Chapter 6: Everybody Is Kung-Fu Fighting♪!

Chapter 6: Everybody Is Kung-Fu Fighting♪!

Exactly thirty minutes before the first bell of the morning...

Scott Tang was positioned just beyond the perimeter of the high school gates, casually deep in conversation with a tight cluster of six men ranging from their late teens to early twenties. The undisputed leader of this secondary vanguard stood out immediately, clad in a premium, tailored athletic jogging outfit of deep royal blue with sharp white stripes cascading down the lengths of his arms and legs.

The man in blue was clean-cut, bearing the physical discipline and sharp posture of a university athlete. The thick, pristine white hand-wraps layering his knuckles and wrists instantly broadcast his specialized focus as a high-level striker or dedicated martial arts practitioner.

Anyone possessing localized knowledge of the regional athletic circuit would immediately recognize him as the reigning captain of the Karate club—one of the four premier, hyper-competitive combat disciplines hosted at Star University. For context, the institution's four officially sanctioned combat factions consisted of the Karate, Boxing, Kung-Fu, and MMA clubs.

The other five men surrounding him, however, shared none of his clean-cut, athletic prestige. They looked like textbook street gangsters, each bearing a vibrant red bandana aggressively tied around a forearm, a bicep, or their foreheads. This crimson insignia represented the Fire Birds.

The Fire Birds functioned as one of the four heavily monitored, government-categorized organized crime syndicates active in the area. To a first-world outsider, the government's open tolerance of these syndicates would seem entirely absurd. In reality, it was a horribly kept public secret that all four syndicates operated under the loose, subterranean ownership of the four great noble corporate families. They functioned essentially as the independent black-ops branches of the main bloodlines—the equivalent of a violent, black-market uncle whom the household fundamentally despised but could never officially purge.

The structural existence of these organized crime factions relied on a few heavily calculated societal elements...

Systemic Equilibrium: Periodically, a crime syndicate would intentionally pressure or check the noble house it belonged to when the corporate elites grew too volatile or out of touch. One operated as the light while the other anchored the dark—functioning exactly like the covert organization from the old historical anime chronicles.

Economic Separation: The syndicates absorbed the highly lucrative, black-market industries necessary to stabilize a capitalist society—such as private loans, underground gambling dens, and high-end prostitution. This insulated the noble families, allowing them to maintain clean, legitimate business records on paper.

Vagran Code: The regional government maintained a zero-tolerance policy for unproductive citizens; being an unemployed, unskilled vagrant was a societal sin legally punishable by administrative execution. The syndicates functioned as an aggressive social safety net, clearing the homeless bums off the streets and forcing them straight into industrial sweatshops or defensive labor rings. The elderly, the extremely young, and the severely handicapped were the solitary exemptions to the mandate. If you fell into catastrophic debt or rendered yourself useless to the machine, off to a sweatshop you went.

Narcotic Suppression: Because of this relentless structural filter, Eurasia boasted the absolute lowest statistical rate of drug abuse across the globe, with commercial tobacco and alcohol remaining the solitary legal exceptions. The consumption rate of actual narcotics was astronomically low, primarily because indulging in illegal substances functioned as an immediate, fast-track ticket into syndicate conscription.

My original, past-life identity would have been utterly appalled by such a cold, draconian system. However, the newly awakened Rick Lee looked at the mechanics of this world and had to admit it worked with terrifying efficiency. Besides, there was another massive incentive to remain a highly productive citizen: the government routinely selected the unregistered underclass to function as frontline cannon fodder in active war zones or high-hazard disaster spots. Long story short—don't be a bum.

At the moment, the five street soldiers were casually smoking and scrolling through their smartphones while their field commander—labeled as Boss Number 7 inside the syndicate's operational ledger—wrapped up his strategic directives with his wealthy client.

Back near the main double doors of the high school entrance, two striking vixens were whispering to one another, their heads pressed close as they plotted.

"Nichole," Nadia murmured, her eyes darted toward the street corner. "You don't actually believe Rick is going to walk straight into this bottleneck after you explicitly warned him to avoid the front gates, do you?"

Nichole let out a soft, knowing chuckle, a wicked smile playing across her lips as she adjusted her uniform.

"Let's make a little wager on this, Nadia. If he actually shows his face and takes the front entrance head-on, you have to go first. But if he cowers out and refuses to fight, then I'll take the lead. How does that sound?"

Nadia giggled, her bright-blue eyes shimmering with excitement.

"As long as you aren't using your tactical analysis to cheat me, I am absolutely in! Honestly, marching straight into a six-man ambush is literal suicide. I bet he already bypassed the block by slipping through the high school's restricted rear service entrance. He-he. Prepare yourself, sister, because you are definitely going first."

