The Commentators and the Beggar
The match had been going on for hours, but the two commentators—Vice Chairman Mr. Sang and Chairman Mr. Wei—were still at it, nonstop. They hadn’t even taken a break for dinner.
Mr. Sang was shoveling plain rice into his mouth while talking into the mic. His voice came out muffled, like someone trying to broadcast with a mouthful of sticky rice. Every now and then the audience could even hear the chewing noises—wet, smacking, annoyingly loud.
Mr. Wei finally lost it. He slammed the desk and barked, “Fuck you! You can’t talk and eat at the same time. That’s disgusting. Cut it out!”
But just as the bickering heated up, the broadcast cut to a drone shot. The drone hovered over a garbage heap, zooming in on a massive figure crouched there. The man was squatting, eating like he hadn’t had food in days. A mountain of rice in a giant bowl, shoveled down in desperate, sloppy gulps.
Mr. Wei’s voice shifted instantly into curiosity. “Hold on, everyone. Look at this. We’ve spotted someone unusual. Even squatting, he’s at least a meter ninety. Covered in fat, sure, but underneath—yes, I can feel it—there’s muscle. A lot of it. Why would someone like this be squatting by a trash pile, eating rice? Nobody eats there unless… unless he’s setting traps, or lying in ambush. This man is suspicious. Very suspicious.”
The drone drifted closer. His thick arms flexed under the fat, his face buried in the bowl. Mr. Wei leaned in toward his mic, whispering like he was revealing a state secret. “He’s up to something. Just watch.”
And then—disaster. The drone camera caught the man’s shorts yanked down around his knees. While he kept scarfing rice, his backside erupted. Streams of shit blasted out right in front of the garbage heap.
The entire city went silent for half a second—then chaos. Viewers all over the city puked out their dinners. Some gagged. Some fainted. Kitchens, living rooms, restaurants—everywhere people were spitting rice, noodles, soup across their tables.
Even in the commentary booth, Mr. Wei choked on his water and sprayed it all over Mr. Sang’s face.
Sang wiped his glasses, fuming. “What the hell was that for?!”
Mr. Wei could only shake his head. “Looks like we were wrong. That wasn’t a mysterious master. Just a random beggar. Nothing more.”
The Brothers’ Bet
After the chaos with the beggar, the broadcast froze in silence for a full minute. Millions of viewers sat stunned, half-chewed food still in their mouths, unsure if they were watching a tournament or some surreal documentary gone wrong. In the booth, Mr. Wei shoved his rice aside. He’d lost his appetite completely. Adjusting his headset, he forced a calm voice:
“Alright… let’s move on. Let’s check out another area.”
The drone feed cut to two men standing side by side. Identical faces, identical smirks—at first the cameraman thought the stream had glitched. But no, they were brothers. Perfect reflections of each other.
They slapped each other’s arms, laughing like drinking buddies.
“Hey, brother. Let’s see who racks up more points tonight.”
“Deal. You go left, I’ll go right. Midnight, same spot. Loser buys dinner.”
Bags of ammo slung over their shoulders, laser rifles in hand, the twins split off in opposite directions.
The elder brother headed left. He wasted no time, firing into crowds on the street, laughing as people scattered like extras in a bad horror flick. No police showed up. Nobody cared. His wristwatch lit up with flashing numbers—hundreds of points piling on in seconds.
Soon he scaled a fifty-story hotel and slipped into a high window. Below, a massive concert was in full swing—lights, music, thousands of fans waving glowsticks. He propped up by the glass and opened fire. The scoreboard on his wrist spun like a slot machine, blasting past a thousand. He glanced at the watch, smirked, and muttered, “Easy points.”
Meanwhile, his younger brother took the opposite path. He hadn’t gone far when he spotted someone leaning against a bright red scooter. The guy was eating from a takeout box, phone in hand, watching the very same broadcast live. He scoffed, mouth full.
“Damn, somebody really ate while taking a shit? First time I’ve ever heard of that.”
Across his chest, in bold letters, his shirt read: FUCKLIN.
That guy was Frank.
The younger brother raised his rifle from a distance and fired. The crack echoed down the street.
“AHHH!” Frank’s scream rang out. He clutched his chest, staggering. “Oh no! I’ve been shot!”
