Milk Tea and Muscles
Dave stepped out of a shady little clinic tucked deep in an alley.
The air smelled faintly of old grease and disinfectant. He took a slow breath and ran his hands across his biceps, his chest, and then his thighs. Solid. Real solid. He felt… pretty damn good.
He remembered clearly—just a few minutes ago, inside that sketchy clinic, the unlicensed doctor Mildy had patched him up. Literally.
Using some kind of industrial-grade adhesive—probably meant for fixing broken machines—Mildy had glued all of Dave’s torn muscles back together. The ripped fibers and bruised tissues from his last fight with Sean? Gone. Sealed. Like new. Maybe even better.
Dave nodded to himself.
Not bad, that Mildy guy.
Before he left, Mildy even gave him a little advice—told him to load up on protein over the next couple of days. Specifically, protein milkshakes. With fruity flavors. Vanilla was his favorite. Caramel wasn’t bad either. Dave remembered every single word.
Without thinking much, Dave wandered into a bubble tea shop run by a Taiwanese couple. It had a row of small tables and clean, mellow lighting. Pretty cozy.
He walked to the counter and ordered an extra-large caramel-flavored protein bubble milk tea, just like Mildy suggested. Then he sat quietly in a corner booth, sipping slowly.
As the sweet, creamy liquid slid down his throat, he could feel it: his muscles soaking up the nutrients, rebuilding themselves—tougher, stronger, more resilient. The body knew what it needed. All he had to do was feed it.
Across the room, at a nearby table, a girl was slumped over her laptop, fast asleep. The screen was still glowing, her assignments still open. She must’ve passed out from sheer exhaustion.
Dave glanced at her absentmindedly.
It reminded him of his own training days—those long, brutal hours of building muscle until he blacked out mid-rep. The difference was, even when he was unconscious, his body would keep doing reps on autopilot.
Then his eyes flicked back to the girl. She’d forgotten to button the top three buttons of her shirt.
Her chest was practically hanging out—her bra dangling from gravity, barely hanging onto her shoulders.
Her entire breast, from the soft curves to the tip of the nipple, was exposed and visible in full view—just out there, wide open to the world.
But Dave… wasn’t Marvel.
He didn’t care about that kind of thing. Strength was all that mattered.
He turned away, uninterested, and looked forward.
Two pretty boys with long blond hair were sitting at a table nearby, giggling and gossiping in soft, delicate voices. They looked painfully fragile. Dave’s first instinct was to walk over and snap their forearms like twigs.
One of them had sharp features and a tall, pointed nose—let’s call him Sharknose.
The other had enormous, watery, sparkly eyes and a soft round face—Bigeyes.
But just as Dave was about to rise from his seat, something caught his attention.
They were talking about Kung Fu legends.
He froze.
Sharknose leaned forward with a serious whisper:
“You know who’s actually the strongest man in the world right now? It’s Khan. He’s the Police Commissioner of our city.”
Bigeyes gasped, blinking rapidly.
“Really?”
The moment Dave heard that—someone calling another man the strongest in the world—his whole posture shifted.
He straightened his back, leaned in slightly, and tilted his ear toward them, locking in with laser focus.
Khan? …Who the hell is that?
Dave genuinely didn’t know.
He’d spent the past ten years living in a basement, doing nothing but lifting weights and eating frozen chicken breasts. He barely had a phone, let alone a TV or news feed. He didn’t keep up with anything. He didn’t need to. Everyone he ever needed to beat was already beaten—at least back then.
But now, suddenly… this name—Khan—it echoed in his mind.
And apparently, everyone else already knew.
Sharknose kept talking.
“There’s more. Khan’s got two senior brothers—same master. Same style. A few years ago, people said the three of them were basically untouchable. Even now, no one’s sure if Khan is actually stronger than them. They’re that close.”
“No way,” Bigeyes whispered.
“I’m serious. Back then, the three of them were like gods. There was this one time—”
Sharknose’s voice dropped into an excited hush, like he was about to tell a fairytale.
“Once upon a time…”
Dave took another sip of his milk tea—slowly, silently.
