Back at the Wing Chun Martial Arts Hall, which remained stubbornly free of any paying customers, Huang Wen had locked the door, finding a quiet solitude in the empty space.
He sat cross-legged in the center of the dusty training floor, not engaging in any mysterious, mystical meditation, but simply doing what he called regulating his energy and spirit. In reality, it was focusing his mind and body, feeling the peculiar, internal energy that the System called Inner Force.
This Internal Force, which he had first sensed clearly in the dark alley, was a strange, pervasive power. In terms of brute output, it was surprisingly small—less than a third of his raw physical strength (since 1 point of strength equaled 10 points of Essence, and he was at 34 Essence, the power was disproportionately low).
Furthermore, this energy was entirely bound to his body; he couldn't fire it as a projectile or heal himself with it. It only amplified his existing movements.
It's a base-level martial art power, he analyzed, realizing that simply having the Force wasn't enough; he needed to understand how to cultivate it.
He knew that even with Ip Man's incredible talent and the System's optimization, generating this much Inner Force took a lifetime. While his physical stats dwarfed the Sifu's, his comprehension of the deeper martial arts principles was still superficial. He could perfectly execute the movements, but couldn't intuitively advance the discipline.
"Advancing the Inner Force is too slow. The Lottery is the real cheat code," he concluded.
He stood up, stretching his 34-point body. The confrontation was set for tonight.
"Tonight, I go for the Goren Gang's high command. With Benson gone, they'll be alerted soon. I need to strike while their business is running and before they can organize a proper search or frame-up."
He spent a brief time warming up on the Mook Yan Jong (Wooden Dummy), his movements too fast, too powerful, for the silent wooden partner. He could fight the dummy for an entire day without exhaustion.
As the sun sank, the neon signs of Chinatown began their nightly performance. Even the faded sign of the Wing Chun Hall pulsed with a lonely, gentle light.
"Showtime."
Huang Wen focused, and in a familiar flicker, the Tuxedo enveloped him. He didn't want to risk the front door, even if he was invisible. Too many curious tourists and neighbors.
He ascended to a room on the second floor, activated the suit's Active Camouflage, becoming a shimmer of distorted light, and then opened the window. He placed his fingers on the brick exterior. Instantly, the tuxedo's built-in Suction/Adhesion technology activated.
He wasn't wearing special gloves, and the suit didn't cover his fingertips, yet his palms and fingers stuck with an astonishing, Spider-Man-like tenacity.
"What is the principle behind this?" he wondered, closing the window behind him, leaving a small crack. "Spider-Man relies on biology; I rely on technology that magically extends through my skin. So much for human physics."
The poor rely on mutation, the rich rely on technology... I guess I'm a technology-rich fighter now, he thought with a dry chuckle.
With the ease of a fly, he scaled the wall, reaching the rooftop in seconds. He stood there, looking out over the brightly lit, chaotic mosaic of Chinatown.
"I feel like Jackie Chan doing parkour, but on steroids," he muttered, and then took off, running silently across the rooftops toward the Goren Dojo, much faster than any human could sustain.
He arrived quickly and found the scene exactly as before: wealthy patrons, dressed in varying levels of business attire, entering the Goren Karate Dojo. He slipped through the front door, invisible and unnoticed, right behind a group of men whose expensive cologne was overpowering.
The ground floor was a standard, clean, modern reception area—all smiles and polite professionalism. This was the façade.
He followed the flow of traffic to an unassuming steel door, which led downward.
As he descended the stairs, the atmosphere changed instantly, the stale air replaced by a mix of alcohol, sweat, and adrenaline.
The first underground level was nothing like a typical martial arts gym. It was a massive, opulent casino. Roulette wheels spun, cards were dealt at green felt tables, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the loud, nervous chatter of high-stakes gambling. The wealthy clients—most of them the same portly men he'd seen before—were already engrossed in their vices.
He slipped past the high-stakes poker room and followed a side corridor that led deeper into the complex.
The second underground level was the heart of the Goren Gang's true brutality: the Underground Boxing Arena.
It was colossal, designed like a modern, stripped-down Roman Colosseum. The arena floor was a vast, circular pit surrounded by tiers of spectator boxes. The lighting was harsh and red, illuminating the ring that was smeared with old blood—blood that the organizers deliberately left uncleaned, a visual feast to satisfy the brutal appetites of the spectators.
Two monstrously muscular men, each well over two meters tall, were battering each other in the ring. Teeth flew, blood sprayed, and the crowd roared in a frenzy that transcended mere excitement—it was a visceral, primal madness. This was a deathmatch: only one fighter would walk away a winner.
Huang Wen bypassed the arena, feeling a familiar, cold detachment. The brutality was exactly what he expected from the criminal underworld.
He continued deeper. The third underground level was the most decadent. It was a network of private rooms and suites, clearly used for drug consumption and high-end prostitution. The corridors were thick with sickly sweet smoke, and the muffled shouts of ecstasy and pain leaked through the closed doors.
This is the core business, Huang Wen realized. This is where the money is laundered and the customers are serviced.
He didn't linger. The people here were expendable. He was looking for the commanders, the decision-makers, the men who sat above the violence. He kept walking, trusting his intuition and the sheer scale of the compound to eventually lead him to the Goren Gang's true headquarters.
He knew the bosses wouldn't be near the stench of the arena or the screams of the brothel. They would be somewhere pristine, commanding their empire from a place of comfortable power.