The Mission Begins
Michael stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his golden-rimmed glasses and brushing the dust off his polished leather shoes. He straightened the collar of his crisp white button-up shirt and smoothed out the wrinkles in his dark slacks. It was a new day, but this one came with a special assignment. His boss—Colin, the mysterious and cold leader of the Humble Organization—had given him a mission.
Not to eliminate a rival.
Not to infiltrate enemy territory.
But to go outside… and buy a bottle of Pepsi.
Michael turned around and barked, “Let’s move out!” Behind him stood five of his underlings, each one less impressive than the last. Together, they stepped into the hustle and bustle of the city streets.
Their first stop was a local deli. But to their disappointment, the shelves carried only Coca-Cola.
They quickly moved on, checking store after store, but the result was always the same: rows of Coca-Cola, but no Pepsi in sight.
Among his team was one underling who stood out—but not in a good way. He looked incredibly dumb, and yet funny in a way that made it hard to stay mad at him. His lips were outrageously thick and puffy, like someone who had eaten too much chili pepper and suffered permanent swelling. People called him Sausage-Lips.
Sausage-Lips scratched his head and asked, “Captain Lam, why can’t we just grab a Coca-Cola? They’re 100% the same.”
Michael stopped walking.
He turned to face him slowly, his face dead serious. “You naïve fool,” he snapped. “Our boss is a perfectionist. He notices everything. If we bring him the wrong drink—if we even dare bring him a Coke—he will explode in wrath. Do you want to die over a soda, you idiot?!”
Sausage-Lips immediately threw both hands over his massive lips. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it,” he whimpered. His voice was muffled behind his comically oversized mouth.
Michael sighed, calming down a little. “It’s fine… As long as we keep trying, we’ll find one.”
They continued walking, and for a while, everything was quiet.
But Sausage-Lips just couldn’t help himself. “Captain,” he said again, “I mean… is Colin really that scary? He doesn’t seem that strong.”
Michael stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he turned his head, his expression unreadable.
“Our boss might not be physically strong—he might not even be a good match for some medium-level fighters. But his intelligence… it’s vast. Beyond your imagination.”
Then, with a subtle shift in his tone, Michael added, “Oh, I remember what happened three years ago. That’s something you might want to hear.”
He glanced at the team. “Our boss is by no means a forgiving person. So, if you guys are interested… I can share the story about what terrible thing happened to me back then.”
The other five underlings all went quiet. Their faces turned pale. And then… they nodded.
Michael adjusted his glasses and looked up at the sky, his voice low and heavy.
“Then listen…”
The Sandwich Incident
Three years ago, the clock turned back to a gloomy afternoon inside the Humble Organization’s office. Michael had just finished his morning task and returned to the office, worn out and starving. The kind of hunger that made even leftover crumbs seem divine.
As he stepped into the quiet space, he noticed something on a nearby desk—a half-eaten sandwich. He glanced around. Not a soul in sight. He figured someone probably forgot to toss it out, or left it behind by accident. The sandwich was still fresh.
Driven by hunger and not wanting to waste good food, he walked up, looked around one last time to make sure no one was coming, and then—bite after bite—devoured the entire thing in under thirty seconds.
Just then, a bathroom door creaked open. Colin emerged, wiping his hands, casually scanning the room. His eyes landed on Michael.
“Captain Lam,” Colin asked, “have you seen my sandwich? I’ve been looking for it—thought I left it right here.”
Michael, caught off guard, let out a slightly awkward chuckle. “I believe I’ve eaten your sandwich.”
Colin’s expression dimmed, his mood visibly shifting. A shadow clouded over his face. But Michael, oblivious to the change, casually returned to organizing his papers.
Moments later, Colin muttered coldly, “I heard a rumor… that your feet stink.”
Michael, thinking it was a joke, laughed loudly. “Ha! I’ve heard some rumors too—that your breath isn’t exactly pleasant.”
Still smiling, he continued tidying up his desk, humming one of his favorite songs—completely unaware of the storm about to break behind him.
The Taste of the Sock
Colin had finally had enough. He looked at Michael and said in a heavier tone—not exactly a command, but not light either:
“Why don’t you take off your sock and give it a sniff? See if your feet really stink.”
As he spoke, a light glowed inside his mouth. The words shimmered gold—each letter floating out and gently shooting into Michael’s body.
This was the legendary Golden Speech—Colin’s signature technique. A powerful ability known across the Kung Fu world, feared by all the formidable fighters.
Michael didn’t even question it. He sat down, pulled off his sock, gave it a twist, and brought it to his nose. The moment the smell hit him, his face twisted like he’d just sniffed a rotting animal.
“It really does stink,” he mumbled, almost gagging.
Colin leaned back and added, “Why don’t you taste it too? Just to be sure.”
Again, light flickered inside his mouth as golden letters floated into Michael’s body.
Michael paused this time. His face said it all. His rational mind was screaming at him to stop—trying to hold back the strange logic starting to form in his head. This was getting out of control.
Colin gave a small shrug and said, “Go on. Try it now.”
