The atmosphere on the second floor of the Wing Chun Academy had shifted from skepticism to awe. The senior students, who had just witnessed several of their peers being dismantled by Ying Faming, stood in a wide semi-circle, their eyes glued to the center of the mat. They realized now that this "old-looking" man wasn't just another hire; he was a shark in a world of minnows.
"Unbelievable," one student whispered, watching Ying Faming's effortless posture. "He didn't even sweat."
Huang Liang stood at the edge of the mat, his eyes burning with a competitive fire. Having just received the Ip Man character pack, his body felt like a coiled spring, vibrating with a level of technical proficiency he hadn't yet fully tested. He saw Ying Faming use a subtle circular motion to send a two-hundred-pound student tumbling, and he couldn't help himself.
"What a beautiful display of leverage!" Huang Liang shouted, his voice ringing through the hall. He stepped onto the mat, his hands itching for a real challenge.
Ying Faming turned slowly, his gaze narrowing as he sized up the newcomer. Unlike the other students, this boy radiated a concentrated aura—a mixture of deep internal energy and a technical sharpness that felt strangely familiar yet vastly superior to the beginners in the room.
"And who might you be?" Ying Faming asked, his tone polite but cautious. He could feel the air around the boy crackling with potential.
"He's Huang Liang! Master Wen's direct disciple!" the students chimed in, their voices filled with excitement. A battle between the Master's protege and the new Tai Chi instructor was exactly the kind of drama they lived for.
"Wing Chun lineage, student of Huang Wen... Huang Liang," the boy said, cupping his hands in a traditional martial arts greeting. His eyes were bright, almost impatient. "Teacher Ying, I'd be honored if you'd give me some pointers."
Huang Liang was at a strange crossroads. He had the power of a legend and the skills of a grandmaster, but he still had the heart of a teenager. He lacked the seasoned, stoic patience of the actual Ip Man. To him, this wasn't just a lesson; it was a chance to flex his new muscles.
"Tai Chi Chuan, Ying Faming," the older man replied, returning the bow with genuine respect. He didn't see a boy; he saw a formidable opponent. He shifted his feet, entering a low, rooted Tai Chi opening stance, his hands tracing a slow, circular path in the air.
Huang Liang took a deep breath, his body settling into the classic Wing Chun stance—knees in, centerline protected, hands ready to strike like a cobra. The two stared at each other for a heartbeat, and then Liang exploded.
Swish!
Huang Liang's fist blurred as he launched a probing strike toward Ying Faming's temple. It was fast—frighteningly fast—but Ying Faming didn't panic. He stepped back at a forty-five-degree angle, his palm catching Liang's wrist and guiding the force harmlessly past his head.
Liang didn't miss a beat. He stepped in close, attempting to bridge the gap and use Wing Chun's devastating close-quarters Chi Sao (sticking hands) logic. But Ying Faming was like a ghost. Every time Liang tried to land a solid blow, he found his arms entangled in the older man's "silk-reeling" movements. It was a fascinating dance: Wing Chun's linear, aggressive bursts clashing against Tai Chi's soft, circular deflections.
Thud!
In a moment of over-eagerness, Liang pushed too hard. Ying Faming's body seemed to deflate, absorbing the impact, and then suddenly expanded. Using the famous "four ounces deflecting a thousand pounds" technique, he redirected Liang's own momentum back at him. Liang found himself stumbling three steps back before he could stabilize his stance.
"Again!" Liang's eyes weren't filled with anger, but with pure joy.
He adjusted his strategy. This time, he didn't try to overpower the "softness." He used the flexibility of Wing Chun's Tan Sao and Bong Sao to neutralize the entanglements. He became faster, more precise, refusing to let Ying Faming lock onto his rhythm.
Bang!
The exchange ended with a heavy collision of forearms. Ying Faming used a Ban Lan Chui (hidden punch), but Liang caught it with a perfectly timed Ge Sao (low parry). Both men stepped back, the sound of the impact echoing like a gunshot in the silent room.
Ying Faming let out a long, heavy breath, his shoulders dropping slightly as a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. "Phew... I have to admit, my bones are feeling their age. You young people have enough energy to power a city." He gave a tired, appreciative smile. "Your strength is terrifying, Young Master. Truly, Huang Wen has a successor to be proud of."
