Days passed after the martial arts hall opened, yet not a single student came to learn. Chen Mo wasn't in a hurry. Every day, he sparred with the four Chinese martial artists he'd hired. In modern society, true martial arts masters were rare; even in this era, these men would have been considered first-rate fighters back in China. Finding one was hard enough—having several as sparring partners was a luxury he'd never had before.
As his real combat experience grew, Chen Mo's fighting skills advanced rapidly. His power in actual combat became more and more formidable. The respect in the eyes of the four instructors deepened with each passing day.
Adapting his training to his own superhuman strength and speed, Chen Mo combined various combat systems and gradually forged his own unique fighting style—a brutal, efficient hybrid built entirely around killing power.
Traditional kung fu emphasized clever counters and graceful control—joint locks, leverage, flow, precision. But those techniques weren't suited to Chen Mo's overwhelming power. Against crowds or on a battlefield, such artistry was too slow.
He needed something faster. Deadlier.
With his physical might far exceeding any ordinary man's, most situations required no fancy moves at all—just raw force and precision. Straightforward, decisive strikes worked best. Still, he learned much from his teachers: how to target vital points, control his strength, evade with minimal movement—all skills that sharpened his edge further.
He discarded unnecessary flourishes, keeping only what was simple and lethal. Every punch and kick now drove straight toward the kill. Combined with his inhuman power and speed, his attacks became devastating.
Once his foundation was set, he turned back to the techniques he had ignored—grappling, counters, balance disruption. Even if his current body could overpower nearly anyone in this world, he knew better than to grow complacent. One day, he might face enemies who demanded more than brute strength.
Constant sparring against technical fighters kept him sharp, adaptable, and prepared for anything.
That evening, after dinner, Chen Mo didn't train. He went upstairs to his study on the third floor.
On the desk lay a file he had ordered Hydra to compile: the dossier of Steve Rogers.
Inside were detailed records—military files, personal background, family information, friends, recent activities, and common locations.
Steve Rogers, born July 4, 1918, Brooklyn, New York.
Father: soldier of the 107th Infantry Regiment, killed by mustard gas during World War I.
Mother: nurse in a tuberculosis ward, infected while on duty, died in 1926.
After her death, Rogers moved into an orphanage, where he met his lifelong friend James "Bucky" Barnes.
As an adult, he left the orphanage and worked as a factory laborer. Kind-hearted, honest, and stubbornly brave—but frail. Constantly bullied, yet he never backed down, never ran away. Even beaten and bloodied, he always stood back up.
Closing the file, Chen Mo leaned back in his chair, comparing the report with the movie scenes still fresh in his mind.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Come in, Eddie," he said.
Only the old butler ever came to the third floor.
The door opened. Eddie Albert entered, carrying a silver tray. He poured a steaming cup of coffee and placed it gently on the table.
The aroma filled the room. Chen Mo inhaled deeply, took a sip, and couldn't help but sigh with satisfaction.
"Thank you, Eddie. It's excellent."
"My pleasure, sir."
Eddie bowed slightly, pleased by the praise, then left the study with quiet dignity.
Chen Mo chuckled and shook his head. Since stepping into his butler role, Eddie had returned entirely to his old aristocratic habits. Every detail of etiquette was flawless—even down to ironing the morning newspaper until Chen Mo made him stop.
According to the file, Steve Rogers worked at a factory in Brooklyn, often targeted by bullies. His stubborn courage earned him bruises almost daily.
The factory wasn't far from the dojo. Every morning and evening, Steve passed by on his way to and from work. He would often glance curiously at the spacious Chinese martial arts school—the unfamiliar Chinese characters on the sign, the sound of training within. He had heard it was a place that taught "kung fu," though he couldn't afford such lessons.
To him, the dojo seemed mysterious, almost otherworldly.
Once, he had witnessed an incident outside: a wiry Asian man being harassed by two burly white thugs. Steve had been ready to rush in and help—but before he could take three steps, the "victim" had already sent both men sprawling in seconds.
A few days later, Steve saw the same man again—walking out of that same Chinese dojo.
The mystery deepened.
That night, as Steve walked home past the dojo, something felt different.
A strange tension hung in the air, the kind that prickled instinct. He slowed his pace.
Inside, Chen Mo sat calmly on the sofa, coffee in hand. Beside him stood Eddie, immaculate as ever, and the four Chinese instructors waited silently.
"Finally," Chen Mo murmured, setting down his cup. "Took them longer than I expected."
He glanced toward the shadows across the street. Dozens of eyes glinted in the dark.
"Master," said the lean fighter Huang Quan, "they're Johnny the Mad Dog's men. The two I beat last time are with them."
"Give dogs a chance to lick their wounds," Chen Mo said coldly, smiling faintly, "and they always come back. Go open the door."
Moments later, heavy fists pounded the front entrance.
Huang Quan opened it—and a dozen armed thugs stormed in, clubs and pipes raised.
The crowd parted. A short, broad man in a tailored suit and fedora strutted forward with arrogant swagger—'Mad Dog' Johnny, one of Brooklyn's local mafia bosses.
Scanning the room, Johnny saw only a handful of slim Asian men and an elderly butler. Smirking, he walked toward the sofa, ready to sit.
"Did I say you could sit?"
Chen Mo's calm voice sliced through the noise.
Johnny froze mid-motion. As a mafia leader, a self-styled king of Brooklyn's underground, he wasn't used to being denied. Rage twisted his face.
"Kid," he growled, "you don't seem to know who runs this neighborhood. Boys—teach him a lesson!"
"As you wish," Chen Mo replied lightly, waving his hand.
The four instructors moved as one, charging forward.
What followed was a blur of motion—four tigers among sheep. Within seconds, the thugs lay sprawled across the floor, groaning in pain.
Silence fell. Only the sound of labored breathing filled the hall.
Johnny's face darkened, fury rising in humiliation.
"Now," Chen Mo said, his tone low, his gaze sharp, "remind me again—who runs this neighborhood?"
Johnny let out a shrill laugh.
"Chinese kung fu, huh? Impressive! But this is America, boy. And here, we use this to decide who's in charge."
With a snarl, he drew a pistol from his coat and aimed it straight at Chen Mo.
Around him, several of the wounded men on the floor pulled their own guns, pointing them at Huang Quan and the others as they struggled to stand.
The balance of power seemed to shift again.
The real fight was only just beginning.