A sudden, intense spark of triumph ignited behind Huang Wen's dark sunglasses. He had finally cracked Benson's routine. The two nights of restless observation, the mediocre coffee, and the constant fear of being discovered by a passing S.H.I.E.L.D. agent were instantly worth it.
My chance. It's now.
He glanced around the quiet, pre-dawn street. The hour was perfect: too early for commuters, too late for the late-night revelers. He adjusted his stance and, without hesitation, accelerated toward the spot where Benson had disappeared.
The 34 points of Essence were not just numbers; they were a profound physical gift. Huang Wen was running at a speed that would shatter the official world record, yet, thanks to his Wing Chun mastery, his form was so perfectly balanced, his footfalls so controlled, that he made no noise. He was a dark, silent blur, a ghost gliding over the pavement.
He quickly closed the gap, shadowing Benson from a calculated distance. But as they continued down the broad street, Huang Wen realized this wasn't the right place to make a move. Too exposed, too many potential witnesses, even at this hour.
Need a bottleneck. An alley. A place where the only way out is through me.
"Da da da!"
Suddenly, Benson, walking ahead, seemed to sense the presence behind him. His large frame tensed, and he immediately broke into a full sprint, his heavy, unprofessional footfalls echoing loudly on the concrete. He violently crossed the next side street and plunged into a narrow, shadowed alleyway.
"Swish swish swish!"
Huang Wen didn't want to spook Benson entirely, which might make him impossible to track later, but he couldn't afford to lose him. He poured a little more Qi into his legs. His own running remained silent, a silent predator compared to Benson's noisy flight.
When Huang Wen finally zipped into the alley, he found that the "fleeing" Benson had stopped, leaning against the brick wall. A sneering, contemptuous smile stretched across the karate master's face.
Benson hadn't been running away; he had been leading the pursuer to a predetermined location.
Because of the hat, sunglasses, and mask, Benson didn't recognize his pursuer. He only saw a relatively smaller figure, which inflated his arrogance.
"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in," Benson sneered, his voice guttural and dismissive. "Who the hell are you, kid? Who put you on my trail? You got some serious guts following a man like me."
Benson stepped forward, cracking his thick knuckles. "Don't you recognize the Head Coach of the Goren Dojo? You've picked a fight with the wrong muscle."
"Oh, I recognize you," Huang Wen replied, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He reached up, slowly removing the sunglasses, then the mask, and finally the cap. He met Benson's gaze directly, letting the early morning light catch his familiar, cold expression.
Benson's jaw dropped. The cruel, cocky smile instantly dissolved into a mask of abject horror.
In his eyes, the alley vanished, replaced by the memory of Sifu Huang Hong's hand—a blur of speed and controlled lethality—pausing inches from his face, a silent promise of death. That fear instantly mixed with the realization that this was the Sifu's son.
"Y-You... what are you doing here?" Benson stumbled back half a step, trying desperately to project calm, but his voice was thin. "Don't think you're clever just because you know a few pressure points. Remember how your monkey father ended up? You mess with powerful people here!"
"I'm here precisely to find out how he ended up," Huang Wen stated, his voice now crisp and commanding. He dropped into the classic Wing Chun starting stance, his hands guarding the centerline. "You can tell me the whole story yourself, right now, or I can start rearranging your facial structure until the truth comes out. Your choice."
"I won't be scared by some parlor tricks!" Benson roared, his fear momentarily replaced by a desperate, cornered rage. He couldn't flee; this was a dead end.
Instead of adopting a Karate stance, he relied on pure, brute force—a clumsy, powerful straight punch aimed directly at Huang Wen's head. It was a haymaker, meant to end the fight immediately.
"Pathetic."
Huang Wen didn't even shift his weight. Utilizing the core Wing Chun Principle of simultaneous attack and defense, he used a sharp, precise Jat Sau (Jerking Hand) with his right hand to deflect Benson's punch violently outwards, instantly destroying the attacker's structure and balance.
In the same fluid motion, his left hand unleashed a short, piston-like Centerline Punch.
