Eat Our Words
Inside the broadcast room, Mr. Wei and Mr. Seng sat glued to the monitors, still rattled by what they’d just witnessed. Seng muttered with conviction,
“Michael and Raymond from the Humble Organization—they’re monsters. Modern weapons don’t mean a thing against them. Nothing. I don’t think a single gun on earth can beat real kung fu masters.”
Wei rolled his eyes. “Fuck you. What if somebody rolled in a tank, or even a fighter jet? You telling me they’d still win?”
Seng hesitated, then gave a crooked shrug. “Yeah. Fuck me. You’re right, Chairman. That doesn’t make sense at all.”
Before either of them could add more nonsense, the live drone feed cut to a new scene. Five tanks encircled a giant figure towering in the street. He stood nearly five meters tall, his body like a stone colossus. That wasn’t just anyone—it was Chief Wayne, the cop.
The tanks opened fire in unison, thunder shaking the ground. When the smoke cleared, Wayne barely had scratches. His skin looked like some hybrid of iron, cement, and wood—unyielding. He grabbed a tank with one arm and hurled it into another, the machines exploding on impact. He crushed a third with his fist, then launched a fourth into the sky, smashing it into a passing fighter jet.
The second jet fired a missile straight into his chest. The blast knocked him back a few meters and drew blood from his mouth, but he steadied himself, clutching his chest in pain. With his other hand, he seized the last tank and hurled it upward, taking down the jet in a fiery crash.
On TV, the crowd went insane—applause, cheering, as if it were the greatest show on earth.
Back in the broadcast room, Mr. Wei muttered, “Oh no… we really have to eat our words. This is embarrassing.”
Mr. Sang tried to reassure him. “Chairman, don’t worry. If someone dropped an atomic bomb, even these kung fu freaks wouldn’t survive. Science still wins.”
Wei snapped. “Fuck you. Honestly, I’m not even sure a nuke would stop them.”
Sang nodded gravely. “Oh, right, Chairman. Fuck me. Hard to say. You’re always right.”
The Boring Hunt
Meanwhile, on the outskirts of the city, Brian walked alone. Assigned to a remote sector, he strolled toward downtown with his hands in his pockets, whistling without a care. Every opponent he ran into was just another auntie.
“Damn, this is boring,” he sighed. What he wanted was to find Michael and Raymond, team up, and grab points together. At least then he wouldn’t feel so damn alone.
In a narrow alley, an auntie was squatting mid-defecation. The moment she spotted him, she yanked up her pants and charged at full speed.
Brian shook his head. “Work shit.” Without even giving her a chance to finish, he kicked her straight back to where she came from. One point. He didn’t even slow down.
A shadow dropped from a third-floor balcony. Brian’s eyes narrowed—“Oh, shit, another auntie.” He sidestepped cleanly, letting her slam into the pavement. Then he stomped her head with one kick, bursting it like a melon. Another point.
He sighed again. “Oh, shit. So boring. Bored out of my mind.”
So he kept walking, humming an old tune from the ’80s. At the end of the street, a figure appeared—dressed almost exactly like him: short athletic shorts, sneakers, casual as hell.
Brian squinted. “Yeah, I know that guy. Some captain’s brother. Robinson… or was it Goblin? Something like that.”
Old Scores
They closed the distance slowly, then stopped just two meters apart.
Brian tilted his head. “What the fuck are you doing here? You competing too?”
Robinson’s eyes burned. “Yeah. I’m taking your source. That point is mine.”
Brian exhaled. “Don’t do this. You and I—we’re both strong. We should be focusing on weaker opponents. If we fight, we both lose. And let’s be real, you can’t even beat me. I just don’t want to waste my energy on you.”
Robinson’s face hardened. “Even if it wasn’t for points, I’d still beat the crap out of you. You killed one of my brothers months ago—right in front of me.”
Brian frowned. “Did I? I don’t remember.”
Robinson barked, “The pregnant guy. The one with the belly like he was nine months in.”
Brian snapped his fingers. “Shit. That ugly bastard. Yeah, I remember. He even went to a prostitute and didn’t pay.”