"If my calculations are flawed, I'll pay the debt cleanly," Nichole replied, smoothly pulling out her phone. "By the way, did you ensure the message regarding Scott's morning operational deployment reached Linda Lang?"

"I executed it flawlessly," Nadia whispered back proudly. "I had one of her low-profile academic acquaintances transmit the text news directly to her personal smartphone. Scott won't ever be able to trace the leak back to our devices. He-he!"

"See? You aren't simple at all, sister—you possess a wonderful streak of natural malice," Nichole complimented with a sharp grin. "Excellent. Let's settle in and watch the theatrics commence. And remember to keep your smartphone camera rolling the second the physical engagement breaks out."

High above the courtyard, hidden securely behind the safety fence of the high school roof, a stunning redhead held a pair of high-powered military binoculars glued to her eyes, securing a pristine, aerial viewing angle of the entire spot. Tina Feng was actively tracking a series of encrypted incoming news streams vibrating against her handheld smartphone.

The moment her intelligence network flagged that Scott Tang was utilizing a low-level squad from the Fire Birds, Tina had quietly intercepted the transaction. She instructed her operatives to leak a highly specific piece of tactical clues to Number 7—who had recently been demoted from the elite Number 6 rank inside her private ledger. She informed the operative about the sudden, localized emergence of the academy's mysterious new 'Number 2' candidate, seamlessly baiting the university karate captain to join the morning festivities.

Scott, of course, had absolutely zero comprehension of Tina Feng’s overarching surveillance or manipulation.

Through the clear magnification of her lenses, Tina caught sight of a lone figure moving with a steady, unhurried stride far down the avenue—a detail entirely invisible to the oblivious teenagers crowded near the gates. The corners of her lips curled into a predatory, sharp grin.

"So, Rick Lee..." she whispered to the wind, her fingers tightening against the binoculars. "Someone deliberately hands you a complete blueprint of a coordinated ambush, and you still choose to march directly into the mouth of the beast? Oh, my strategic instincts never play me false. Let's see you struggle and evolve, little dragon."

Down at the main gates of the school, the atmosphere was growing increasingly tense.

Scott wrapped up his conversation with his university martial arts contact and strolled back over to the sides of his gorgeous fiancées, his chest puffed out with arrogant satisfaction.

"My boy Tony managed to clear his schedule this morning because he apparently harbors an intense, deeply personal grudge against Rick Lee," Scott announced, casually adjusting his high school blazer. "He didn't explicitly detail what the bad blood was about, but Rick is absolute toast. Tony commands a second-degree black belt and has been actively training in competitive combat formats for ten straight years."

Nichole looked at Scott, her expression a mask of flawless, submissive admiration. "I suppose with an asset like that on the field, your academic rival is completely finished. You won't have him around to toy with anymore, will you?"

"Rival? Don't insult me," Scott scoffed, letting out a loud, mocking laugh. "The kid is nothing more than a pathetic bug splattered across my windshield. I simply take immense personal pleasure in putting lower-class toads back in their proper place. A common toad doesn't get to look up from the mud and taste my premium swan meat, ha-ha!"

Standing directly behind Scott's back, where his field of vision couldn't track them, the Ning twins exchanged a lightning-fast, mocking grin, their shoulders trembling slightly as they violently suppressed their laughter.

While Scott was riding a wave of pure, unadulterated joy, a sleek, pristine white luxury limousine smoothly glided to a halt right alongside the security curb. The front door swung open, and a stone-faced female driver-bodyguard stepped out, moving with military precision to open the rear passenger door for the second miss of the prestigious Lang dynasty: Linda Lang.

Linda stepped out onto the damp asphalt wearing a flowing black sundress, her face a mask of absolute, freezing hostility. She was in a thoroughly terrible mood.

Not only had she failed to sleep a single wink last night due to the existential crisis Rick's academic revelation had triggered, but on her morning commute, an anonymous classmate had texted her full details of Scott's plan. The text revealed he had hired a six-man squad of professional syndicate thugs to publicly cripple Rick Lee right in front of the student body. Less than twenty-four hours after she had explicitly warned him to cease his thuggish behavior, the arrogant idiot had completely ignored her mandate.

"Mercy," Linda said, her voice dripping with absolute authority as she looked at her primary bodyguard. "If that boy's life is fundamentally in jeopardy out there, you are to intervene and neutralize the threat immediately."

Linda slid her smartphone across the console, showcasing a clear portrait of Rick Lee. The driver examined the digital file, nodding with professional stoicism.

"If the physical engagement occurred directly on official high school property, it would present a severe jurisdictional issue, young miss," the bodyguard replied smoothly. "But since the targets are positioned out on the public municipal streets, executing a tactical intervention won't be a problem."

