The glow of the television reflected in the steam rising from the breakfast bowls at the hotpot restaurant. Huang Wen leaned back, watching the CNN footage of Tony Stark standing behind the podium.
"He's even more resolute than he was in the original timeline," Huang Wen mused, his eyes narrowing as he watched Tony's firm jawline and the steady gaze he held for the cameras. "Perhaps it's because he didn't just walk away while a machine exploded. He looked Obadiah in the eye and pulled the trigger. That changes a man. It turns a survivor into a soldier."
"Brother Wen, what are you mumbling about?" Zhong Qiang asked, his mouth full of Teochew porridge. He looked refreshed, the Blood Bodhi's energy still humming beneath his skin.
"Nothing. Just thinking that New York is about to get a lot noisier," Huang Wen replied with a faint smile.
Cough, cough, cough!
A series of dry, ragged coughs from the doorway broke the morning calm. The group turned to see a man leaning against the doorframe. He was dressed in a traditional, though faded and frayed, kung fu uniform. His hair was a chaotic mess, and his face was etched with the kind of deep lines usually reserved for men in their sixties. He looked like he had walked halfway across the continent without stopping for a glass of water.
In his trembling hand, he clutched a crumpled five-dollar bill as if it were a holy relic. His eyes were fixed on the bowls of steaming porridge, and he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with visible hunger. He had clearly followed the scent of Uncle Zhong's cooking like a starving animal follows a trail.
"Does... does Bayu Hotpot sell Teochew porridge too?" the man rasped, glancing at the sign outside and then hesitantly at the interior. He looked at the lack of a menu on the wall and seemed ready to bolt, his pride warring with his stomach. "How much for a bowl?"
Uncle Zhong, ever the soul of Chinatown hospitality, stood up with a warm smile. "Oh, this is just the family meal, friend. But if you're hungry, pull up a chair. It's not a formal menu item, so it won't cost you much."
"I... I can't just take it," the man said, smoothing out the wrinkled five-dollar bill with a trembling thumb. "I only have five dollars. If that's not enough to cover it, I can come back when I have more..."
"Perfect," Uncle Zhong lied smoothly, looking at the lone bill. "Five dollars is the exact price for 'all-you-can-eat' today. Come on, sit down. I'll get you a fresh bowl."
"Thank you. Truly," the man said, his voice thick with relief. He walked to a small table near the corner, avoiding the center of the room as if he didn't want his disheveled appearance to ruin the vibe of the restaurant.
Uncle Zhong sat down across from him as he served the porridge. "Where are you from, little brother? You look like you've been through a war zone."
"Little brother..." A pained, embarrassed smile touched the man's lips. He took a long, slow sip of the hot liquid, closing his eyes as the warmth hit his stomach. "My name is Ying Faming. I'm from Teochew... and I'm only thirty-one."
The room went quiet. Not just Uncle Zhong, but Huang Wen, Zhong Qiang, and Reese Fisk all stopped eating to stare. Ying Faming looked like a man who had seen fifty-one winters, at the very least. His skin was weathered, his eyes held a hollow, ancient fatigue, and his hands were calloused in a way that spoke of brutal, repetitive labor or combat.
"Thirty-one?" Uncle Zhong repeated, his voice full of sympathy. "Life must have been a hard teacher to you, Xiao Ying."
"I just look older than my years, I suppose," Ying Faming replied, dropping his gaze back to his bowl and eating with a quiet, focused intensity.
"I think there's more to it than that," Uncle Zhong said, scrutinizing the man's posture. He recognized the subtle way the man's shoulders were set. "You've got a story, Xiao Ying. What do you do for a living in this city?"
Ying Faming sighed, shaking his head slowly. "I feed myself. I have no family left to worry about, so I don't need much. It's best if you don't ask, brother. My affairs... they bring a cold wind with them."
Zhong Qiang's eyes lit up. After his "upgrade" last night, he was itching for a chance to test his limits. "Brother, if you've got trouble, you're in the right place. Just look at me—I've got enough strength to handle whatever's chasing you!"
