Emil Blonsky lay on the floorboards of the Wing Chun Academy, staring at the ceiling as his reality fractured into a million jagged pieces. The pain in his ribs was nothing compared to the agony of his ego being systematically dismantled.
How? The word echoed in his mind like a funeral bell. He had been the pinnacle of human achievement. He was a veteran of the SAS, a decorated soldier, and most importantly, he was the man who had survived the injection of the super-soldier serum. In his mind, he was the successor to Steve Rogers. He was supposed to be the god of the battlefield, a man who could trade blows with the Hulk and come out laughing.
Yet, here he was, being tossed around by a fat man in a custom suit and an old man who looked like he should be playing mahjong in the park. It was unscientific. It was offensive to the very laws of nature he thought he had transcended.
"Mutants... Iron Man... they're all just gadgets and genes," Blonsky spat internally, his eyes turning bloodshot. "But I'm supposed to be the peak of human potential. How can these nobodies fight me? How can they even touch me?"
The realization that he was not the protagonist of this world was a bitter pill that Blonsky refused to swallow. Instead of humility, a toxic, burning rage flared in his chest. If he couldn't win with his fists, he would win with lead.
With a roar of frustration, he rolled backward, his movements still blurringly fast thanks to the serum. His hand went to his leg holster, his fingers wrapping around the cold grip of his tactical pistol. He didn't care about the "sanctity" of the martial arts hall anymore. He wanted to see these "masters" bleed.
"I'll erase every single one of you!" Blonsky snarled, his thumb clicking the safety off as he leveled the barrel toward Reese Fisk and Ying Faming.
"You really don't know when to quit, do you?"
A voice, cold and sharp as a razor, cut through the air. Before Blonsky's finger could even tighten on the trigger, the world seemed to warp. A figure blurred into existence—not just fast, but fundamentally somewhere else in an instant. This was the "Footprints in the Snow" technique, executed with a level of mastery that defied the human eye.
Zhong Qiang stood there, his eyes burning with a quiet intensity. Ever since he had consumed the Blood Bodhi, his entire being had undergone a metamorphosis. His essence, his qi, and his spirit were no longer those of a mere martial artist. He had surpassed the limits of the ordinary, reaching a state of vitality that rivaled the legendary Bai Zhantang. In terms of sheer spiritual pressure, he was now a force to be reckoned with.
Clack.
Before Blonsky could even process the movement, the pistol was no longer in his hand. Zhong Qiang had snatched it away with the ease of a man taking a toy from a toddler.
"This is a place of discipline," Zhong Qiang said, his voice dropping an octave. "We don't do guns here."
Without waiting for a response, Zhong Qiang delivered a kick. It wasn't a fancy spinning move; it was a direct, heavy strike powered by the surging energy of the Blood Bodhi. The impact sounded like a sledgehammer hitting a side of beef. Blonsky was sent airborne, his body skipping across the floor like a stone on water until he crashed into the heavy stone base of a training dummy.
The internal damage was catastrophic. Organs ruptured, and bones—hardened by the serum—snapped like dry twigs. Under normal circumstances, Blonsky would have been a corpse before he hit the ground. But the incomplete serum was a stubborn thing; it began frantically pumping through his system, forcing his heart to keep beating even as his lungs struggled to find air.
At that moment, the elevator dinged. Logan stepped out, smelling the scent of ozone and blood. Behind him, Bruce Banner followed, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
"Smells like trouble," Logan grunted, his eyes scanning the carnage. He looked at Blonsky, who was currently a heap of broken meat, and then at Zhong Qiang. "A bit overkill, don't you think, kid?"
"He pulled a gun," Zhong Qiang replied, tossing the dismantled pistol onto a nearby table. "In this house, that's a one-way ticket to the hospital."
Suddenly, the silence was broken by the chirping of a cell phone. Bruce Banner sighed, pulling the device from his pocket. He didn't even need to look at the caller ID.
"General Ross," Bruce answered, his voice weary.
"Bruce, listen to me," Ross's voice crackled, sounding more like a request than an order for once. "I sent a man. Emil Blonsky. He's... he's an asset. The first successful survivor of the program. If he's there, don't let the Hulk eat him. We need him alive for the data."
Bruce looked down at the mangled heap that used to be a super-soldier. Blonsky's chest was barely moving, and he was coughing up something that looked like grape jelly.
"Uh, General? About that... I don't know if he's the guy you're looking for, but a soldier just tried to shoot up the lobby. And, well... it looks like he might be checking out early."