"Teacher Ying is being too modest," Liang replied, his breathing also slightly elevated. "You didn't lose. In fact, you threw me back twice. If this were a real match, I'd be the one checking for bruises. I've learned a lot just now."
Liang was being sincere. He hadn't used his full internal energy or his distant acupoint strikes—if he had, the floor would have been ruined—but in terms of pure technical application, Ying Faming's mastery of Tai Chi was a masterclass in efficiency.
"Tell me," Ying Faming asked, his voice low as he walked closer. "How did you do it? I can sense your foundation is deep, but your physical limits seem to have... vanished. I've reached a bottleneck in my own training where my body simply refuses to get any stronger. But you? You're different."
Liang scratched the back of his head, looking a bit sheepish. "Honestly, Teacher Ying, I just did what Master told me to do. He has his ways of... opening doors for us. If you're curious, you should probably talk to him. He's the one with the real secrets."
While the two masters were bonding over bruised forearms on the second floor, a very different kind of guest had just pulled up to the curb downstairs.
A custom-painted, cherry-red luxury sports car screeched to a halt in front of the Academy. The gull-wing door hissed open, and out stepped a man wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit and a pair of tinted sunglasses that probably cost more than the average car.
Tony Stark adjusted his tie and looked at the modest storefront of the Wing Chun Academy with a mixture of determination and annoyance.
"Alright, Jarvis. No matter what the price tag is, I'm getting the keys to that alien ship today. I need to see how they handled the sub-spatial dampeners," Tony muttered, tapping his earpiece.
"Sir, while I admire your tenacity, I must point out that your social standing rarely carries weight in Chinatown," Jarvis's voice crackled in his ear. "Furthermore, I strongly suggest you prioritize your health. Huang Wen was the one who diagnosed your palladium poisoning; perhaps he has a solution that doesn't involve drinking green sludge."
"Hmph! Everyone has a price, Jarvis. If he won't take cash, I'll buy him a building. Or a fleet of cars. Or a private island," Tony snorted, walking toward the entrance.
"Actually, sir, my latest data shows that Huang Wen's current portfolio consists of a massive amount of Stark Industries stock, most of it transferred from the Sherman and Fisk families. To put it bluntly: he is technically richer than some small countries. Money is a non-factor."
Tony paused, his hand on the door handle. "He's a shareholder? Since when?"
"Since the recent market volatility, sir. He didn't just buy the dip; he swallowed it. You're essentially walking into the home of a man who could buy your board of directors for breakfast."
Tony's eyebrows shot up. "Well... at least that means we're practically family. Business partners! This will be easy."
Tony pushed the door open and swaggered into the first-floor equipment hall. He expected a reception desk, maybe a pretty assistant, or at least a fan asking for an autograph. Instead, he was met by a wall of a man.
John stood in the center of the hall, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He looked at Tony Stark with the same level of interest one might show a particularly annoying fly.
"You're not on the roster," John said, his voice deep and vibrating. "What do you want?"
Tony stopped, taken aback. He slowly slid his sunglasses down his nose, waiting for the recognition to hit. "You're kidding, right? You don't know who I am? Tall, handsome, genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist? Ringing any bells, big guy?"
John didn't move an inch. "I see a guy in a suit who's blocking my view of the weight rack. You here to sign up for classes? Because you look like you could use some cardio."
In Tony's ear, Jarvis's voice became urgent. "Careful, sir. Biometric scans indicate the individual in front of you is a mutant with significantly elevated power levels. I suggest a polite approach."
Tony's eyes widened slightly behind his shades. Another one? This place is a magnet for freaks. He cleared his throat and tried to regain his swagger. "I'm here to see Huang Wen. It's a matter of... international scientific importance."
"Sorry, 'Iron Man'," John said, his tone mocking. "Master Wen doesn't take walk-ins. You want an appointment, you come back when the sign says open. Or you can leave a message with the kid at the front."
Tony felt his ego bruising faster than the students on the second floor. "Cough, cough! Jarvis? A little help? Fabricate a meeting on his digital calendar. Make it look like we've had this planned for weeks."
"Apologies, sir," Jarvis replied after a microsecond. "The Academy's local network is protected by an AI interface that is... significantly more advanced than I anticipated. Intrusion failed. I've been locked out, and the system just sent me a 'digital middle finger' emoji."