Right Outside the Bakery
It was one of those scorching summer afternoons—heatwaves rising off the pavement like the city itself was sweating.
The sliding door of a small bakery slid open with a quiet hiss. Michael stepped out slowly, holding a steaming cup of coffee.
Same outfit as always: White button-up shirt. Slim-fit dress pants. Shined leather shoes. And a black briefcase swinging neatly by his side.
He always looked like a man heading to a job interview. Every single day.
From the opposite end of the block, Dave—the man known as The Underwear—was walking his usual morning route. He spotted Michael instantly.
That face. That walk. That cold, indifferent air of control.
Captain Lam. One of the higher-ups in the Humble Organization.
Dave had been thinking about power a lot lately—ever since his brutal defeat by Brian. His body had healed, but the humiliation still lingered. He needed growth. He needed answers. And more than anything, he needed a real fight.
So he stepped forward—straight into Michael’s path—and raised his voice:
“Captain Lam. May I challenge you to a match? Right here. Right now. I respect you. You’re one of the elite. Please—let’s spar.”
Michael came to a soft halt, his coffee still in hand.
He looked at Dave—not with arrogance, but with quiet practicality.
“No thank you,” he replied calmly. “I only fight when it serves a purpose. Random violence… is meaningless.”
Dave squinted. Then nodded slowly.
“Meaningless? Alright then. Let me give you some meaning.”
Without warning, Dave spun his body sideways and slammed his fist into the glass wall of the bakery.
Shatter.
The entire front display exploded into a thousand shards—glass raining onto the sidewalk like a hurricane of diamonds.
Inside, customers screamed. Panic spread like fire. People tripped over chairs and tables, scrambling to escape the bakery. Chaos erupted.
Dave didn’t stop there.
He reached out, grabbed a random passerby—a good-looking young man in gym clothes—and lifted him clean off the ground by the collar. The man’s legs kicked helplessly in midair, running in place like a cartoon.
“Give me your wallet,” Dave snarled.
“P-please! Don’t hurt me!” the man cried, his face pale. A dark wet stain spread down his pants.
Dave kept staring at the poor guy as he shouted:
“Captain Lam! Look at me! I’m a menace now! A villain! A walking threat to society! So what are you gonna do—hero?”
He paused—just for dramatic effect—then finally turned to check for a reaction.
But Michael was already half a block away, calmly walking down the street like nothing happened.
He didn’t even turn around.
Because in Michael’s eyes… the world wasn’t black or white. Good and evil? Justice and crime? That wasn’t his framework. Truth was—he just didn’t care.
Dave stared in disbelief for half a second—then casually flung the terrified man off to the side of the sidewalk, like he was done with a bag of groceries. Not gentle. Not violent. Just… done.
Then he sprinted forward, closing the gap between him and Michael in seconds.
He jumped in front of him, arms out, blocking the path.
“HEY! What the hell, man? You can’t just walk away like that!”
Strategic Kicks
Michael stopped in his tracks and gave Dave a slow, deliberate once-over—from head to toe.
His gaze paused on the bright pink, triangle-shaped women’s underwear Dave was wearing like it was no big deal.
He raised an eyebrow… and gave a faint, amused smile.
“That’s a bold fashion statement,” he said. “Tell me—don’t you think it makes you look a little like some kind of deranged pervert?”
Dave blinked once and replied softly:
“My underwear doesn’t concern you.”
Suddenly—splash—Michael hurled the rest of his hot coffee right into Dave’s face.
Dave jerked back, arms up instinctively. The steaming liquid splashed across his cheek and scalded his forearm. He barely had time to react—
Wham!
Michael stepped in and launched a clean, snapping kick straight up into Dave’s crotch.
He didn’t hold back.
Michael had already figured it out: this guy wasn’t going to leave him alone. Rejecting politely hadn’t worked. Walking away hadn’t worked. That meant there was only one solution.
End it. Fast.
If a fight had to happen, it would be on Michael’s terms—efficient and merciless. Preferably over before it even started.
Dave’s thighs slammed shut. Both hands dropped down between his legs. His knees buckled as his calves scraped against each other. He stood there, frozen—trembling in place—eyes wide, lips twitching in pain.
The silence dragged out a few seconds longer… until a teenage boy zoomed by on a scooter, speeding right past Dave on the sidewalk.
Dave instinctively twisted sideways to avoid a collision.
Big mistake.
In that split-second—his body turned, balance compromised—Michael struck again.