But in his mind, something had shifted.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Not until he heard the rest of this story.
The Four Corners of Power
According to rumor, Khan wasn’t the only monster trained by that elusive Chi master hidden deep in the mountains.
He had two martial brothers—one senior, one junior.
Both were legends in their own right.
Franklin—the elder brother—was unlike anyone else.
No one ever saw him walk. He glided.
His movement was iconic. Arms held out diagonally at a 45-degree angle—low and steady, like wings maintaining perfect balance. His torso leaned slightly forward, his right leg bent in front at a sharp 90-degree angle, while his left leg stretched far back, foot gently dragging along the ground, pushing him forward in a perfectly controlled slide.
His entire body moved with eerie smoothness, riding on streams of Qi that lifted and guided him across the floor. He hovered just barely above the surface—no footsteps, no sound—just pure momentum. One blink, and he’d already flown fifty meters ahead.
He didn’t run. He didn’t jump. He just… slid.
People said you never saw Franklin arrive—you only realized he had already passed.
And then there was Joshua—the younger brother.
If Franklin was air, Joshua was metal.
He wore a full suit of golden armor. No patterns, no ornaments. Just heavy, solid, gleaming plates wrapped tight around his frame. From head to toe, encased in raw, oppressive presence.
He didn’t just wear it.
He became it.
Years of war, blood, and time had fused the armor to his body—merged into his nerves, his skin, his bone. The golden suit was no longer a piece of gear. It was part of his anatomy. He didn’t take it off. He couldn’t.
His strength came from the weight of the armor. And the Qi that filled it. And the countless wounds that made it whole.
It’s said he once punched a garbage truck across the bay.
There was a time, back then, when the world hailed the four dominant figures of the city:
Some even referred to them as Four Kings.
East Franklin. West Joshua. North Khan. South Mario.
Each man ruled over his corner of the city, his presence so overwhelming that stories naturally grew around him—tales of strength, mystery, and fear.
Then there was one legendary battle that shook the entire world—the clash between Joshua and Mario.
Mario, known in the underworld as Silent Shadow, was a blade-wielding phantom. His ninja techniques were ghostly, his speed inhuman. He moved like whispers and struck like lightning.
When he crossed paths with Joshua, the heavens shook.
Their battle lasted a full twenty-four hours—nonstop.
By the end, both were wrecked beyond recognition.
Joshua had a hole torn clean through his chest—his golden armor punctured straight through by Mario’s blade, blood pouring out in waves. But before collapsing, he landed a devastating counterattack—a single punch that shattered Mario’s knee and tore off his entire right leg at the joint.
They each left a permanent mark on the other.
Just as they lay bleeding under the cold sky, unable to move, a man happened to pass by.
Not a hero. Not a medic. Not even someone particularly clean.
Just a short, calm man in oil-stained clothes: Mildy.
He had just clocked out of his job at a nearby machine repair yard.
He took one look at Joshua’s gaping chest wound—said nothing—then turned back toward the junkyard and yanked out a rusty piece of metal piping from an old faucet.
It happened to match the length of Joshua’s torso.
Mildy calmly jammed it into Joshua’s chest to plug the wound, and in doing so, pushed the broken armor back into shape. The bleeding stopped.
Then he scavenged a pile of dead machine parts, slapped them together, and screwed out a rough prosthetic leg. Without anesthesia. Without hesitation. He strapped it straight onto Mario.
Two god-tier warriors were saved… by an unlicensed mechanic.
But the price of that “field repair” was steep.
They never made it to a real hospital.
In the Kung Fu world, proper treatment would’ve fully healed both men. But they missed the window.
And their bodies paid the price.
Joshua permanently lost one lung. His Qi circulation, once fluid and full-body, now struggled to flow beyond half his chest.
Mario never got his right leg back. He could still fight—but he’d never again perform his signature ground-gliding, split-second step.
Two of the greatest fighters alive… quietly erased from the god-tier list.
Dave sat in silence as the story ended.
He slowly looked down at his own chest, his fingers brushing the freshly glued muscle sealed just hours ago with industrial adhesive.
“Holy fuck…”
His heart sank.