He looked down. His shirt had a neat little hole. No blood, no wound—of course. Frank was invincible. Nothing could pierce him, nothing could break him. But his nerves didn’t care. His chest throbbed with sharp pain, like fire running under his skin.
He crouched, picked the bullet off the ground, groaning.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” he yelled. “Who the hell planted this on me while I’m eating? That’s not funny!”
He rubbed at the sore spot, shaking his head, as if someone had just pulled the dumbest prank in the middle of his dinner.
Frank’s Pain, Frank’s Power
The younger brother froze. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His shot had gone straight for the heart—he was sure of it. And yet Frank just sat there, still chewing his food like nothing happened.
He crept closer, gun raised. His eyes widened. “Holy crap. He really is fine.”
Pointing the rifle straight at Frank’s chest, he barked, “Hey, idiot up front. I’m going to shoot you dead. Beg all you want, it won’t matter.”
Frank’s eyes went wide. He knew his body couldn’t be killed, but the pain—oh, the pain was real. His nerves screamed every time a bullet tore through his skin. His face went pale. One shot, he could grit his teeth through. But a volley? That meant wave after wave of agony.
Then the younger brother pulled the trigger—again and again. Bullets cracked through the air, hammering Frank in the head, chest, even between his legs.
Frank collapsed, clutching himself, howling.
“Ahhh—shit! Holy fuck! It hurts! Oh no, oh please, fuck me!”
He rolled across the pavement, thrashing, writhing, his voice echoing down the street. The younger brother watched with a sick grin.
“I love this. Torturing others—that’s what I live for. This is the perfect scene.”
But the show wasn’t over. Frank groaned, staggered upright, and brushed the dust off his clothes. Holes riddled his shirt. The “FUCKLIN” across his chest had lost a letter, the L blasted clean off. Now it simply read: FUCKIN.
The camera zoomed in. Millions of viewers burst out laughing, half in horror, half in disbelief.
Frank muttered through clenched teeth, “Jesus Christ. Who does this to me while I’m eating? Not funny.” He bent down, scooped up his half-finished meal, and started eating again.
Back in the booth, Mr. Sang and Mr. Wei leaned forward, eyes wide, voices trembling with excitement.
“Oh! Fucking awesome! It’s him—it’s Frank! One of the Four Kings!”
Mr. Wei’s voice rose into a shout. “He just took over a hundred bullets and he’s still standing. What’s he going to do now? Will he unleash some kind of shockwave? A secret weapon?!”
The feed lingered on Frank’s battered figure, the suspense stretching out. Across the city, millions of viewers held their breath, waiting to see what he would do next.
The Endless Barrage
The younger brother went berserk, screaming at the sky as he squeezed the trigger. His machine gun roared, magazines emptied one after another. For three, maybe five minutes, bullets rained across the street like an ice storm, shattering windows, ripping through walls, mowing down unlucky bystanders who didn’t even have time to scream.
Frank took it all head-on. The storm of lead slammed into him, driving his body a full meter back. His clothes were shredded, riddled with holes, while he rolled across the ground, clutching himself and shrieking.
“Oh fuck! Fuck me! Please don’t! Oh no! Stop raping me!”
The commentary booth was filled with static, the audio peaking from his endless screams. Then, unbelievably, one bullet went straight into Frank’s throat. He gagged, swallowed, and… nothing. The bullet disappeared.
Inside his body, his qi surged, crushing the slug into powder, grinding it down until it dissolved into iron dust. What little remained would be spat out the next day.
The barrage finally stopped. The younger brother’s rifle clicked empty. He stood frozen, sweat dripping, eyes locked on the impossible scene.
Frank staggered up, brushing dust off his shirt. The holes in the fabric were everywhere. He frowned, tugging at the hem. “Damn it. You ruined my clothes. This shirt cost ten bucks.”
He turned his head lazily toward his attacker. “Are you done?”
But the younger brother just stood there, dazed, gun limp at his side, his mind completely broken.
Frank shoveled the last bite of rice from his lunchbox, licked the chopsticks, and tossed the empty container onto the ground. Without another word, he straddled his red scooter, engine buzzing, and rode off like nothing had happened.
The street went quiet. Then, out of nowhere, a pack of aunties appeared. They spotted the glowing wristwatch on the younger brother’s arm. Their eyes lit up.
With a battle cry, they swarmed him, fists and feet flying. The poor bastard didn’t even fight back. Within seconds, his face swelled up like a pig’s head, and he collapsed to the ground.