Pow!
A perfect sidekick, drilled straight into Dave’s midsection. His abs took the full brunt of it.
Dave’s body launched backward—flying more than ten meters through the air—until he slammed against a brick wall with a sickening thud, then crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.
The Weight of Dust
Dave dropped to one knee and coughed hard.
A thick mouthful of blood hit the ground with a wet splatter.
Then… he laughed.
Not a happy laugh. A bitter, twisted, defiant laugh.
“So this is the famous Captain Lam… That so-called elite fighter from the Humble Organization. A man people admire. A man I thought deserved respect.”
He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and sneered.
“But you? You fight like a coward. Cheap tricks. Sneak attacks. Not an ounce of honor. You don’t even fight like a man.”
Michael checked his watch.
He let out a quiet sigh and tilted his head.
“Alright,” he said. “Looks like I’ve got a few minutes to spare. Guess I’ll waste some time with you.”
He slid his watch cuff back into place and looked Dave over.
“I don’t usually waste energy on meaningless conversations. But this time… what the hell.”
He took a step forward—calm, casual—and added:
“You know what your real problem is?”
“Even if you trained for ten lifetimes… you still wouldn’t make it to the top tier.”
“Wanna know why?”
Dave didn’t answer. His breath was heavy. His eyes were locked on Michael. He couldn’t tell if this was mockery—or something deeper.
Michael’s gaze drifted. For a split second, his mind wandered.
He thought of three names.
Colin. Franklin. Mario.
Not just fighters. Not just elites.
Monsters.
Even among monsters—the very top of the food chain.
Each one represented something absolute. Something untouchable.
Wisdom. Strength. Agility.
They weren’t forged by effort. They were born that way.
Michael used to be like Dave. Training day after day. Pushing himself in the gym. Grinding his body to the limit.
He made progress. Tons of it. He traveled miles. Maybe even dozens.
But eventually… he realized something.
Some people are born hundreds of kilometers ahead. And no amount of running would ever catch up.
He looked at Dave again.
And for a second… he saw himself. The younger version. That blind fire. That desperate belief that hard work alone could rewrite fate.
Michael exhaled.
A long, heavy sigh.
“Underwear,” he said slowly. “You’re strong. Very strong… compared to most people.”
“But in this world… there are monsters. And monsters, even among monsters.”
“The bigger your ego gets… the smaller you’ll start to feel. Until one day, you realize…”
“You’re nothing but an ant. Or worse—just a speck of dust.”
And oddly enough, that final line echoed something Brian once tried to say a few days ago—but never got to finish.
Dave’s face twitched.
He didn’t want to hear it.
His fists curled up. His jaw tightened. His teeth ground against each other.
Then he snapped.
“Blah, blah, blah—what the hell are you even talking about?! You sound like a damn philosopher!”
“You’re a martial artist, aren’t you? Don’t you feel at least a little bit ashamed… saying crap like this?”
One Punch, No Tricks
Michael could see it clearly now.
The look on Dave’s face. The tone in his voice. The wild fire in his eyes.
He wasn’t listening. Wouldn’t listen. Not now. Not anytime soon.
There was no point in explaining anything further.
Maybe… maybe someday, after the world beat him down enough, he’d start to understand. But that wasn’t Michael’s problem.
It’s none of my business, he thought. I don’t care.
He gave the slightest shake of his head and turned, ready to leave.
But then—he stopped.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.
Dave’s right fist—tightened to the max. Packed with every ounce of force his body could summon. The rage, the pride, the desperation—all loaded into one final punch.
Michael could feel it.
This guy wasn’t ready to back down.
He wanted to prove something.
Michael slowly turned his head back and muttered:
“So be it.”
He raised his voice, loud and clear:
“Alright. Let’s do this. No sneak attacks. No tricks. Just a clean, head-on strike.”
“Fist to fist. Strength against strength.”
“I’m going to show you just how weak you really are.”
Dave lit up.
This was what he wanted all along—one clean shot, one fair test of might.
Finally, he could prove himself. Finally, he could make Michael take him seriously.
Michael lifted his right arm and casually made a fist.
Dave crouched low, channeling all his power. His muscles tensed. His breath slowed. All the air around him seemed to stir.
Dry leaves on the sidewalk started to spin. Dirt, dust, and scraps of trash circled his body—pulled into a swirl of rising pressure.
The rotation tightened as it reached his arm—faster, faster—until it all concentrated at his fist.