There was a long, stunned silence on the other end of the line. "What? Is he dead?"
"Not yet," Bruce said, glancing at Zhong Qiang, who was still looking ready for round two. "But he's definitely not going to be running any marathons soon. He's... pretty much broken."
Ross let out a frustrated growl. "My extraction team is five minutes out. Just hand him over. If he dies, it's his own damn fault for being reckless. He was supposed to be a professional, not a thug."
The line went dead. Bruce looked at Zhong Qiang and shrugged. "Don't hit him again, okay? My father-in-law wants his 'science project' back. If he's totally pulverized, they won't be able to scan his brain or whatever it is they do."
"Fine by me," Zhong Qiang muttered, looking at Blonsky with pure indifference. "He's barely breathing anyway."
A few minutes later, a tactical team in unmarked black gear swarmed the first floor. They didn't say a word. They loaded the unconscious Blonsky onto a specialized stretcher, gave a curt nod to Banner—who they clearly recognized—and vanished as quickly as they had arrived.
Zhong Qiang turned to the trembling students who had witnessed the fight. "Show's over! Back to your stances! If I see another sloppy punch, you're all doing five hundred extra reps!"
The students scrambled back to their training, the rhythm of wooden dummies hitting the air filling the room once more. But despite the return to routine, a shadow hung over the group.
"The world is getting weird again, isn't it?" Zhong Qiang asked, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked toward the upper floors. "Is Brother Wen still in the hole? We could really use his perspective on this mutant uprising thing."
Logan leaned against a pillar, lighting a fresh cigar despite the 'No Smoking' signs. "He's busy evolving, kid. And until he comes out, you'd better stop worrying about the news and start worrying about your footwork. You're fast, but you're sloppy."
"Uncle Wolf, please," Zhong Qiang rolled his eyes. "I've seen your sparring sessions. You haven't lasted three minutes against the senior instructors in weeks. Maybe you should spend less time lecturing and more time stretching."
"Why you little—"
"Quiet!"
Reese Fisk's voice boomed, cutting off the banter. He wasn't looking at them; he was staring at Ying Faming.
The old master was standing perfectly still in the center of the hall. It was as if the world around him had ceased to exist. To the naked eye, he was just a man standing still, but to someone like Logan, the change was terrifying.
"His pores are closed," Logan whispered, his cigar nearly falling from his mouth. "He's locking his body heat... no, he's locking his energy inside."
Ying Faming's eyes were shut tight. For decades, he had practiced the forms of Tai Chi. He had mastered the philosophy, the movement, and the flow. But he had always felt like he was knocking on a door that wouldn't open. Today, after the stress of fighting a super-soldier and witnessing the raw, spiritual power of Zhong Qiang, the lock finally clicked.
He felt a warmth blooming at the base of his spine—a trickle of heat that turned into a river, flowing through his meridians and filling the hollow spaces of his bones.
"Wandering for half a century with nothing but empty shapes," Ying Faming whispered, his eyes snapping open. "Only today do I truly understand."
The air around him seemed to shimmer. It wasn't the flashy, explosive power of Huang Wen, but something deep, stable, and ancient. Ying Faming had stepped across the threshold. He was no longer a martial artist; he was an extraordinary being with internal strength.
"Congratulations, Master Ying," Fisk said, bowing deeply. He knew the weight of this achievement. In the world of martial arts, moving from external technique to internal power was the difference between a candle and a lighthouse.
"It's all thanks to young Huang Liang," Ying Faming said, a humble smile gracing his face. "The boy has a teacher's soul. He's been patient with my endless questions, pointing me toward the path of true boxing without even realizing he was doing it. This breakthrough... it's as much his as it is mine."
Huang Liang, the young disciple of Huang Wen, had indeed been spending a lot of time with the old master. Though he hadn't formally taught Ying Faming the higher secrets of the Wing Chun school, his casual insights and high-level sparring had acted as the final catalyst Ying Faming needed.
"Well," Zhong Qiang cheered, the tension finally breaking. "A breakthrough and a beatdown in one day? That calls for a celebration. To hell with the mutants and the military. Tonight, we eat like kings in Chinatown. We protect our own, and let the rest of the world burn itself down if it wants to."
"I can get behind that," Logan grinned, retracting his claws. "As long as you're paying, kid."
"Deal."
As the group headed out, leaving the quiet sanctuary of the Academy, they didn't know that the "science project" they had just handed over was about to become the greatest nightmare New York had ever seen. But for one night, at least, there was peace in the house of Wing Chun.