The Zhongshan Suits Mockery
Dave walked slowly through the streets he used to know so well.
The pavement shimmered with heat—like the whole city was steaming from the ground up. The air was thick and dry. But he didn’t mind.
After all, he was only wearing a single piece of clothing: a pinkish, triangle-shaped pair of women’s underwear.
And somehow… he didn’t feel hot at all.
But inside?
He felt heavy.
Crushed.
Useless.
He’d always thought of himself as a fighter.
But now… maybe he wasn’t.
Maybe he never was.
Maybe it was time to let it go. To quit. To find a different path—a different career.
Something far, far away from fighting.
As he turned the corner, he passed by a familiar sight—an old martial arts school.
He paused.
For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the building, watching the students come and go. Something tugged at his chest.
Memories.
Back when he was young—still a student—everything was so simple.
Just school. Just classes. Just classmates.
There weren’t all these messy things—friendship, heartbreak, betrayal…
Life back then was straightforward.
Sleep during class.
Play poker with classmates.
Go home, eat snacks, watch TV, play video games.
That was it. That was happiness.
“Kids have it good…” he muttered to himself.
He found himself hoping—just for a second—that maybe he could catch a glimpse of those energetic, cheerful students as they trained or laughed or ran around.
Just to remember what it felt like.
Just to borrow some of that youthful light, even for a moment.
Out of curiosity, he leaned his head past the front gate—just to take a peek inside.
And that’s when he saw them.
A group of students walking straight toward him.
At first, he blinked, confused.
Then his eyes widened in shock.
“Wait, what the hell is this?!”
All the students were wearing buttoned-up Zhongshan suits—every button fastened, all the way to the top.
Their hair was parted clean down the middle, slick and stiff—like they were extras from a black-and-white documentary.
It was like walking into a photograph from the past.
Dave’s chest tightened.
His calm mood was shattered like glass under a truck tire.
A huge wave of frustration crashed down on him.
“Of all the uniforms in the world, why… this one?!”
He clenched his fists.
“Why Zhongshan suits?! Why buttoned to the damn throat?! Who still parts their hair like this?!”
His face twisted.
His soul screamed.
Because what he saw in front of him wasn’t just a group of students—
It was a parade of Marvels.
Dozens of them.
Each one a stiff, uptight reminder of the boy who ruined his life.
He couldn’t hold it in anymore.
Dave tilted his head to the sky and screamed:
“WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME AGAIN?!”
The students froze.
They stared at him—this half-naked man in pinkish women’s underwear, yelling at the sky like a lunatic.
For a second, no one moved.
Then one of the students whispered:
“Is he on drugs?”
“Maybe he’s possessed…”
“Is that… a protest?”
But Dave didn’t move.
He just stood there, trembling with rage, staring at them—at their shiny suits and middle-parted haircuts.
The world wasn’t just messing with him.
It was mocking him.
The Zhongshan Suit Clash
One of the students in a stiff, perfectly buttoned Zhongshan suit stepped forward and stopped right in front of Dave.
“Sir,” he said with an overly polite tone, “just one look at you and I can tell—you’re a martial artist.
Would you be interested in a quick spar?”
Before Dave could respond, the student suddenly reached to his waist—
and drew a katana.
A real one. A full-length Japanese sword that shimmered in the sun.
Dave had just told himself he was done with fighting.
That this life wasn’t for him anymore.
But then he looked at the faces of those students—cold, deadpan, emotionless.
They looked like clones. A whole army of unbothered Marvels.
His insides twisted.
Without a word, Dave clenched his fist and launched a straight punch.
The student dodged. Fast. Not bad.
He responded by swinging the katana in tight arcs, spinning and circling around Dave with a smooth rhythm.
The technique was showy—fluid, almost artistic.
But Dave could see through it instantly.
“Newbies,” he muttered. “They’ve learned the form, not the meaning.”
Dave raised his arm, tapped the dull edge of the incoming blade with his forearm—just a light swat—and knocked it completely off course.
Then—without warning—he stepped forward and slammed his fist straight into the student’s gut.
The student flew backward, body crumpling midair, before hitting the ground and sliding across the pavement for several meters.
Unconscious.
Dave frowned.
“Damn… I shouldn’t have hit him that hard.”
He sighed.
“But every time I see those Zhongshan suits… I just can’t hold back.
It’s personal. Don’t blame me.”
From behind him, two more students shouted.
“Hey! It was just a friendly challenge!”
