The Humble Hit Job
The room was dim—lit only by a single lamp dangling above the roundtable. The rest of the office was drowned in darkness.
Four men sat beneath the light.
Colin lounged back in his chair, arms crossed, legs casually draped over one another. His tone was flat, indifferent—almost lazy.
“I heard you got your ass kicked recently,” Colin said, glancing at Mr. Sang. “By some… perverted freak in women’s underwear. That’s unfortunate.
Let’s get to the point. Tell us what you want. Don’t be shy.”
Mr. Sang’s face twisted in fury.
He slammed his palm against the table—once, twice, then again—his voice shaking with rage.
“That bastard! He doesn’t know anything! He has no idea how this world works!
He disrespected the entire Kung Fu Association! I want him punished—beaten so badly he’ll never forget it.
I want him to learn what it means to respect us.”
Colin turned his head slightly, eyes still lazy, and spoke without looking.
“Hey, Brian. You scouted him last time.
How strong is he?”
Brian barely moved. He answered like a man reporting weather conditions.
“Very weak. Pathetically weak.
Honestly, it’d be easier than taking a shit.”
Colin nodded.
“Good. Then it’s your job.
Michael’s tied up with something else right now, so he’s out.”
Brian gave a small, professional nod.
“Understood. Just to clarify—what’s the end goal of this mission?”
Colin didn’t even blink.
“Teach him a lesson. Beat him up.
And fuck him good.”
Brian raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Alive or dead?”
Colin shrugged and gestured toward Mr. Sang.
Mr. Sang snorted, waving a hand like he couldn’t care less.
“Up to you. I don’t care.
As long as he learns the damn lesson.”
At that moment, Michael reached into his civic pouch and placed it on the table. He unzipped it slowly.
Inside—neatly bundled stacks of cash.
He slid the bag across the table to Mr. Sang.
“Mr. Sang,” Michael said with a polite smile,
“this is a little gift from the Humble Organization.
Buy something nice. Something that helps you heal faster.”
Mr. Sang’s anger melted. His face lit up with smug satisfaction.
“Thank you. That’s… very thoughtful.
I’ll make sure you guys get the full operation rights for the new massage street.
That kind of place—we’ll make sure it’s all yours.”
Colin smiled faintly.
“Bribery makes the world a better place.”
A Golden Visit
It was a quiet night.
Or at least, it was supposed to be—until Brian roared down the street on his motorcycle.
The engine growled with a high-pitched snarl so loud, it shattered the peace of every neighborhood he passed. Dogs barked. Windows rattled. Somewhere, a tired old man cursed and slammed his window shut.
Brian didn’t care.
He cruised into a narrow alley, the motor still howling—until something odd floated past his face.
A flash of pink.
A soft, silky, triangle-shaped piece of pink underwear glided through the air like a lazy butterfly.
Brian squinted, then switched his headlamp to full beam.
That’s when he saw him.
A bare-chested muscle freak standing right in the middle of the alley, wearing nothing but a pair of pink women’s underwear. Tight. Triangular. Proud.
Brian pulled his bike to a stop in front of the man, blocking his path.
He dropped one foot to the ground, casually dismounted, and flipped the kickstand down—leaving the bike parked squarely in the middle of the street.
He walked up to the man and asked calmly:
“You’re the perverted freak everyone’s been talking about, aren’t you?
The Underwear?”
Dave stared at him, taking his time.
Then he noticed it—Brian’s eyes. They were glowing. Not metaphorically. Literally. Two golden beams of light, sharp and steady, piercing through the darkness.
Brian took another step forward, tilting his head.
“Of all the clothing options in the world…
why the hell did you choose that?”
Dave replied softly, almost kindly:
“Please leave my underwear alone.”
Then he added:
“So… what are you here for?”
Brian spread his arms a little, almost apologetically.
“Nothing personal, really.
Just business. Straight business.
I got an assignment from above.”
He paused.
“I’m here to teach you a lesson.
Beat you up…
and fuck you good.”
Dave’s eyes lit up—not with fear, but delight.
He had dreamed of someone bold enough to challenge him.
A slow, excited smile crept across his face.
“Then bring it on.”
