All Eyes on Khan
Khan’s group stepped out onto the street.
And the air changed.
It wasn’t just a crowd gathering.
It wasn’t just a procession.
It was a moment—one of those rare, electric moments when the strongest man on Earth decides to move.
No one said a word, but everyone noticed.
The surrounding sidewalks were already lined with people—sitting, crouching, leaning against storefronts.
They weren’t random pedestrians.
They were here for this.
To see Khan in action.
Some had only heard the rumors.
Others had witnessed it before—just once, and never forgot.
But today, they all came to witness something few had ever seen twice:
The man at the pinnacle of the Kung Fu world… walking toward a fight.
The man himself walked silently at the front, his bucket hat tilted low, his long coat draped across his shoulders, hands in his pockets.
Not a single button was fastened.
He didn’t need them.
Behind him followed his officers—uniformed, composed.
Among them was Grayson, walking half a step behind like a proud lieutenant.
As they moved forward, some women—older, wide-eyed, practically swooning—shouted out from the crowd.
“We love you, Khan!”
Some even blew kisses.
It was surreal.
The most feared man in law enforcement… had a middle-aged fanbase.
But not everyone was cheering.
If you looked carefully, you’d spot them.
The fighters.
Scattered throughout the street.
Some seated. Some standing.
Some pretending to eat or text.
But their eyes were sharp.
—
High above, perched quietly on the thick branch of a tree, someone leaned against the trunk—sitting relaxed, legs dangling.
Dinello.
Unmoving. Watching.
—
Farther up, on the third floor of a shady massage parlor, two men stood by the window, smoke curling from their cigarettes.
Canelo and Robinson.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t move.
Just stared down at the street below like generals surveying a battlefield.
—
Inside a black Mercedes SUV parked discreetly along the side street, three men watched the scene unfold.
In the front: Brian at the wheel.
Beside him: Michael, quiet, eyes sharp behind a pair of normal glasses.
In the back seat, lounging with arms crossed and an unreadable smile—Mildy.
The windows were tinted from the outside.
No one could see in.
But from inside—they saw everything.
—
And finally, the procession reached the center of it all.
A shattered storefront.
Twisted metal. Broken glass.
The scars of yesterday’s chaos still fresh on the concrete.
Standing at the heart of it was a man.
Bare-chested.
Bones visibly lining his torso—white and hard like ivory steel beneath a thin layer of flesh.
Muscles sharp, lean, starved.
His narrow eyes glinted under a clean, fresh haircut.
No beard. No scars.
Just a strange… unnatural symmetry.
Raymond.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t speak.
He was waiting.
Divine Nature Force: Qi
A single leaf fell.
Soft.
Weightless.
It drifted down through the cool, swirling breeze—
falling gently in front of Khan.
He stopped walking.
Then, with slow precision, he pulled one hand out of his pocket.
Palm open.
Level.
He caught the leaf like it was a message.
And for ten whole seconds, he just stood there, staring at it.
The wind passed.
The street fell quiet.
Everyone watched—but no one spoke.
Then he spoke.
Quietly. Almost to himself.
“All Qi comes from the natural world.
The energy we channel through Kung Fu… is not our own.
It belongs to nature.
We merely borrow it.”
“Nature is the strongest force in the universe.
We only appear tall because we stand on the shoulders of a giant.”
His words dissolved into the air—like fog in sunlight.
No one replied.
But high above him, others were listening.
—
Across the rooftops of the city, figures had begun to appear.
On top of a tall building to the west, a man stood motionless in a dark Zhongshan suit.
One katana strapped across his back.
Another tucked into his belt.
The wind pushed gently against his clothes.
That was Mario.
On the rooftop opposite him, a woman and a man stood side by side.
Lindsay — silent, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
And beside her stood Joshua.
Once Khan’s junior martial brother.
Now, just a silent observer.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Just stared at his former senior from above—expression calm, hands in his pockets, not a weapon in sight.
—
And then…
A loud putt-putt sound broke the silence.
From a side street, a scooter buzzed its way into the main road—
weaving through the thick tension like it didn’t exist.
The rider was slouched forward.
One hand on the throttle.
The other digging in his nose with aggressive, almost meditative focus.
On his delivery shirt were the words: FUCKLIN
And he was gone in a flash.
But Khan saw him.
He even raised his hand—
subtle—
as if to wave.
“…Frank?”
The man didn’t notice.
He twisted the handlebar, sped up, and disappeared around the corner—
never once looking back.
Khan let his hand fall.
A ghost of a smile, maybe.
Maybe not.
And then he kept walking.
The leaf slipped from his hand.
And the wind carried it away.
Demon’s Laughing
Raymond saw Khan.
He had no idea who this man was—
but the moment their eyes met, he could feel it.
That overwhelming pressure.
Like standing in front of a mountain that was somehow… breathing.
And Raymond started laughing.
Loud. Mad. Unhinged.