“Did my fighting career just got… ruined by Mildy too?”
Fucklin Returns
“That means only two of the four powerhouses are left, right?” Bigeyes asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
Sharknose shook his head slowly.
“Mmm… no. Just one. Only Khan remains.”
Bigeyes blinked.
“Wait—something happened to Franklin too?”
No one knew exactly what.
One day, on a quiet school campus, Franklin appeared wearing a tight white shirt that clung to his sculpted torso—his abs clear as day. Across his chest, in bold, all-caps lettering, were seven black letters:
FUCKLIN
Nobody knew why.
Maybe it was a misprint of his name.
Maybe someone was messing with him.
Didn’t matter.
No one questioned it.
Not even Franklin.
He just kept wearing that same shirt. Day after day. Year after year. He still wears it now.
The only thing people did know… was what happened that day.
Franklin, by accident, killed his childhood fiancée with a single move.
No one knows how. No one knows why.
But after that, Franklin was never the same.
He withdrew from school. Dropped out of the legendary mountain martial academy. Quit everything. He made a vow that day:
He would never use his martial arts again.
He didn’t finish high school. He had no skills. No degree. No connections. No direction.
Last anyone heard…
He was working as a food delivery guy, riding a red scooter around town.
Bigeyes nodded thoughtfully.
“Makes sense. So that’s why Khan is the only real powerhouse left in the world now.”
He sighed, smiling faintly.
“I didn’t know there were so many legends before him. But I guess that’s all they are now—legends. Legacy stuff.”
And just like that, the two pretty boys went back to chatting about makeup and outfit pairings. Nail polish tones. Softboy accessories.
Meanwhile, Dave had just finished the last sip of his caramel protein bubble milk tea.
He tossed the empty cup into the trash with a flick of the wrist, patted his pink women’s underwear, and casually stepped back onto the street.
The world’s bigger than I thought…
If I’m gonna be the strongest man on Earth, I can’t slack off.
He scanned the sidewalks, looking for worthy challengers. Nothing.
Everyone looked weak.
Then—out of nowhere—a red scooter came rolling toward him. Slowly. Riding right up the sidewalk in blatant violation of local traffic laws.
The rider wasn’t trying to hide.
Oversized white shirt, stretched over a large gut. Seven bold letters printed across the chest:
FUCKLIN
His right hand was on the handlebars.
His left hand? Deep in his nose, digging with lazy expertise.
He wore a bicycle helmet—worn-out, mismatched—and looked like he’d gained two full body sizes since the stories of old.
It was Franklin.
And Dave didn’t even hesitate.
He jumped directly into the scooter’s path, arms out wide like a wall, feet planted.
Franklin barely had time to blink.
Denied by the Deadpan
Franklin’s eyes widened. Both hands clutched the brake handle as tightly as he could.
The scooter’s wheels screeched across the pavement—gliding nearly two meters before coming to a halt. He wasn’t even going that fast. The problem was… Franklin hadn’t changed his brake pads in years.
He knew they were worn out.
He knew they needed replacing.
But he just couldn’t bring himself to spend the money.
The scooter finally stopped right in front of Dave.
Frank’s foot hit the ground to balance himself. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Whew… that was close. Good thing I grabbed the brakes in time. That could’ve gone bad.”
Dave stood there, face twitching, teeth clenched.
“If you had braked 0.01 seconds earlier… that would’ve been great.”
Apparently, the scooter had stopped just a hair too late—its front panel grazed Dave’s groin.
A soft, heart-splitting pain shot through him. He didn’t scream. Didn’t fall.
But it was the kind of pain that would make most men roll on the ground crying.
Dave, however, stood firm.
With tears barely forming in his eyes, he grinned and said:
“You must be the legendary fighter… the East King. Franklin. Right?”
Franklin casually reached into his nose and dug out a long, twisted glob.
He rolled it around between his fingers and replied in a slow, deadpan tone:
“That was a long time ago.
Feels like a hundred years now.
Almost like… a lifetime ago.
I haven’t fought in years.”
Dave clenched his fists in excitement.
“Please. Let me challenge you.