The Flawless Anticipation
Dave didn’t waste a single word.
He charged forward, swinging a heavy punch straight at Brian’s face. His movement was the same as always—amateurish and slow, like a gym bro trying to fight in a dream.
But Brian was already moving.
He calmly traced a series of circular motions with both hands in front of him—smooth, fluid spirals that absorbed the impact and unraveled Dave’s momentum entirely.
It was elegant. Effortless.
He had learned it not long ago—while watching Canelo and Robinson fight at the mall.
This was Robinson’s signature move.
Dave halted, took two steps back, and nodded in approval.
“Not bad.”
Then he repeated the same attack—twice more.
Same stance. Same slow swing. Same circles from Brian.
Same result. Perfectly neutralized.
But inside, Dave was smiling.
He had just thrown three weak, predictable attacks—on purpose. It was bait.
He was setting up the fourth one. The real one.
The one that would end everything.
He slammed his back foot into the ground.
CRACK!
The concrete beneath him buckled.
Cracks shot out from his foot like spiderwebs across the alley floor.
And then he vanished.
In less than 0.1 seconds, he closed the distance—Muscle Dash.
Dave’s body launched forward like a missile of pure meat and fury.
But Brian had already moved.
He ducked down into a crouch—calm, composed—and spun with a sudden burst of motion.
Tornado Sweep.
Dave’s legs were swept clean off the ground.
The momentum from his own dash flipped him upward uncontrollably. He spun in the air, wide open—exposed.
Still lying on the ground, Brian planted his hands down and kicked upward with all his strength.
CRACK!
His foot connected directly with Dave’s abdomen.
WHAM!
Dave rocketed forward, his body slamming hard into the alley wall.
Concrete exploded. A massive spiderweb of cracks spread across the surface.
Dave slumped to the ground, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.
He slowly got up, eyes spinning, confused. He wiped the blood with the back of his hand.
“How… how can you move that fast?
That’s not… human.”
Brian just smiled.
He gently raised a finger and tapped the corner of his glowing eye.
“Golden Eyes.
I see it all—before you even move.
Your body gives you away with every little twitch.
You were already finished before you began.”
Then Brian’s smile faded.
His face grew serious. Cold.
He stepped forward and said, quietly:
“Time to end this.
Right here.
Right now.”
Time to End This
Brian dashed forward—each step faster than the last—until he reached a large industrial dumpster.
He leapt up in one fluid motion, landing silently on the metal lid.
Then—he copied it.
Muscle Dash.
Borrowed from Dave. Perfected instantly.
As he launched forward, his foot slammed into the lid of the dumpster.
CLANG!
The metal caved in beneath the force, forming a deep dent as he blasted off the surface like a rocket.
He shot across the alley and leapt—landing squarely on the third-floor balcony of a nearby apartment building.
From below, Dave looked up.
He squinted at the figure above, unsure of what was coming—but fully prepared to face it.
His stance tightened. His breathing slowed. He was ready for the worst.
Brian didn’t wait.
He ran a few more steps along the narrow balcony—then jumped.
His body rose high into the air—ten meters above ground.
Far above the alley. Far above Dave.
And then came the form.
One leg curled in tight. The other shot straight.
He rotated midair, angling downward at a sharp 45-degree plunge.
Skyfall Kick.
It was Canelo’s most destructive technique—an airborne kill shot. But this time, it wasn’t Canelo using it.
It was Brian.
The friction from his descent lit the air—sparks danced from his heel as it sliced through the atmosphere.
It wasn’t just strength. It was calculation.
Brian had done the math:
If he missed and hit the ground directly, his leg would likely snap clean in half.
If he overshot the height, the counterforce alone could crush his joints.
This move wasn’t just dangerous—it was suicidal without precision.
Colin had the mind for it, but not the body.
Michael had the body, but not the math.
Only Brian could do both.
He was, quite possibly, the only person in the world who could safely use this technique.
And now he was using it—on Dave.
Dave braced.
He crossed both arms above his head, shielding himself the best he could.
Then—
BOOM.
A white flash.
Sparks exploded across the alley.
The sound echoed like a thunderclap—like a bomb going off.