“You could’ve killed him! He’s the weakest in our class!”
Both of them pulled out their swords without hesitation.
Their movements were fast, confident—just a bit sharper than the last guy.
They coordinated perfectly—one distracting with a punch, the other slashing from the side, then swapping positions like trained dancers.
They were using a technique called the Tornado Blade.
It looked great.
Stylish, synchronized, impressive on camera.
But to Dave?
It was still child’s play.
He calmly raised both hands—shaped into precise hand-chops—and struck each incoming katana head-on.
In a flash—both swords snapped clean in half.
The two students froze.
Eyes wide.
Completely stunned.
“What… what the hell…”
But Dave didn’t wait.
He stepped in fast—one punch straight to the first one’s jaw, then pivoted and threw another into the second student’s cheek.
Both heads snapped sideways.
Both bodies went airborne.
They flew across the open courtyard, landed hard, and skidded across the pavement like broken mannequins—unconscious on impact.
Dave stood in the middle of it all.
Alone.
Fists clenched.
Chest rising and falling with quiet fury.
He looked down at the carnage.
Then muttered under his breath:
“Damn these ugly Zhongshan suits.”
My Name Is Not Canelo
In the distance—near the place where the first student had crashed into the ground—
another figure appeared, calmly walking forward.
He was also wearing a Zhongshan suit.
But something about him was… different.
Very different.
His hair wasn’t parted neatly down the middle like the others.
He had thick, straight-cut bangs—a full set of blunt fringe draped across his forehead.
And his Zhongshan suit?
Not a single button was fastened.
His chiseled chest and sharp abs were completely exposed. The loose fabric of the uniform fluttered in the wind with every step he took.
He looked less like a martial artist and more like a street punk.
Confident. Disrespectful. Borderline feral.
He didn’t walk like a student.
He walked like a problem.
The first student—still lying face-down in the dirt—barely lifted his head.
His voice was weak and trembling.
“S-Senior… C-Canelo… that guy’s strong… be careful…”
The approaching figure stopped.
His expression darkened.
Then, without a word, he took a step forward—
and kicked the student right in the mouth.
A wet snap echoed out.
The student’s upper lip tore clean off and flew a few feet through the air, landing like a strip of meat on the concrete.
The senior roared:
“I’M NOT CANELO, YOU STUPID SHIT!
MY NAME IS DINELO!
D-I-N-E-L-L-O!
SAY IT RIGHT OR I’LL RIP YOUR WHOLE FACE OFF, MOTHERFUCKER!”
The poor student began slamming his forehead against the ground in terror.
“S-sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry—!”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Dinello rolled his neck and turned toward Dave.
His voice dropped—cold, casual.
“Next time you call me Canelo, I’m kicking your balls into your stomach.”
He glanced back at the injured student.
“Hey. Lend me your katana.”
Before the student could respond, Dinello crouched down and took the sword straight from his hand.
“Huh? I haven’t even sheathed it yet—be careful! That sword’s expensive!”
Dinello didn’t even blink.
He kept walking forward.
As he neared Dave, he drew another katana from his own waist.
Now he held two.
One in each hand.
The twin blades shimmered under the light, cutting a sharp silhouette.
“Alright, you pink-freaked boxer freak,” Dinello smirked.
“Let me show you the pride of our school—the most famous, most powerful blade technique we’ve got.”
He adjusted his grip.
His muscles tensed.
He radiated cocky confidence.
“And hey—If I wipe the floor with you…
Don’t go crying back to your mommy in your panties, alright?”
“HAHAHAHA—HAHAHAHAHAHA—”
But just as he threw his head back to laugh—
Dave was already in front of him.
A blur of muscle and rage.
Muscle Dash.
A single punch.
Direct. Untelegraphed. Brutal.
Dave’s fist connected squarely with Dinello’s face.
CRACK.
His body twisted mid-air—spinning wildly before slamming into the ground and skidding across the pavement.
But he never let go of the swords.
Both blades were still in his hands, gripped tight even as he slid to a stop.
The three other students, still groaning on the ground, watched with wide eyes.
One whispered:
“Holy shit… even our strongest student… even Canelo just got wrecked…”
Dinello slowly, shakily, pushed himself up from the dirt.
Blood trailed from his mouth.
His body trembled with rage.
He wiped his lip and screamed:
“FOR THE LAST TIME—MY NAME IS NOT CANELO!
FUCK YOU, IDIOT!!”