That was his punch. All or nothing.
Michael rolled his neck and yawned.
“Hurry up. I haven’t had dinner yet.”
Then—BOOM.
The two men charged forward and threw their fists with everything they had.
Flesh and bone collided mid-air—fist to fist—with a thunderous crack that echoed across the entire block.
The shockwave split the air.
Michael stood still, right arm extended in the follow-through position.
Dave staggered back, three full steps… four… five—
Then he dropped to one knee.
His right wrist had bent backward at a grotesque angle, completely broken.
The hand now hung loose—twisted at a 90-degree bend in the wrong direction. His whole arm trembled.
Dave stared at it. His voice trembled.
“I… I don’t believe it…”
He was one of the alley’s toughest. One of the locals.
And just like that—
He lost.
Sock Attack
That punch didn’t just break Dave’s wrist.
It shattered everything along with it—his dignity, his confidence, and the belief he’d built over ten hard years of training.
It all cracked like glass. Sharp. Irreversible. Scattered across the floor.
The usually composed Dave finally broke.
He clawed at his own hair with his left hand, shaking his head violently as tears streamed from the corners of his eyes.
“No… No way… No way I could lose!”
He kept shouting, crying as he spoke.
“I’ve been training every day for ten years! Hitting the gym non-stop! I should’ve been the strongest man alive!”
“The strongest man on earth! There’s no way this is happening—this has to be a dream!”
He was gone. Completely out of it. His mind had collapsed.
Michael just stood there with his arms folded across his chest, expressionless.
The man in front of him wasn’t a threat anymore.
He was just… a loser. A broken one.
Then suddenly—Dave lunged forward.
He threw wild punches and wild kicks.
Sloppy. Uncoordinated. Desperate.
It didn’t even look like fighting anymore—more like a drunk flailing in a bar.
There was no force, no form, no technique.
Michael could’ve ended it right there.
One punch.
One clean strike.
He could’ve snapped his neck like a twig.
But he didn’t.
Because in Dave, he saw a glimpse—just a glimpse—of his younger self.
So he said quietly:
“I got to put an end to this one.”
Michael kicked off his right shoe.
Then he bent down and peeled off his sock—a damp, slightly yellowed cotton sock, aged with sweat and dirt.
It dangled from his hand like a cursed relic.
Then he crumpled it into a ball.
The legendary finisher: Sock Attack.
Dave was still rushing forward.
“I’m the strongest—!”
“I’m unbeatable—!”
“You’ll never defeat me, I—”
He didn’t even get to finish.
Michael’s right hand moved in a blur, jamming the sock deep into Dave’s mouth.
His left hand clamped down tight—sealing it in.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
The sock had ended countless men before.
It carried the stink of shame, the weight of humiliation, and the raw power of athlete’s foot.
In three seconds, the rabid dog collapsed.
Dave’s knees hit the ground.
And then—he passed out.
Mouth full. Mind blank.
Silence.
Just the sound of the wind brushing past… and the sock… still there.
The Day Colin Tried
Back in that dimly lit office—the Humble Organization’s headquarters—Michael stepped inside and was met with a strange sight.
Colin… was lifting a ten-pound dumbbell.
Slowly. Struggling. Like it was a car.
Michael blinked.
“Uh… Boss? What are you doing?”
Colin didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared straight ahead and asked:
“If I do strength training every day… do you think I could become a powerful fighter one day?”
Michael almost choked.
He tried not to laugh, but it still came out as a soft chuckle.
“Boss… With your intelligence? You might be the greatest mind in the past three hundred years—and probably the next three hundred too.”
“But if you keep doing this kind of strength training every day… I’m sorry, I don’t think you’d ever beat someone like Canelo. Even in a hundred years.”
Colin paused.
He stood still for a moment, thinking deeply.
Ten seconds passed.
Then, without a word, he casually tossed the dumbbell into the trash can beside him.
Clang.
Then he returned to his seat, leaned back in his chair with arms folded and legs crossed, and said calmly:
“Captain Lam… do you remember the last time I made you eat that sock?”
Michael’s forehead instantly broke into a cold sweat.
“Boss… Please don’t misunderstand. I think Canelo is… an extremely formidable opponent. Really. I wasn’t implying anything else.”
He glanced over at Colin.
Colin’s face was the same as always—blank, bored, unreadable.
Michael forced out a weak, awkward smile. Half-fake. Half-frightened.