For one second, the world blinked.
Then silence.
When the dust settled, Brian stood calmly on the ground. No grin. No gloating.
His expression was dead serious.
He didn’t move.
But Dave—
Dave was on one knee.
Both of his forearms had suffered multiple fractures—maybe ten or more across both bones.
One leg was twisted at the ankle, badly sprained from the backward force when he’d been thrown.
He was breathing heavily. His face pale.
But his eyes—still full of fire.
He gritted his teeth, wincing in pain… then looked up at Brian.
Quietly, calmly, he said:
“Finish it.”
Let’s Call It a Day
Dave let out a long sigh.
He accepted it.
This was how it was meant to go. Win or lose—that was the nature of the martial world.
Still, a small regret lingered in his chest.
He had dreamed of becoming the strongest man on Earth.
But now… so young, so soon… it seemed like his story might end here.
He lowered his head.
But then—Brian didn’t move closer.
He didn’t raise a fist.
He didn’t come to finish the job.
Instead, he turned and calmly walked away.
Toward his motorcycle.
“Let’s call it a day,” he said over his shoulder.
“My mission’s complete. You—just be good. I have no intention of killing you today.”
He reached his bike, flipped down the kickstand, and swung a leg over the seat.
As he twisted the handlebars and revved the engine, he kept talking.
“There are many strong people in this world.
You’re strong too. But just… average-strong.”
“This world is full of monsters.
And even among monsters—there are monsters of monsters.”
The engine growled louder.
“The world’s big,” he said.
“Bigger than—”
Suddenly, he stopped mid-sentence.
Without another word, he pulled the throttle.
The motorcycle roared to life and shot down the alley, tires screeching against the pavement. He made a sharp turn at the end and disappeared from view.
Gone.
Dave remained kneeling, bloodied and bruised, silent in the middle of the alley.
He stared at the spot where Brian had stood.
Somehow, those final words—cut off and incomplete—had brought him back down to Earth.
His pride had been living on the moon.
But now… he understood.
He nodded slowly.
“Yeah… this world really is too big.
Way bigger than my gym.”
Then he gave a weak, bitter laugh.
He never did figure out why Brian left so suddenly.
He just felt confused.
But far down the alley, beyond the turn…
A small drop of blood ran down from the corner of Brian’s mouth.
Just One Lousy Digit
A few blocks away—under a flickering streetlamp—Brian sat slumped against the pole.
His eyes were closed.
His breathing was heavy.
A few thin trails of blood ran down his chin, still fresh beneath the moonlight.
About two meters in front of him, his motorcycle lay on its side in the middle of the road.
Its rear wheel was still spinning in the air.
Endlessly turning. Endlessly humming.
The truth was—Brian had underestimated the recoil.
That Skyfall Kick had hit harder than he’d calculated.
Much harder.
When he landed, the counterforce had rattled through his entire frame—his head throbbed, and he immediately felt the early signs of a concussion.
His organs churned. Something inside had definitely taken damage.
That’s why he had left so quickly.
He didn’t want Dave to see him like this.
Didn’t want anyone to see him break.
He only made it a few blocks.
On the way to the hospital, he collapsed under the streetlamp.
Now, footsteps approached from ahead.
Two familiar figures wandered down the sidewalk, laughing slightly, swaying a bit from alcohol.
It was Michael and Mildy—out together after a late-night snack and a few drinks.
They were just walking by.
Michael spotted the body first.
“Brian?!”
He ran over, crouched down, and grabbed Brian by the shoulders, shaking him slightly.
“Hey! What happened? Are you okay?! Brian—talk to me!”
Brian’s eyes fluttered open. He looked dazed, but he smiled faintly.
“I… miscalculated.
Just one lousy digit.”
Michael blinked.
He had no idea what that meant.
Math talk. Nerd shit. He didn’t care.
“Screw your decimal points. I’m taking you to the hospital. Now.”
But before he could lift Brian, another voice cut in.
Mildy stepped forward, smug as ever.
“No need. I am a doctor.
An unlicensed one.”
Michael’s expression twisted.
He turned his head slowly, eyes sharp, lips tight.
Then he snapped—
“Get the fuck out of here.”