Too Innocent to Punch
In the middle of a bustling commercial district, there was an open-air barbecue joint—one of those loud Korean-style places with smoke and sizzling meat everywhere.
Brian sat on a wooden stool, elbows resting lazily on the greasy table, devouring a fat, juicy skewer of grilled lamb. On the table were several empty beer bottles and one half-finished one still sweating in the heat. He wasn’t working today. No missions, no orders—just a rare, peaceful afternoon off. He came here to rest, to enjoy the food, the beer, and the calm.
Not far ahead, a figure swaggered down the sidewalk. Hoodie. Tough walk. That unmistakable gangster vibe. Brian spotted him immediately—it was Canelo.
He smirked a little.
That bastard’s probably out to rob someone again, like he does every day.
Brian took a slow swig of beer, then another. He didn’t care. Not today. Let the world spin on.
Just then, Canelo stopped in front of a boy—one who looked completely out of place on this street. He had a pudgy belly and wore an outdated Zhongshan suit, buttoned all the way to the neck. His hair was parted neatly down the middle, Kim Jong-un style. Everything about him looked innocent, even dumb.
It was Marvel—today, just another unlucky target.
Without a word, Canelo raised his hand and slapped Marvel hard across the face.
A clean hit. Left a visible red mark.
Marvel blinked. But instead of reacting with anger or fear, he looked at Canelo with quiet politeness and asked, totally serious:
“Excuse me, is there anything I can help you with?”
Canelo stared at him—at that goofy, outdated outfit, that calm, clueless look, that weird kind of innocence.
Something shifted.
He didn’t throw another punch. Didn’t scream. Didn’t threaten.
Instead, he sighed, reached into Marvel’s coat pocket, and pulled out a few crumpled bills—maybe not even a hundred bucks.
He muttered, “I don’t know why… but when I look at you, I just don’t feel like fighting.”
He stepped back.
“Alright, you can go.”
Marvel paused, stunned, then gave a small nod and calmly walked away.
Canelo turned and continued his swagger down the street.
From afar, Brian exhaled and shook his head with a faint grin.
“Huh,” he murmured. “Who would’ve thought… even Canelo has a soft side.”
Too Damn Wrong
Marvel continued past the barbecue stand without stopping. His pace was steady, eyes calm. But a short distance ahead, he caught sight of a familiar figure.
The man wore a nearly identical outfit to Marvel’s own—an old, outdated railroad worker uniform from the 1950s. It looked like it had been fished out of a forgotten wardrobe. The man’s frame was disturbingly thin, his skin wrinkled and weathered, like someone in his seventies or eighties.
That man was none other than Lawson—the legendary Golden Bowl Lawson.
But what stopped Marvel in his tracks wasn’t just Lawson.
It was who Lawson was walking with.
Beside him was a girl, no older than eighteen or nineteen. She was young, strikingly pretty, with a dangerously seductive figure. Her white tank top clung tightly to her chest, revealing the top curve of her breasts and a deep, unmistakable cleavage.
Marvel froze.
Even Brian, still seated at the barbecue stand, squinted at the scene, a subtle look of surprise crossing his face.
Then he chuckled to himself and muttered, “Damn. This creepy old fossil’s got game.”
There was no jealousy in his tone—just amused surprise. Brian, after all, was no stranger to women. If anything, he found it impressive.
At that moment, a loud crack ripped through the air.
Everyone turned to see a streetlight pole snap clean in half and topple sideways into a tree, lodged awkwardly among its branches.
Heads turned.
Marvel stood nearby, his fist still clenched and trembling.
He had punched the pole.
Brian’s eyes widened—and a soft shimmer of gold flickered in them.
Through the faint glow of his Golden Eyes, he scanned the boy again.
This kid’s jealous. Intensely jealous.
And his adrenaline just spiked like crazy. His strength… it must’ve multiplied eight, maybe even ten times.
Lawson slowly turned around.
He saw a Zhongshan suit. A clenched fist. A head lowered.
Marvel stood there, mumbling to himself. His body tense. His eyes locked onto Lawson with a disturbed kind of stillness.
“This is wrong,” Marvel muttered. “This is absolutely wrong… too damn wrong… a monstrous violation of nature.”
His voice trembled with disgust. His words spilled out faster now.
“How can an 80-year-old man seduce… a girl barely out of high school? This isn’t just sick—it’s illegal. Immoral. Inhuman.”