He waved it off. “But our grudge can wait. Today’s about the tournament. I’m not about to throw away my chance at the top thirty-two for this. Tell you what—two hundred bucks, you go get a massage, chill out. That pregnant guy? Even if I hadn’t killed him, someone else would’ve. Losers like that don’t last long.”
Robinson’s rage boiled over. “Fuck you, stop talking. I’ve got nothing else to say.”
Brian stopped too, drew in a deep breath, and steadied his gaze. “Alright then. Let’s get this over with. I’ll crush you in minutes. You don’t stand a ghost of a chance.”
The Kick vs. The Flow
Brian knew Robinson’s specialty—Tai Chi. He’d seen him dissolve and redirect attacks before.
“Fine,” Brian muttered. “Let’s see if he can handle this.”
He sprinted forward and launched Sean’s move—the Horizontal Execution Kick—flying across the street with both legs outstretched like a missile. Pure raw force.
But Robinson wasn’t the same as before. He’d mastered Tai Chi’s deeper trick: not just neutralizing, but redirecting. He caught the kick and twisted its energy ninety degrees. Brian spun out of control and smashed into a wall, stone and dust collapsing on top of him. Crawling out, he spat blood.
“Shit. He’s stronger than before.”
Brian’s Golden Eye flickered. If he can do it, I can learn it.
Robinson leapt, spinning through the air with a tornado kick. Brian tried to copy the Tai Chi redirect—but his form was off, his body frozen mid-motion.
“Guess my stance isn’t nice enough,” he muttered, right before the kick slammed him across the street.
Flat on the ground, Brian coughed, his mind racing. Why didn’t my Golden Eye work? It’s never failed before.
And then he understood. Tai Chi couldn’t just be copied—it had to be grasped in the thin space between life and death. Without that, all he saw were empty moves.
He sighed. “Not my toy. Not yet.”
Standing up, brushing the dust off, he smiled—confident again. “Alright then. Back to basics.”
Windwalk
Robinson saw the smile and charged again, spinning once, twice, three times—his kicks slicing the air like a cyclone. Brian’s Golden Eye tracked every movement. He rolled, hopped, pivoted, dodging each sweep with perfect timing, until Robinson’s triple kick landed on nothing but air.
Brian tapped him with a light punch. Robinson redirected it easily, sending him a few steps aside. Brian chuckled. “So that’s the weakness. You’re all circles up front, but your back? Wide open.”
He stepped back, grinning. “I actually learned something today. From an auntie, believe it or not. Let me show you.”
And then he vanished. His body blurred, shimmering half-transparent. He called the move Windwalk—straight out of Warcraft III’s Blademaster. Like a ghost, he slipped through Robinson’s guard.
Robinson panicked, thrusting a Tai Chi fist at the blur. His strike cut through nothing. Brian’s form phased right through, appearing behind him in a blink. Robinson’s body turned a full one-eighty, back completely exposed.
Shit. I’m done, he thought.
Brian lifted his fist, smiling slyly. “Ready or not… here I come.”
And everything froze on that image.
The Atomic Surprise
Brian’s fist was half a second away from ending it. Any normal opponent would’ve been torn apart. Robinson’s fate seemed sealed.
Then the sky erupted. From miles away, a mushroom cloud rose, white light searing their vision. For a moment, they were blind, both of them staggering in the glare. The shockwave thundered across the city, ripping through streets, flattening buildings.
From a distant vantage, Michael and Raymond watched in awe.
Michael whistled. “That power? He’s gotta be pulling ten thousand points at least.”
Raymond grinned. “Ten thousand? Nah, that’s a hundred thousand.”
Closer to ground zero, Brian and Robinson weren’t so lucky. The shockwave launched them like rag dolls, slamming them into the wreckage of shattered houses. Bloodied, broken, they both passed out.
Brian’s last thought before going under: Shit. Guess I’m done this time.
Their tournament watches went black, the lights flickering out. Eliminated.
But somewhere in the darkness, another watch went wild—its numbers spinning out of control, surging straight to 999,999, breaking the system itself. A thin hand raised the glowing watch, casting just enough light to show a crooked smile.
“Man… gotta admit. Modern weapons still win. Looks like I’m champion this year.”
From the shadows stepped a short, dark, skinny middle-aged man—the one who had unleashed the atomic bomb.