SMACK!
The impact was catastrophic. A single punch, imbued with the raw, terrifying power of 34 Essence Points, coupled with the focused efficiency of Wing Chun structure, was far more than Benson's 12-point body could handle. The blow didn't just hurt; it detonated his core.
With a loud THUMP, Benson's large body was launched backwards, skidding across the grimy pavement until he slammed into the brick wall. He crumpled instantly, a wheezing, broken heap, unable to draw a single complete breath.
Even though Huang Wen had pulled the strike to avoid a fatal blow, the force had instantly overwhelmed Benson's nervous system. He lay there, twitching, utterly defeated in a fraction of a second.
Sifu Huang Hong won with technique and forbearance. I'll win with overwhelming power and surgical discipline, Huang Wen thought, his mind crystal clear.
Huang Wen strode forward, the quiet echo of the single strike filling the alley. He squatted next to the groaning man, his expression cold and clinical.
"So, Benson. Are you going to share the information now?" Huang Wen's tone was dangerously soft.
Suddenly, with a desperate, feral surge of energy, Benson's hand shot out—not in a fist, but with fingers extended, attempting a cowardly, vicious eye gouge.
SNAP!
"Aargh!"
A searing scream tore through the silence as Huang Wen simply intercepted the attack, twisting Benson's wrist and snapping his index finger with a quick, sickening pop. Benson instantly broke out in a cold sweat, the pain amplifying every beat of his heart.
"Rule one of negotiation: no dirty tricks," Huang Wen stated, his expression unchanged. "If you try that again, I'll take another digit."
He applied deliberate, increasing pressure to the broken hand. "Want to test that theory?"
A frantic whimper escaped Benson. He wasn't even attempting to fight anymore. He was reduced to a miserable, pathetic animal.
Huang Wen released the pressure slightly, letting Benson gasp. "The truth. Now. How did Sifu Huang Hong die?"
Benson nodded frantically, tears streaming from the pain. He struggled to organize his racing thoughts, terrified that speaking too slowly would result in another snap.
The story spilled out in fragmented, breathless gasps:
The whole mess started with a minor, territorial skirmish. The Goren Gang, Benson's employers, were fighting with a rival street syndicate, the Gabu Gang, over the lucrative drug trade on the neighboring block.
The Goren Gang decided to initiate a quiet, aggressive strike, but they wanted plausible deniability. So, instead of sending their own muscle, they hired professional assassins to eliminate two mid-level enforcement members of the Gabu Gang. This was a statement, not a declaration of full war—just a sharp message.
As the assassins were in the process of confirming their kills, Sifu Huang Hong had happened to walk by. A completely innocent, unsuspecting passerby.
The assassins, being opportunistic vultures, realized they had a potential witness. But instead of killing him immediately, they saw a way to double their profit. They contacted the Goren Gang, demanding a massive second fee to "clean up the witness."
The Goren Gang, however, were ruthless and highly pragmatic. They were loath to pay the exorbitantly inflated price, especially when dealing with such opportunistic hired muscle. They swiftly decided to eliminate the assassins themselves.
This served two purposes:
It prevented the hitmen from ever trying to extort the Goren Gang again, or worse, threatening to expose the details of the Gabu Gang hit.
It eliminated the only non-Goren witnesses, leaving only Huang Hong as a potential loose end.
The result: The Goren Gang had successfully taken out two Gabu members and the assassins, all without spending a second dime.
The Gabu Gang, having lost two men, correctly suspected the Goren Gang, but without proof, they couldn't start a war. They chose to use the ambiguity as leverage in negotiation.
And Huang Hong? He was just an unlucky, irrelevant variable caught in the crossfire of professional criminality. The Goren Gang needed to silence the last person who might link them to the hitmen they had hired and then killed.
The truth was cold, mundane, and utterly senseless: Sifu Huang Hong wasn't murdered for his martial arts, or for winning the match, but because he saw a brief, bloody moment of business the Goren Gang wanted to keep private.