid steel bell.
Zhao's hand stopped dead.
Ernst's body didn't even shift.
At the moment of impact, Ernst's shoulder had quivered imperceptibly. A microscopic adjustment of muscle density.
Absorption.
Zhao felt the shockwave travel back up his own arm. His wrist clicked.
"Iron Shirt?" Zhao gasped, his eyes wide.
He tried to retract his hand.
"Too slow," Ernst whispered.
Ernst didn't strike back. He simply stepped forward.
He moved into Zhao's space.
Ernst raised his hand, his fingers loose. He slapped the air in front of Zhao's chest.
It looked like a gentle tap.
-------------
Author's Note:
Do you want to read 25+ Chapters ahead right now?
Stop waiting. Come over to the dark side. We have cookies, advanced chapters, and very, very detailed 'plot.'
patreon.com/
Dark_sym