He threw his head back and laughed toward the sky like a lunatic, arms slack, chest heaving.
No fear.
Just chaos.
—
Khan raised one hand.
A simple gesture.
Palm open, fingers flat—telling the others to stay back.
Grayson took a step forward and asked respectfully,
“Sir, do you want me to hold your coat? The shoulder strap keeps sliding—”
Khan cut him off gently.
“Thank you… but that won’t be necessary.”
He didn’t even look at him.
Didn’t raise his voice.
Didn’t move with urgency.
Then Khan stepped forward.
Just three meters.
That was all.
The police stayed behind him. No one dared move closer.
—
Khan stood still.
His eyes slowly scanned Raymond from head to toe—
taking in the twisted muscles, the torn skin, the fractured frame that should not be standing upright.
Dozens of bones broken.
Ligaments torn.
A body mangled beyond repair.
And yet—he stood.
Not just upright.
Strong.
Stable.
Ready to fight again.
Khan studied the man’s face.
His narrow eyes were sunken deep in a cloud of black mist.
Dark energy pulsed around him—like smoke clinging to a dying flame.
There was no humanity in those eyes.
Just pressure.
Just hate.
“This isn’t Raymond,” Khan thought.
The real one—whoever he was—must be asleep somewhere deep inside.
Buried.
Maybe even dying.
What was standing here now… was something else.
Something driven by rage.
Possessed.
A walking corpse filled with one thing: destruction.
—
Khan knew he could end this in a second.
A single strike.
One hit, and this thing would crumple.
But he had made a promise.
To Colin.
“Bring him back alive.”
So Khan didn’t strike.
Not yet.
He was still thinking—
calculating how to break a demon without killing the man trapped underneath.
And that’s when Raymond moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
He didn’t throw a punch.
Instead, he reached to the side—
into a pile of broken junk beside the shattered storefront—
and grabbed a rusty, beat-up office chair by the base.
With one sudden roar, he hurled it straight at Khan’s head.
No warning.
No logic.
Just raw, violent impulse.
The chair spun wildly in the air like a jagged metal comet—
a blur of cracked wheels, twisted arms, and greasy upholstery—
headed right for the center of Khan’s face.
And Khan wasn’t even looking.
He was still thinking.
Still analyzing the damage.
Still deciding how to fight a demon without killing the man inside.
Vortex Palm
The moment the broken office chair left Raymond’s hand,
the entire police unit tensed up.
They weren’t ready.
Khan wasn’t ready.
He hadn’t even looked up.
The chair was midair—spinning, wobbling, fast.
Headed straight for the chief’s skull.
Grayson, clutching the arm of the lead escort, let out a shaky breath.
“We’re done… he’s done… our Chief’s gonna die just like that…”
He started to cry.
“I told you all—pay attention! Stay sharp! What do we do now?! We’re screwed!”
—
But Khan raised his left hand.
Just a light motion.
A casual flick of the wrist.
And the chair disintegrated midair.
It didn’t break—
it came apart.
Exploded into a dozen crooked pieces, like metal being untied by invisible hands.
The fragments spun outward in all directions—
One shard flew off course.
It struck a middle-aged woman in the crowd across the street.
Right in the face.
She collapsed instantly.
Dead on the spot.
Khan didn’t blink.
—
Then he lifted his right hand.
Calmly.
Straight ahead.
Palm open.
A swirling draft of air began to form—
spiraling from his palm like a miniature cyclone.
Raymond—ten meters away—
was yanked forward.
In one second, his chest slammed into Khan’s open palm—
and stuck.
Just the chest.
As if the air between them had turned into glue.
A trap, targeted and perfect.
His arms flailed.
His legs kicked.
But he couldn’t pull away.
He was stuck.
Pinned in place.
Held there by force beyond comprehension.
—
Khan exhaled.
His left hand clenched into a fist—
and he drove it straight into Raymond’s right side.
The sound echoed.
CRACK.
One of Raymond’s kidneys ruptured instantly.
His whole torso twisted unnaturally from the blow—
bones shifting, muscles tearing, blood spitting from his mouth in strings.
But he was still smiling.
Still laughing.
Even while his spine contorted in shock.
Even while pain wracked every inch of his broken frame—
he laughed.
And then… he raised a fist.
His right hand trembled.
Energy surged—raw, untamed.
A deep vibration built from the knuckles to the shoulder.
He was forming a Concussion Punch.
Even like this—
his body crumbling—
Raymond was still trying to fight.
Khan looked at him and muttered quietly,
“Still not enough…
He can still fight.”
The End of the Road
Raymond’s right fist was trembling—energy surging through it.
He was just about to launch a Concussion Punch.
But Khan moved faster.
His left fist struck first—swift, precise, and final.
It slammed straight into Raymond’s left side.
The sound was different this time. Not a crack.
A rupture.
Raymond’s liver shattered.