His voice was calm, but the glowing light inside his mouth burned brighter. The golden letters this time came out faster, sharper, more urgent.
That pushed Michael over the edge.
His doubt disappeared. He had to know. Curiosity overwhelmed him like it was the most important question in the world.
What does his sock taste like?
He stuffed it into his mouth.
Right away, the taste hit him—salty, bitter, sour. It was awful.
But something inside him pushed him further. He licked it. Bit it. Rolled it around. The flavor exploded—burnt plastic, sewage, vomit, rotting meat, moldy cheese, expired milk—all smashed together like the worst thing he’d ever tasted.
Goosebumps broke out over his arms. His stomach flipped. But he didn’t stop.
He needed to know everything.
Then finally, his body gave up.
Michael’s eyes rolled back. His balance failed. One knee dropped to the floor—but somehow, he stayed upright. Still kneeling. Still stiff. Like a fallen soldier refusing to collapse all the way.
To him, it felt like an eternity of torment.
In reality, he lasted less than thirty seconds.
Golden-Rimmed Glasses
Sausage Lips scratched his head and began tearing up as he walked alongside Michael and the others.
“I didn’t think Captain Lam would die like this… I feel so sorry…”
Michael turned and glared at him, then slapped him hard across the face.
“I’m alive and kicking, you idiot! What are you even saying?!”
Sausage Lips clutched his swollen lips and blinked, confused. “Oh right… you’re still alive. My bad—I got the wrong idea.”
He rubbed his head again and added, “But hey, maybe one day I’ll unlock a golden technique too—maybe something like Golden Lips.”
Michael didn’t hesitate—he slapped him again.
“Naive fool,” Michael said coldly. “Even someone like me, with a high IQ, hasn’t been able to master a single golden technique all these years. You think you can do it?”
He paused, then looked around at his crew and lowered his voice.
“Let me tell you a truth most people don’t know. Every golden technique you’ve ever seen—every last one—was created by Colin.”
The group gasped in unison.
“Wait… for real? You’re saying our boss invented all of them?”
Michael nodded and sighed. “Yeah. You guys are still too young to understand. Anyone who knows a golden technique—no matter who they are—has some connection to Colin. He’s the origin. The creator. That’s why he’s on a different level.”
Sausage Lips stared in awe, his fat lips slightly parted.
Michael adjusted his gold-framed glasses and added with a smirk, “Even though I couldn’t learn any golden technique myself, Colin still gave me a gift. These golden-rimmed glasses.”
He pointed to his frames.
“He told me, ‘You might not know the techniques, but if you wear these, people will mistake you for some harmless intellectual. They’ll underestimate you—and in battle, that means a free advantage.’”
The others looked at the glasses with newfound respect.
Michael nodded. “That’s why I wear them every day.”
Sock Attack
They kept walking down the road, heading toward the next store. As they moved along the sidewalk, Michael spoke up.
“You know, after that day when I tasted my nasty sock… it wasn’t all just pain and suffering. Something came out of it.”
He looked at the group and continued with a slight grin.
“A new technique was unlocked.”
The underlings looked surprised.
Michael nodded. “I realized how powerful my sock really is. That’s when I developed a new move—the Sock Attack.”
“I can shove my sock into someone’s mouth—hard—and in just seconds, the smell overwhelms them, shuts down their body, and takes them out of the fight. It’s been one of my signature moves over the years. I’ve taken down a lot of strong opponents with it.”
He looked ahead, eyes calm. “These days, when people hear the name Captain Lam, they think twice.”
The others all nodded, clearly impressed.
Sausage Lip, however, looked especially excited. His eyes were wide, and his thick lips curled up into a goofy smile.
“Captain, I’ve learned so much from you,” he said, voice full of admiration.
The Last Bottle
The group continued down the street, heading toward another store. As they passed a cozy-looking bakery with big glass windows, they stopped. Inside, the place looked clean and warm, filled with young people chatting over cakes and drinks.
But what caught their attention wasn’t the atmosphere—it was the sign at the entrance:
“We sell both Coca-Cola and Pepsi.”
All their eyes lit up. Without hesitation, they rushed inside and headed straight for the counter.
Unfortunately, the staff at the counter gave them some bad news.
“Sorry… someone just bought the last bottle of Pepsi.”
Disappointment hit them hard. Their faces fell in unison.
Meanwhile, Sausage Lip was looking around the room—clearly not paying attention. His eyes were scanning the girls sitting around the bakery.
Michael walked over and slapped him across the face.
“What the hell are you doing? We’re in crisis mode and you’re out here checking out girls?”
Before Sausage Lip could even explain, he suddenly pointed toward a nearby table and shouted, “Captain! Over there! I found it!”
Everyone turned.
At a table near the window sat six people. Right in the center was a guy who hadn’t shown up in any recent chapters—Canelo.
He was surrounded by five younger guys, each holding a bottle of soda, laughing and chatting.
And in Canelo’s hand… was a bottle of Pepsi—still sealed, untouched.
The thing they’d been searching for all day.
There it was. Right in front of them.