The adrenaline from the confrontation with Benson quickly subsided, replaced by the grim necessity of damage control. Huang Wen, now clad in the exquisite, custom-fit Extraordinary Tuxedo, immediately went to work testing its capabilities.
"First things first: Securing the timeline," he muttered, focusing on the watch.
He issued his first complex, three-part order through conscious thought:
Surveillance Rewrite: Access all municipal and private cameras within a quarter-mile radius of the alley and the dojo.
Evidence Deletion: Delete every single frame of footage showing 'Huang Wen'—masked or unmasked—in this vicinity during the last 48 hours.
Alibi Fabrication: Inject fabricated footage into the timeline, showing the figure known as 'Huang Wen' never leaving Chinatown during the relevant period.
The watch hissed imperceptibly. The Tuxedo wasn't just clothing; it was a full-spectrum hacking suite. The nearby cameras, already previously compromised by the suit's scanner, silently obeyed. In minutes, Huang Wen's virtual presence in this area was scrubbed clean, replaced by boring, uneventful non-existence. The records now showed Benson walking straight past the alley, continuing down the road, and vanishing into the early morning traffic.
Next up: Benson's corpse.
Huang Wen commanded a storage retrieval. With a slight, almost imperceptible shimmer, a long, wide piece of black cloth—heavy-duty material, possibly a polymer weave—emerged from the tuxedo's sleeve, defying the Law of Conservation of Mass entirely.
I should probably stop thinking about physics, he decided, slightly dizzy.
He quickly wrapped Benson's lifeless, bulky body in the cloth. The result was instantaneous and profound: the cloth, which was listed as an accessory, rendered the entire package visually invisible. It was only visual, meaning a touch or a heat sensor would still register the mass, but to the naked eye, a 200kg, 1.9m corpse had simply vanished.
Finally, he activated the suit's personal Active Camouflage. The Tuxedo's collar immediately rose, enveloping his head, forming a perfectly transparent shroud. He could see perfectly, but visually, he was a shimmering void.
"This is better than I ever hoped!" Huang Wen beamed, though the invisible grin was lost to the light refraction. "A low-level stealth suit with bulletproofing. I'm now a stealth assassin with the punching power of an Incredible Hulk's little brother."
He mentally categorized his new, Extraordinary power level: "Bullet resistance, water walking, wall scaling, invisibility, and complete camera control. I'm pretty much a one-man special ops team with weird abilities. Just need a gun, and I can start competing with some low-tier mutants."
He pondered the implications for his mission. "Avenging Sifu Huang Hong means more than just killing the shooter, or the guy who signed the order. It means permanently dismantling the Goren Gang's high command. They framed my father, they plotted to murder me, and they corrupted the police. This isn't just vengeance; it's a total clean sweep."
With grim resolve, he bent, hoisted the invisible, massive form of Benson onto his shoulder—a burden that felt like nothing to his 34 Essence strength—and effortlessly walked out of the alley.
The streets were beginning to stir, but no one saw the perfectly invisible figure carrying the perfectly invisible cargo.
He walked with purpose toward the waterfront, the East River. He reached the empty, industrial bank and carefully lowered the body into the swift current. He then detached the invisible cloth, watching as Benson's body, now horrifyingly visible, was instantly seized by the river and swept away toward the murky waters of the Atlantic.
Problem solved.
He stood for a moment, watching the current. "Why am I not feeling sick?" he pondered internally. "I just killed a man, snapped his neck, and dumped his body in a river. Is it because I'm just used to violence and bloodshed from the underground boxing days, or is this body simply too numb to care?"
He didn't receive an answer. He dismissed the Tuxedo with a thought, instantly reappearing in his original clothes, and silently turned to leave, heading back to the Wing Chun Martial Arts Hall.
Arriving back at his father's dojo, the silence was deafening. The spacious training hall, equipped with punching bags and wooden dummies, felt hollow. Despite its decent fitness equipment, the place was empty. No students, no phone calls, no one even bothering to look through the broken doorway.
The business is terrible, he acknowledged, looking at the dusting of neglect.
Huang Hong had been desperate to reverse this. Despite having a sizable cushion of savings from decades of fighting, the Sifu hadn't wanted to live off past glories. The lack of students was an affront to the art itself.
"This is not a viable business model," Huang Wen muttered, staring at the empty space. "The traditional Kung Fu craze is dead. Americans want MMA, they want free fighting, and they want flashy action. A simple gym won't cut it, even if we are right next to Wall Street."
His location was superb, but his offering was irrelevant.
"A simple membership scheme is pointless. The competition—the sheer number of high-end gyms and cheap street gyms—is too high. And traditional martial arts are seen as obsolete."
A sly, resourceful idea began to form in his mind—a plan that involved exploiting the very reality he now inhabited.
"We need hype. We need to appeal to the Extraordinary market," he schemed, a thoughtful, calculating light in his eyes.
He made a loose mental plan, a strategy that would link the goal of Promotion (Task 3) directly to the pursuit of Vengeance (Task 2). After settling on a rough strategy, he headed upstairs for some much-needed rest.
Around noon, Huang Wen, feeling completely rested despite only four hours of sleep—a clear sign of his extraordinary metabolism—headed back to Uncle Zhong's Bayu Hot Pot.
"Xiao Wen, you look like a different person today!" Uncle Zhong called out. The hot pot restaurant was, as usual, empty save for the owner.
"Uncle Zhong's business is still struggling, I see!" Huang Wen smiled, walking toward their usual secluded booth. "Looks like I'll have to become your only regular patron."
"Tch, like your martial arts hall is flourishing!" Uncle Zhong snapped back, opening the burner beneath the pot. "At least I sell a few bowls of noodles. When was the last time anyone stepped into your place? But you're right, you look pleased. Did you finally accept that your father is gone?"
"I've got a lead," Huang Wen said, lowering his voice, his expression immediately serious. "Benson is out of the picture. And yes, I now know the truth about Sifu's death."
The discomfort in referring to Huang Hong was still there, but Uncle Zhong was too concerned to notice.
Uncle Zhong immediately rushed to the door, flipping the sign to CLOSED, and locking it tight. He hurried back, his face a mask of worry. "Is it solved? You didn't do anything reckless, did you? You weren't seen?"
"No," Huang Wen said with absolute confidence, leaning back. "No one saw me leave Chinatown, and no one saw me return. The cameras are clean. I promise, Uncle Zhong, no one can connect me to what happened to that brute."
Uncle Zhong looked at him, startled by the sheer certainty, then nodded slowly. "If you're sure... So it really was those vipers in the Goren Gang?"
"It was them," Huang Wen confirmed, his tone heavy. He recounted the cold, petty truth: the Goren Gang's drug trade, the need for theater, the elimination of the assassins, and Huang Hong's fate as a disposable witness.
"An undeserved disaster!" Uncle Zhong lamented, shaking his head with profound weariness. "It was always like this. When we first came here, we were constantly pulled into little gang wars and petty rivalries. We were just easy targets."
Uncle Zhong wiped his hands on his apron, his gaze becoming distant. "It's different now. I hear things are much better back in the homeland. I've been planning to have Zhong Qiang—my son—return after he graduates. People get old, Xiao Wen. We just want to return to our roots..."
"Fallen leaves return to their roots," Huang Wen repeated, a flicker of genuine longing in his eyes. He had no memory of China in this new life, but the thought of a "safe" homeland, away from the Marvel insanity, held a deep appeal. He desperately needed to know what the non-American sector of this terrifying world was like.