Building Up Again
In those weeks, Karl tracked down one unusual test subject after another—each carrying strange, almost absurd traits—and folded their abilities into himself.
Some of these were no secret. One gene gave him a neurotoxin in his body; a single scratch from him could paralyze someone completely, wiping out any hope of attack or defense. Another added the ability to unleash ultrasonic bursts—sharp, focused waves from his mouth that scrambled a target’s mind at close range, leaving them dazed and confused.
His speed improved—not blindingly fast, but quick enough to outpace most eyes—and with it came raw strength from a line of exceptionally resilient genes. His sight sharpened until moving objects seemed to slow down, like the world had slipped into half-speed. His ears lengthened subtly into sharp, almost elfin points, picking up faint noises others missed; even his sense of smell grew keen enough to track scents through a crowd.
Those were the powers he allowed the public to know about. The rest remained secret. Outsiders could only guess how strong he really was, and what other bizarre techniques might be waiting for his opponents to discover the hard way.
One afternoon, he stood on a rooftop with several of his men.
“Boss,” one of them grinned, “you’re probably the strongest man in the world now. Congratulations.”
Karl smirked. “Not yet. But I’ve improved a lot. You know what? I want to hold a martial arts tournament—see exactly where my skills stand. Get in touch with that martial arts association. Set it up.”
The men nodded eagerly. Excitement rippled through the group—until one of them stepped too close to the edge. His foot slipped.
Thirty floors down, the body hit the street with a dull, final thud.
The Tournament Plan
The call went through quickly. Karl’s men reached Mr. Seng from the Martial Arts Association, who was more than happy to take the job. Within days, the association officially announced it would host the grand martial arts tournament Karl had proposed.
Karl put ten million on the table for prize money. Mr. Seng quietly kept two million for himself before the event even began. The remaining eight million was still a staggering prize, enough to draw fighters out of every back alley, dojo, and dusty gym in the country.
Promotion went into overdrive. Ads hit every major newspaper, every TV channel, every radio slot that would take the money. The posters screamed challenge in thick red letters. Soon, everyone knew about it. Even elderly women in the park, flipping through their morning papers, were talking about joining—half in jest, half in curiosity.
The city began to buzz. It wasn’t just a tournament now—it was an open call to anyone with a fist, a grudge, or a dream of easy money.
Noodles, Smoke, and Sign-Ups
In a small ramen shop on the corner, two separate groups sat slurping down their late dinners. The owner shuffled between the tables, muttering, Every time they come here, they never pay. At this rate, I’m going to go out of business.
Those “customers” were two crews of black-clad enforcers—one led by Canelo, the other by Robinson. Bowls clinked, broth steamed, and then the TV over the counter blared out breaking news: the upcoming martial arts tournament. All eyes shifted to the screen.
Canelo took a long drag on his cigarette, then exhaled the smoke right into the face of the lackey sitting beside him. He turned to Robinson.
“You planning to enter? I don’t know about you, but I’m in.”
Robinson grinned. “Oh yeah. I’m definitely joining. If I meet you in the first round, I’ll beat the crap out of you.”
Canelo chuckled. “Not possible. If I fight you, I’ll hit you so hard you’ll crap yourself.” Still grinning, both men pulled out their phones and registered. Behind them, their lackeys scrambled to do the same.
Canelo looked over his shoulder. “You losers think you can join too? You won’t survive the first round.”
One lackey shrugged. “No problem, boss. We’ll beat some weak guys first. If we run into you, we’ll surrender so you advance.”
Canelo nodded. “Good. That’s why you’re my lackeys. I like you losers.”
Robinson suddenly turned to the shop owner. “Hey, boss, what about you? You look pretty strong. Hands as soft as a woman’s—I think you should sign up.”
The owner shook his head. “Nah… I’ll stick to making noodles.”
In his heart, he knew the truth: if he had the skill to join a tournament like that, he would’ve already thrown these two gangs out of his shop. But reality was cruel, and all he could do was keep stirring the broth.
The Sign-Up Stunt
Norman and Dave finished their dinner at a fancy Western restaurant without paying, strolling out like nothing had happened. A few streets later, a newspaper on the ground caught Dave’s eye—bold letters across the front page: MARTIAL ARTS TOURNAMENT – GRAND PRIZE: EIGHT MILLION.
Dave grinned. “Looks like I’m joining. You in, Norman?”
Norman nodded. “Oh yeah, I’m in.”
The problem? Neither had a phone. Dave was wearing nothing but women’s pink underwear, and Norman was in a pink shirt and shorts. No pockets between them.
Then Dave noticed something in the paper—real-world sign-up locations, open twenty-four hours. Even better, they offered unlimited free cola and ice cream. Seconds later, they were sprinting there.
Two hours later, they were still at a table, devouring everything in sight. The staff finally asked, “Are you here to sign up or just eat?”
Only then did they remember. At the registration counter, they hesitated. Last time they’d fought together in their “combined form,” their strength had been incredible. Dave asked, “Can we register as one fighter? In combined form? We could call ourselves Nordic or Demon.”
The clerk refused instantly, grabbing Dave by the collar and shoving him back. “Let me talk to your manager,” Dave barked.
A quick call went to Karl. His dry response came through the line: “Move along.”
And that was that—Norman and Dave were officially entered as a single fighter, ready to compete in their bizarre combined form.
Weapons Out of Control
Across town, a long line stretched down the block. The first man in line registered his weapon: a machine gun. The clerk approved it without hesitation.
The man behind him scowled. “A machine gun? One pull of the trigger and you wipe out half the field—how is that martial arts?”
The line moved on until a familiar face appeared: Jack, the best driver in town. He registered his weapon as his sports car.
The crowd behind him erupted. “A car? What’s next—someone bringing a missile?”
The clerk picked up a loudhailer. “As long as your weapon isn’t too ridiculous, we’ll approve it.”
Shouts came back: “Machine guns and sports cars aren’t ridiculous? What counts—planes and missiles?”
The clerk lowered his voice. “Planes, tanks, missiles? That’s nothing. Not long ago, someone registered with a nuclear bomb. We approved it.”
The line went silent. Moments later, half the people stepped out, deciding they valued their lives more than the prize.
The Opening Chaos
A few days later, the square was overflowing—thousands packed in, a sea of bodies pressing from all sides.
The judges emerged to cheers: three of the Four Kings of the Draw—Khan, Mario, and Joshua. The fourth, Colin, was absent.
In the commentary booth sat Mr. Sang, vice chairman of the Kung Fu Organization, and Mr. Wei, its chairman.
Khan wore his usual police uniform, trench coat draped over his shoulders, bucket hat low, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Arms folded, one leg crossed, he looked every bit in control. Beside him, Mario and Joshua talked quietly.
“Colin will never show up to a public event,” Mario said. “He hides in the shadows.”
“I’ve never even seen his face,” Joshua replied. “He’s always crafty.”
Mr. Wei took the mic and cleared his throat, but the crowd was restless. In the crush, a small-time thug was shoved outside the ring. Enraged, he turned to the man beside him.
“F*** you! You want me to beat you up and f*** you good?”
The man gave him a cold look—it was Michael, from the Humble Organization. He didn’t like being cursed at. Without a word, he brought his hand down in a sharp chop. The thug’s head hit the ground.
Mr. Wei announced the tournament open. Before a single match began, the first casualty had already fallen. It was going to be one brutal, spectacular event.