Ying Faming looked at Zhong Qiang's youthful face and let out a tired, helpless chuckle. "You? Don't be foolish, kid. Can you stop a knife? Can you outrun a bullet?"
"Are you being hunted by a gang?" Zhong Qiang asked, completely unfazed. He glanced at Reese Fisk. "Because between us, there isn't a gang in New York we can't talk down."
"These aren't ordinary street thugs," Ying Faming said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "If it were just the local gangs, I wouldn't still be running. These people... they have a reach that spans the globe."
"The Ten Rings?" Huang Wen asked casually, leaning forward.
The effect was instantaneous. Ying Faming's pupils constricted to pinpricks. His hand flew to the edge of the table, and he half-rose from his chair, his body coiling like a spring. He stared at Huang Wen with a mixture of terror and suspicion, convinced he had walked into a trap. He cursed himself for letting a bowl of porridge lower his guard.
"Easy, friend," Huang Wen said, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "I'm not one of them. In fact, the Mandarin and his little club have a bit of a grudge against me. I ran into him a while back, and let's just say he left New York with a very broken ego and a few less teeth."
"You... you fought the Mandarin?" Ying Faming stood frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Who are you?"
Huang Wen stood up and performed a traditional martial arts greeting, cupping his hand over his fist. "Wing Chun Martial Arts School, Huang Wen."
Ying Faming hesitated, then his training took over. He returned the gesture with a shaky but precise form. "Tai Chi... Ying Faming."
"See? We're practically cousins," Huang Wen smiled, his eyes friendly. "The Ten Rings are my enemies, too. If they're looking for you, they'll have to go through me first. Sit down. Tell me what they want with a Tai Chi practitioner in New York."
Huang Wen was hoping for a lead. The Mandarin was a loose end he wanted to tie off, and if Ying Faming had information on where the organization was regrouping, it would save him a lot of searching.
But before Ying Faming could speak, a massive BOOM shook the windows of the restaurant.
It was distant, coming from the direction of the coast, but the shockwave was powerful enough to rattle the porcelain on the tables.
"Boss, I've detected a high-energy explosion at a private residence in Malibu," Silly Girl's voice chirped in Huang Wen's ear, though her tone was uncharacteristically grim. "It's Tony Stark's mansion. A localized strike using suspected black-market technology. Stark was in transit, but he's redirected his flight path and is engaging now."
"Malibu? Iron Man 3?" Huang Wen's mind raced. "The timeline is a wreck. The Mandarin shouldn't be attacking his house yet—Stark just announced himself an hour ago! Is this Obadiah's backup plan? Or did my fight with the Mandarin trigger a premature retaliation?"
Huang Wen turned to his students, his expression turning sharp and serious. "Xiao Qiang, protect the restaurant. Jack, Reese, get to the perimeter. Uncle Zhong and Belle—stay inside. I need to go check this out."
"Don't worry, Brother Wen!" Zhong Qiang slammed his fist into his palm, a faint crimson aura flickering around him. "I'll keep them safe!"
"I won't let anyone through the door," Belle added, her eyes flashing with a newfound determination.
"Good."
In a blur of golden light, Huang Wen vanished from the hotpot restaurant, leaving Ying Faming staring at the empty space with his jaw hanging open.
Malibu, California
While the smoke cleared over the shattered remains of Stark's cliffside mansion, a sleek, dark vessel hovered silently in the clouds above.
Inside the bridge, the Mandarin stood with his hands clenched behind his back, his face a mask of cold fury. Standing beside him was a technician monitoring the destruction below.
"If it weren't for the reports of you escaping that 'martial artist' in New York, I never would have tracked your signature," the Mandarin hissed, though he wasn't speaking to the technician. He was looking at a hologram of Aldrich Killian.
"So, the fact that I'm now embroiled in a war with that brat Huang Wen is entirely your fault," the Mandarin continued, his voice dripping with venom.
"I cannot find the master of Wing Chun yet—he hides in the shadows of Chinatown like a ghost. But you, Tony Stark? You stood on a stage and gave me your address. Since I cannot strike the one who shamed me, I will strike the one who funded him!"