Dozens—hundreds—of tiny ruptures exploded at once, like glass under pressure.
His eyes widened, but he didn’t fall. Not yet.
He bared his teeth.
He stared straight at Khan.
His trembling fist was still raised—still trying to channel that last, desperate Concussion Punch.
But it stopped.
His hand froze.
Then slowly—almost sadly—fell back down.
He couldn’t hold it anymore.
The energy slipped away.
The punch never came.
Khan stood silently.
His right hand still glued to Raymond’s chest, holding him in place like a vice.
He could see it.
“There’s still some fight left in him,” he thought.
“Still not enough. Not yet.”
He knew—his next punch might kill him.
Or the one after.
Raymond’s body was collapsing from the inside.
One kidney gone. Liver destroyed.
And somehow… he was still standing.
Khan lowered his eyes.
“If I stop now,” he thought,
“he’ll keep going. Forever.
Even without a kidney.
Even without a liver.
He’ll still fight.”
He inhaled—quiet and deep.
And brought energy into his left arm again.
His fist swelled with power.
It buzzed, shimmered, radiated.
He whispered to himself—
“Sorry, Colin…
We’ll let fate decide this one.
I can’t guarantee he survives.”
Then—
He struck.
His left fist drove into Raymond’s abdomen with full force.
BOOM.
The ground shook.
Raymond’s stomach didn’t just rupture—
It vaporized.
Turned into gas.
Gone.
Evaporated from existence.
Raymond’s head snapped forward—
And he spit a violent stream of blood, like a crimson projectile bursting from his mouth.
His whole body went limp.
But he didn’t fall.
Not yet.
He was still stuck—his chest glued to Khan’s right palm, held there by the force of Qi.
Khan saw the blood coming—
And with almost bullet-speed reflex,
he sidestepped to the right, gliding one full meter with a burst of silent Qi.
Not a single drop hit his coat.
Then, without a word,
he calmly withdrew his right hand—releasing the Qi.
Only then did Raymond’s body slip free—
sliding off and dropping to the ground like a lifeless rag.
Khan looked down at Raymond’s body.
He wasn’t sure if he was dead already… or still alive.
But for now, he wasn’t moving.
Behind him, Grayson stood frozen—
completely drenched in blood spray.
Dripping.
He blinked slowly and muttered under his breath:
“Oh, fuck me, Jesus…”
—
Khan turned around, hands already back in his pockets.
Not a word.
Not a glance.
And as he walked away,
his long coat still hung perfectly on his shoulders—
never falling.
Judgement for the Damned
Raymond survived.
Barely.
He had been rushed to the emergency hospital immediately after the fight. His condition was beyond critical—his stomach had been vaporized, his liver shattered, and one kidney completely destroyed.
And the city wouldn’t have saved him.
But the Humble Organization did.
They funded the surgery.
They paid the doctors.
They handled the logistics.
And, most importantly—
they provided the organs.
A new kidney.
A new liver.
A new stomach.
Everyone knew where they came from.
They didn’t come from generous citizens or hospital waitlists.
They came from somewhere else—somewhere darker.
From the alleys.
From the missing.
From the “donors” who never gave permission.
Some said they were criminals.
Others said they were just… convenient.
People whispered that they’d been killed that same day just to get Raymond the “hardware.”
No one could confirm it.
No one really wanted to.
But Raymond lived.
He spent the next ten days unconscious.
No dreams. No memories.
Just darkness.
—
On the tenth night, Raymond’s eyes opened.
He blinked once. Slowly.
Then tried to move.
Clank.
Chains.
His limbs were strapped down—steel cuffs bolted to the reinforced bedframe. His neck, his wrists, his ankles—every joint locked and secured. A full-body containment system.
He wasn’t in a recovery room.
He was in a police containment ward—
A solitary black cell, locked down under special security authority.
Dim. Cold.
No windows. No clocks. No sounds except his own breathing and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.
Then came the charges.
Destruction of public property.
Attempted manslaughter.
Obstruction of law enforcement.
Illegal possession of enhanced combat abilities.
Unpaid debts.
Disturbance of civil peace.
And a long list of lesser crimes that blurred into legal padding.
He was sentenced to 18 years in prison.
No trial. No negotiation.
Too dangerous to release.
Too dangerous to rehabilitate.
Raymond was designated a permanent containment risk.
They didn’t send him to a normal prison.
They sent him here—a black cell, deep under police control.
No lights.
No visitors.
No sun.
He was cuffed at all times. Even when sleeping. Even when eating. He was fed through a slot in the wall, sedated if necessary.
And still…
His eyes hadn’t cleared.
That black mist—the strange, swirling fog within his pupils—was still there.
Still crawling in slow circles.
Still whispering from somewhere deep inside.
Whatever was possessing him…
hadn’t let go.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
—
So they kept him there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Because they didn’t know if Raymond was Raymond anymore.
And the world couldn’t afford to find out.