I Only Have 15 Minutes
Still lying in the dirt, face swollen and blood leaking from his mouth,
Dinello casually pulled out his phone.
He tapped the screen a few times like nothing had happened.
“Alright,” he muttered. “I’ve only got fifteen minutes left.
I need to be back before the 4 p.m. Pokémon episode.”
He said it flatly. No shame. No irony.
Like it was just part of his job.
One of the beaten students nearby mumbled weakly, barely audible:
“If you just subscribed to Netflix…
you wouldn’t have to watch it at exactly 4…
you could watch it whenever…”
But no one heard him.
The wind took his voice and scattered it like dust.
Dinello slowly stood up, adjusting his grip on his twin swords.
Then he called out, loud and clear:
“I’m coming. You better be ready.”
He stepped forward.
Two light, near-silent footfalls.
His shoes barely touched the ground—only the tips made contact.
His strides were small and rapid, like a gliding shadow.
In under a second, Dinello was already in front of Dave.
He unleashed his attack.
Twin-blade flurry.
The swords blurred in motion—he spun, dipped, twisted, thrust.
Every slash had grace, rhythm, chaos.
He moved like a dancer, a whirlwind, a showman with knives.
But Dave wasn’t a speed-type fighter.
He could only block about half of the strikes.
The other half?
They hit.
Thin cuts opened across his chest, his shoulders, his ribs.
But none of them were deep.
Because Dave’s body wasn’t normal.
His muscles were rock-solid.
Lined with raw density.
Pain-forged and iron-hard.
Most of the slashes barely broke the surface—just light scrapes.
Nothing serious.
Nothing fatal.
Dave stood unfazed, blood trickling in elegant red lines.
Silent.
Still.
Dinello stepped back, panting.
He stopped attacking.
His arms dropped slightly.
He stared at Dave.
“What… the hell is your body made of?” he muttered.
“Are you plated in gold? Or wrapped in steel or something?”
Then his eyes narrowed.
A realization flickered.
He thought of someone else.
Joshua—one of his masters.
A man whose body was known to be layered in golden alloy.
A walking tank. A living fortress.
Even after all this time, it still felt unreal—like something out of myth.
Could this guy… be built the same way?
His grip tightened around the blades.
But Dave finally spoke:
“Aside from this pink underwear?” he said casually.
“I’m not wearing anything.”
“No armor. No gold. Just muscle. Ten years of it.”
Dinello blinked.
“Even with ten years… that’s kind of insane.”
He gave a short, stunned laugh.
Then, without warning—
He struck.
A single, sudden thrust.
Direct stab.
Zero hesitation.
Less than 0.1 seconds.
The blade shot straight toward Dave’s abdomen.
No time to move.
No time to block.
But Dave didn’t need either.
He flexed.
HARD.
Every ab muscle tightened like compressed steel plates.
And just as the sword tip touched his stomach—
CRACK.
The blade snapped in half.
Broken cleanly.
Right down the middle.
Metal shards scattered across the pavement like cheap glass.
Dinello stood frozen.
Still gripping the broken hilt in silence.
He slowly looked up and met Dave’s eyes.
Dave looked down at the sword. Then back at Dinello.
His face was calm.
Unbothered.
As if nothing had happened.
Blades Bought with Hard-Earned Money
Dinello quietly walked over to the injured student, still clutching the shattered hilt of the katana he’d borrowed.
He crouched down and gently placed it back in the student’s trembling hands.
“Sorry about your sword,” he said. “I broke it.”
The student looked at the hilt for a moment.
Then, suddenly—
He slammed both fists into the ground and began sobbing uncontrollably.
“Mother, I’m so sorry!!
That sword… she cleaned toilets for three whole months just to buy it for me!
And I let it break!! I’m the worst son in the world!!”
Even Dave paused.
“…Damn,” he muttered. “That actually made me feel a little bad.”
Dinello stood in silence.
He held his last remaining sword tight, widened his stance, and dropped into a deep horse posture.
“SPATIAL SLASH!!” he shouted.
His body vibrated slightly—like he was preparing for a lightning-fast thrust.
Dave immediately raised his arms to guard his chest and neck.
Seconds passed.
Still nothing.
Dinello didn’t move.
He just stood there, eyes narrowed, trembling in the exact same pose.
Dave frowned.
“…The hell is this?”
Dinello cracked a grin.
“Oh.
Just kidding.”
“You son of a—” Dave began.
SLASH.
Dinello dashed forward in a blur—
One clean strike, straight across Dave’s neck.