The aunties didn’t even look at him again. They simply marched forward, stepping over his twitching body, and disappeared down the street.
On every TV screen, a red stamp appeared across the corner: ELIMINATED.
Toys for Losers
On the other side of the city, the gunman’s rampage had left streets piled with bodies. Panicked survivors fled through alleys, their cries echoing in the distance. One man glanced up and spotted a cluster of police officers. His face lit up. “Cops! We’re saved!”
But then the camera zoomed in. The lead officer was combing his thinning hair across the bald spot, strands plastered down like a desperate disguise. It was Grayson. Within seconds, he and the others bolted—not toward the fight, but behind a dumpster, crouching low, refusing to come out.
Meanwhile, Raymond and Michael strolled calmly down another street, wristwatches showing a few dozen points each. They walked as if out for an evening stroll, until the staccato rhythm of gunfire echoed around the corner.
“Sounds like someone’s still playing with toys,” Michael muttered.
Raymond smirked. “Guns are for losers.”
They rounded the corner. A bullet sliced through the air toward Raymond’s face. He raised two fingers, caught it clean, and held it up like a cheap trinket.
“Really? People still play with these?”
Michael folded his arms. “I don’t think so.”
Then the gunman himself appeared. Michael leaned back against a wall, arms crossed, nodding toward Raymond.
“Go for it. Show him how boring these toys are.”
“Fine,” Raymond said with a shrug.
The gunman unloaded a storm of bullets. Raymond’s body swayed, effortless, each shot missing by inches. Sparks danced in the air, but not a single round touched him.
The gunman snarled, swapped magazines, and let loose another barrage. This time, Raymond simply snapped his wrist, whipping his apron through the air. A gust of wind roared out, twisting gravity itself. The bullets slowed mid-flight, their speed collapsing, tapping against his chest like pebbles tossed by children before clattering harmlessly to the pavement.
He brushed his shirt. “Too weak. Pathetic toys.”
Then he turned to Michael. “Your turn. Want to play a round?”
Michael stepped forward, calm and amused. Raymond crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, settling in like he was about to watch a show.
The camera lingered on Michael’s smirk as the gunman tightened his grip, ready for another desperate volley.
Bored Masters
The gunman slammed another magazine into his rifle, face twisted with rage. He knew it now—these two weren’t fighting him seriously. They were just toying with him.
He roared and pulled the trigger. Bullets poured down the street like rain, hundreds of rounds vanishing in under a minute.
Michael stepped forward, calm as ever. One hand in his pocket, the other moving lazily through the air. He tilted his head, caught a flying bullet neatly between his teeth, and clenched down with a grin. Sparks flashed as the slug crumpled.
But in that same instant—another round smacked into his chest. The gunman’s eyes went wide, then he jumped in the air, shouting:
“Oh yeah, baby! Bullseye!”
For a heartbeat, the crowd thought he’d landed a fatal shot. But the bullet only struck Michael’s pectoral. His chest flexed once, muscle tightening like iron, and the round instantly disintegrated into dust. A faint puff of metal powder drifted into the air. Michael barely even blinked.
The gunman screamed louder, swapping mags, firing again and again. Michael swayed casually, plucking bullets from the air, his palm filling up with glinting brass. By the time the gun clicked empty, his entire hand was stacked with slugs like a magician’s trick.
He clenched his fist. Crack. The bullets powdered instantly, iron dust streaming through his fingers and scattering on the wind. When he opened his hand again, it was empty—nothing left at all.
Raymond, still leaning against the wall, groaned. “Hey, come on. This isn’t even fun. We’ve got things to do. We only have, what, fifty points?”
Michael smirked. “Yeah… this is boring.”
He stepped forward. His hand shifted into a knife’s edge. With a single flick, faster than a blink, the gunman’s forehead flew clean off.
The severed forehead spun in the air, its mouth somehow moving as it gasped, “Impossible…” Then it hit the pavement with a dull thud.
Michael’s watch beeped once. +1 point.
Raymond jogged up beside him, fuming. “Fuck you. That point should’ve been mine. You always hog the easy ones.”
Michael slid his hands back into his pockets, already walking away, voice flat. “Whatever, man.”
The two of them strolled down the ruined street, bickering like old friends, as if they’d just left a card game instead of a massacre.