His breathing grew heavier.
His body shuddered.
His face twisted slowly—less like a human’s, more like something else.
Something feral.
Something beastly.
Something that didn’t belong in the world of reason or restraint—
…a beast.
Face Destruction Punch
Marvel had been standing behind Lawson. But in a sudden leap, he sprang forward and landed directly in front of him, eyes blazing.
He jabbed a finger toward Lawson and shouted:
“You creepy old fossil! You’ve got one foot in the damn grave, and you’re still out here seducing clueless underage girls?! Have you no shame?!”
Lawson looked completely baffled.
“What are you even talking about? My God. I’m only eighteen. My girlfriend’s two years older than me!”
Marvel’s expression twisted in disbelief.
“Eighteen? You expect me to believe that? With that saggy, wrinkled-ass face? I wouldn’t believe you if you said sixty-eight. Got proof? Show me your damn ID!”
Lawson fumbled into his pocket and pulled out his driver’s license.
It said he was born in 2006. He wasn’t even nineteen yet.
Marvel took the license in one hand—then clenched his fist.
The plastic ID crumbled like brittle glass, falling from his fingers as tiny fragments, like grains of sand.
“No,” Marvel growled. “That’s messed up. I didn’t think you could sink this low—faking your ID, seriously? You’re despicable”
He took a step forward, fire in his voice.
“I’m putting an end to this today—for the good of society.”
Lawson instantly realized—no matter what he said or how he explained, this beast wouldn’t listen. Things were about to get very ugly. He raised his guard and braced for the worst.
Marvel twisted his hips, dropped low, then snapped forward with a roaring punch.
“FACE DESTRUCTION PUNCH!!” he yelled.
Lawson panicked and ducked behind his girlfriend, using her as a shield. Classic coward move—zero hesitation, all survival instinct.
Caught off guard, she tried to dodge—but it was too late. She took Marvel’s punch to the face at full explosive force.
Her face shattered. Everything caved in—nose, cheeks, eyes—just a mess of broken flesh, with blood spraying from every angle.
She flew back like a ragdoll, soaring over ten meters before slamming into a distant wall and landing sideways on the pavement.
Dazed, bruised, and soaked in blood, she slowly began to crawl back up.
Through the chaos, she spotted a teenage boy strolling by with his hands in his pockets.
He looked clean. Normal. Kinda handsome.
“Hey, cutie,” she called out weakly, flashing him a sweet, vulnerable smile. “Mind giving me a hand?”
The boy turned to look at her.
She batted her eyes, trying to sound soft and flirty—completely unaware that her face no longer looked pretty.
It looked more like a pile of smushed pork meat.
The boy looked down at her.
Then recoiled in disgust.
“Holy shit—hell no! Get away from me, you fugly freak!”
With a grunt, he kicked her square in the chest, knocking her flat on the ground again.
Then, calm as ever, he slid his hands back into his pockets and walked off—slow, casual, like nothing had happened.
The Flying Ambush
Marvel looked down at the girl he had just disfigured. Bloodied, broken, and humiliated.
His face twisted—part grief, part fury.
Tears welled in his beast-like eyes, spilling down his cheeks.
“I’ll never forgive you…” he muttered. “You made me destroy her face. How dare you…”
He pointed at Lawson and shouted, “You call yourself a man?! Hiding behind a woman?!”
Lawson flinched, his cowardice fully exposed.
His lips parted, but his voice trembled—thin and shaky, revealing the fear beneath.
“If I hadn’t hidden behind her… I’d be the one without a face right now.”
Suddenly—
From across the street, a figure blasted forward in a dead-straight horizontal line, one leg stretched out in front like a spear, the other tucked behind. The tip of his leather shoe tore through the air, trailing sparks.
He didn’t look like a man.
He looked like a missile—his half-buttoned shirt flapping violently, chest fully exposed. Behind him, a long red cape whipped through the wind like a streak of warning.
He was fast.
He was precise.
He was Sean. The Local Hero.
And this was his signature move:
The Horizontal Execution Kick.
Marvel instinctively raised his palm, aiming to catch the incoming foot—but the impact was too powerful.
He barely managed to block it.
A loud crack echoed as Marvel was shoved backward by sheer force. Sparks exploded between his shoes and the pavement as he slid helplessly.