He continued moving past him, then dropped dramatically to one knee, striking a perfect finisher pose with his blade extended into the air.
He grinned to himself.
“Oops,” he said coolly.
“One clean slice to take your head off…
Maybe I went a little too hard?”
Behind him—
Dave remained standing.
Then—
Crack. Pop. Pop.
Dave twisted his neck to the side lazily.
“Man… my neck’s been stiff all day.
No idea why.”
He rubbed it, then glanced at Dinello’s blade.
The sword was broken.
Again.
Snapped clean in half.
Dave raised an eyebrow.
“Wait… did you just try to cut me with this?”
Dinello turned slowly.
His eyes widened as he looked at the jagged edge.
He had assumed the cut went through.
But the sword had shattered the moment it touched Dave’s neck.
Not a scratch.
Not even a mark.
Dinello stared in disbelief.
Then—with a sudden cry—he threw the broken hilt to the ground.
Dropped to both knees.
Grabbed his head with both hands.
And screamed:
“DAAAAGHH!!”
Tears poured down his cheeks.
“That sword…
That was from my dad!!
He spent SIX MONTHS dumpster diving just to save up enough money to buy it!”
He collapsed forward, still wailing in despair, kneeling in the dirt like a defeated warrior…
…or a man who had just lost a family heirloom to a neck made of stone.
What a Jokester
Dinello remained kneeling on the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
Not just crying—screaming, howling, shaking.
The kind of crying that sounded like something had been ripped out of his soul.
“UAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
His voice echoed through the courtyard like a wounded animal in a storm.
Dave stood there, watching in silence.
And for the first time in a long time…
He felt genuinely bad.
He stepped forward carefully, voice soft.
“Hey… I didn’t mean to break your swords, man.
If I had money, I’d pay you back—really.
It’s just that… well, I haven’t worked in like… ten years.”
Dinello didn’t answer.
He just kept slamming his fists into the ground—again and again.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
The pavement began to fracture beneath him, spreading spiderweb cracks in all directions.
That was the depth of his grief.
Dave crouched beside him.
“Seriously… you don’t need to cry this hard.
If you just pick up a part-time job, save for a bit, you’ll be able to buy another sword.
I mean it.”
He looked at the broken ground, then back at Dinello.
“Honestly, watching you like this is… kinda making me feel worse.”
Suddenly—
Dinello stopped.
The fists.
The tears.
Everything.
He slowly stood up.
Then turned to face Dave.
His face?
Dry.
Not a single tear.
Not even puffy eyes.
He smiled.
Then he laughed.
Loudly.
“Just kidding, you silly goose!
You really believed all that? That whole sob story?”
He gave Dave a thumbs up and winked.
“My dad’s actually a high-up in the Kungfu Association.
We’re doing fine financially.
I’ve got swords for days. No worries at all.”
Dave froze.
His whole body stiffened.
Did I just get emotionally trolled for five straight minutes?
He felt his soul about to fall out of his body.
He almost dropped to the floor.
He managed to steady himself, breathing through his nose.
“You win,” he muttered.
“You’re officially the greatest prankster on Earth.”
He forced a smile—stiff and hollow.
A fake laugh followed. Dry. Empty.
But Dinello’s expression suddenly changed again.
His face turned serious.
Eyes focused.
Posture upright.
“Alright,” he said calmly.
“Round two. Let’s go.”
Dave blinked, confused.
“Wait… I broke both of your katanas.
Do you have any other weapons?
A dagger? A tamang blade or something?
You’re not actually going to fight me barehanded, are you?”
Dinello shrugged casually.
“Oh, those swords? I only come here on weekends to practice blade techniques.
It’s just a hobby—something fun.”
Then his tone dropped.
His eyes sharpened.
“But my real training… is in Qi.”
He raised one hand—fingers spread gently.
A subtle pressure pushed outward from his body.
“I was trained in internal energy.
My master is Joshua.
You’ve heard of him, right?
One of the former Four Kings.”
Dave’s face changed instantly.
That name—Joshua—carried weight.
Real weight.
Reputation.
Fear.
Power.
Dave’s fists clenched instinctively.
His breath slowed.
His eyes sharpened.
All the tension, all the dormant heat in his body—
It came back.
This fight just got serious.
The laziness, the hesitation, the guilt—they all evaporated.
His fighting spirit lit up like dry grass in flame.
“Alright,” he muttered.
“Let’s see what Joshua’s disciple is really made of.”