Just a light spar. I’ve always wanted to test myself against someone like you.”
Frank didn’t react. Just flicked the booger between his fingers.
It sailed through the air and—somehow—landed squarely on Dave’s pink triangle-shaped women’s underwear.
Perfect placement. It stuck there. Glowing.
Dave didn’t even notice.
He was too focused. Too hyped. Too locked in.
Frank inhaled sharply.
His eyes widened.
Then, slowly… he gave a weak, awkward smile.
Dave interpreted it instantly.
“So that means you accept the challenge, right?”
Frank’s face dropped back into his emotionless deadpan expression.
“Nope, sir.
I’ve got food to deliver.
Customer’s still waiting.”
Dave’s expression darkened. His entire face sank into fury.
He took one step forward, voice low and trembling:
“How dare you…
You’re a disgrace to every fighter who trained hard and gave it their all!”
Frank looked at him for a second—expressionless.
Then he twisted the throttle.
The engine hummed.
Looked like Franklin was about to drive off.
The Passionate Speech
Dave threw one arm out, blocking Franklin’s path.
“Frank,” he said with urgency, raising two fingers. “Just give me two minutes. That’s all I need. Two minutes.”
Franklin gave a subtle nod. His face didn’t change—still deadpan. “OK,” he replied simply.
Dave took a breath and began.
“I don’t know what happened to you in the past… but it’s been long enough. Don’t you think it’s time to step out of it?”
He clenched his fists, voice gaining strength.
“I’ve been training my muscles every single day—for ten years. And I’m still going. Every day. Because we all want the same thing. To become the strongest fighters. That passion, that pursuit, that dedication—don’t tell me you never felt it before.”
Dave’s eyes shut tight. His fists trembled with emotion.
“Frank… I believe in you. I believe you can rise again—like a phoenix from the ashes. Not just the old you—but something even stronger. Even greater.”
His voice cracked now. A few tears slid down his cheek.
“I believe in you, Frank… Let’s embrace the joy of fighting again. That acceleration. That rush. That satisfaction…”
He opened his eyes, searching for connection.
“You feel the same way… don’t you?”
But the spot in front of him was empty.
Frank had already long left.
His scooter was now all the way at the end of the block, idling at a red light in traffic—calm and still, as if none of this had ever happened.
Dave stood there, completely still.
His lip curled as he muttered through gritted teeth:
“Oh, imbecile… fuck him.”
And just like that, the passionate speech vanished into exhaust fumes.
The Rock of Wrath
Dave stood alone, his chest rising and falling after pouring his heart out.
Far ahead, at the end of the block, Frank sat quietly on his red scooter. One foot on the ground. Hands resting on the handlebars. He didn’t even glance back. Just waiting at the red light.
Dave’s jaw tightened.
“Oh, you jerk… You just ignored me? Unbelievable.”
He clenched his fists.
“I opened my heart to you, damn it…”
Then his voice dropped low and cold.
“You’re not getting away.”
He bent down, grabbed a jagged chunk of concrete—roughly the size of an apple—and with a single whip of his arm, launched it like a missile.
The rock tore through the air.
CRACK—BOOM!!
It struck Frank square at the back of the neck.
A violent shockwave erupted on impact. The stone didn’t just bounce—it exploded into fine dust mid-air, atomized by the absurd density of Frank’s body.
Frank flinched slightly. His head tilted forward.
“TSSSHHH—!! …Shit… that hurt…”
He rubbed the back of his neck lightly. His nerves still registered pain like any normal person—but structurally? He was completely fine. Not a scratch. Not a dent.
Then the light turned green.
Without a single glance behind him—
Frank drove off.
Effortless. Deadpan. As if nothing had happened at all.
Dave stood frozen.
“He felt that… I know he felt that…”
But Frank never stopped.
Never turned.
Never said a word.
Dave’s fists loosened at his sides.
Then he let out a furious shout:
“COME BACK AND FIGHT ME, YOU DELIVERY FOSSIL!!”
Across the street, a guy holding a sandwich whispered, “Yo… is that the underwear dude yelling at a scooter?”
His friend glanced over.
“Yup.”