Ten meters. Fifteen. Twenty.
Only once the forward momentum halted did Sean flip backward midair—just before Marvel could grab his foot. He landed cleanly, two meters away, poised and ready.
Marvel came to a stop, standing scorched and rattled—right in front of Brian’s table.
Brian looked up briefly.
He blinked once.
Then casually grabbed another lamb skewer, took a bite, and returned to sipping his beer like nothing had happened.
Sean adjusted his footing and stood tall, fists down at his side.
His half-open shirt swayed in the breeze. That chest—exposed like a war hero’s.
His red cape fluttered behind him, dancing like fire in the afternoon light.
He glared at Marvel, his voice stern and dramatic.
“You seriously dare treat a blooming young maiden like that—in broad daylight?” he barked. “Look at her now! You turned her face into a pile of ground beef. Don’t you feel even a little bit ashamed?!”
He pointed straight at Marvel.
“I’m gonna teach you a lesson. Right here, right now. As a hero should.”
Brian raised his eyes again.
A faint golden shimmer crossed his pupils.
He already knew the outcome of the fight.
Without saying a word, he lifted one hand and signaled the waitress.
“Check, please.”
The Silence After
“Keep the change,” Brian said to the waitress with a lazy smile. Then he gave her a little wink—half playful, half careless.
Just then, behind him—
Sean’s voice cut through the air, loud and urgent: “Lawson! Hurry up and get that girl to the hospital! She’s bleeding bad!”
He turned around, searching—
But Lawson was already gone, having slipped away the moment Sean’s flying ambush kicked in.
Typical coward.
Vanished without a word.
Sean muttered, stunned, “Damn… he really isn’t a man.” He shook his head. “Just left her there like that. Despicable. What a coward!”
Brian rose from his stool, hands slipping casually into his pockets. He walked away from the barbecue stand like it was just another lazy afternoon.
Behind him, two men burst into motion.
One draped in a red cape, dramatic and self-righteous.
The other trembling with beast-like rage, suit still buttoned up tight.
Brian didn’t look back.
But just as he rounded the first corner, two sounds cracked the air behind him—sharp, brutal, and final.
The first: the raw thud of a punch driving into flesh.
The second: a body slamming into the pavement, loud and final.
Then—
Silence.
No shouts. No groans. No movement.
Just a strange, still quiet.
Brian kept walking down the block.
A black car with Chinese embassy plates rolled past him slowly, a red flag fluttering behind it with official flair.
Nothing seemed out of place—
Until the car turned the corner.
That’s when Brian caught a glimpse.
Under the rear bumper—
Sean.
Unconscious. Arms dangling, chin swaying slightly with the car’s motion. One of his leather shoes was gone, leaving only a sock-covered foot bobbing in the wind.
Brian blinked.
By the time he looked again, the car had disappeared.
He muttered quietly: “Whatever.”
And kept walking—hands in his pockets, mind already elsewhere.
Marvel is way stronger.
Sean never stood a ghost of a chance.
Adrenaline Potential
The next day, Brian returned to the office.
He stepped in quietly and approached Colin’s desk with a respectful tone.
“Yesterday, I ran into a pretty interesting fellow,” he began. “Most of the time, he seems like a complete nobody. Weak. Ordinary. But when his adrenaline kicks in… his strength multiplies. I’d say at least eight to ten times his base level.”
Colin rested his chin on one hand, looking utterly bored. He replied flatly, “Oh. Interesting.”
Brian continued, “If we can bring him into the Humble Organization, he might be a worthy candidate. Someone worth cultivating.”
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through a few photos. “I snapped one at the barbecue stall where I ran into him.”
He handed the phone over to Colin.
The photo was blurry—Brian clearly wasn’t much of a photographer. Still, the image showed enough: a man in a fully buttoned-up Zhongshan suit, belly poking slightly out, hair parted straight down the middle, with a round, chubby face.
Colin stared at it for a moment.
His eyes sharpened.
Then he leaned forward slightly, suddenly more serious.
“Hell no,” he said. “He looks kind of weird.”
Leaning back again, Colin crossed his arms and added, “Still, I’m curious about the power he’s gained through adrenaline. You can check him out some more if you’d like. Want me to send Michael with you?”
Brian smirked. “No need. Even if his strength is boosted tenfold, I could still beat the crap out of him… with both hands in my pockets.”