Scott, witnessing Linda's sudden deployment of her personal maid, furrowed his brow in immediate irritation, wondering how the hell she had intercepted his plan. But he quickly forced a smooth, diplomatic smile onto his face, stepping forward to intercept her path.

"Good morning, Linda," Scott greeted, his voice dripping with rehearsed charm. "How are you doing today? You look a bit fatigued around the eyes—is there any issue I can assist with?"

Linda paused, turning her cold, entirely expressionless face toward him.

"Never speak to me again." her words cut through the air, sharp and clear. "You chose to willfully ignore my explicit warning and executed exactly what your pathetic ego desired. I no longer care what kind of political pressure my family attempts to exert regarding our arranged union—you and I are completely finished. I hope your petty little game was truly worth the destruction of your future, Scott."

Scott's aristocratic mask completely shattered, his face turning an angry shade of crimson as he scrambled to construct a lie.

"I haven't orchestrated a single thing here, Linda!" he stammered, gesturing wildly toward the street corner. "Those men over there explicitly stated they possess an independent, personal beef with the kid! I have absolutely zero correlation with their presence here today! Please do not falsely accuse me in front of my peers. I will absolutely inform your family elders that you are fabricating absurd lies just to illegally breach our marital agreement!"

Linda, who had already begun walking toward the high school foyer to completely insulate herself from the impending physical violence, stopped her advance. She slowly turned her head, casting a look of absolute, freezing disdain over her shoulder.

"Do you honestly believe my baseline intelligence has plummeted beneath your abysmal level simply because I lost a few hours of sleep, Scott?" Linda stated, her voice echoing across the courtyard. "Do whatever your petty heart desires—go speak to my family. I never recant an official declaration. Enjoy your pathetic, small-minded revenge. I will have absolutely zero participation in your immature, short-sighted nonsense. Goodbye, Mr. Tang."

The massive crowd of high schoolers lingering near the gates collectively sucked in a sharp, synchronized breath. Damn!

Before Scott could even attempt to recover his dignity, a student near the outer security fence pointed frantically down the block, his voice rising in an excited, panicked shout.

"Holy shit! Look down the avenue! It's Rick Lee—and the crazy bastard is walking right into the middle of the Fire Birds block!"

Every single teenager remaining in the courtyard violently spun around, their eyes locking onto the unfolding spectacle down the street. All except for one lone woman. Linda Lang kept her back turned, marching with rigid, unblinking steps straight through the high school double doors to escape the violence.

Linda harbored a deep, paralyzing psychological phobia of physical combat—a trauma forged during a certain horrific incident that had systematically shattered her life nearly four years ago. The vivid memories of pooling blood, the deafening echo of automatic gunfire, the lifeless gaze of fallen bodies, and the terrifying sequence of how she had barely managed to survive that slaughter still haunted her subconscious to this very day.

Down the block, entirely unbothered by the eyes of the academy, I kept my steady cadence, my hands resting lightly in the deep pockets of my slash-resistant long coat as the distance between myself and the six hired killers rapidly collapsed to zero.

I was chilling, walking a few minutes early to ensure I wouldn't be late for the first bell. Well, assuming I could wrap up a street fight within the allotted timeframe. I just had to keep realistic limits on my physical state: my unconditioned body was still recovering from a severe concussion and four bruised ribs. My Grandmaster knowledge was bottlenecked, meaning I couldn't rely on pure physical dominance. To guarantee an absolute victory, I needed to cheat. It was as simple as that.

I had left my standard academy uniform tucked safely inside my backpack. Instead, I was currently clad in my freshly unboxed black Kung-Fu training trousers and matching tactical jacket. I slid a pair of wrap-around sports sunglasses over my eyes—an essential layer of protection to shield my retinas from any splashing airborne liquids. Finally, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a sterile, hospital-grade medical mask, and securely looped it over my ears. Operating without it would mean absolute, self-inflicted suffering.

Up on the school roof, Tina Feng lowered her high-powered binoculars for a brief second, her brow furrowing in sheer, unadulterated confusion at my bizarre choice of medical facial attire. Down at the perimeter fence, the massive crowd of spectating high schoolers looked equally bewildered. They had zero capability to see the predatory, mocking grin hiding right beneath the fabric of my mask.

As the distance closed to zero, Tony—the clean-cut university athlete in the royal blue tracksuit—stepped out into the center of the asphalt to anchor the bottleneck. The five seasoned, red-bandana-wearing street thugs from the Fire Birds fanned out into a loose tactical crescent right behind him.

The moment I examined the precise alignment of the white cotton wraps layering Tony’s knuckles and wrists, I could tell he wasn't a standard boxer.

His weight distribution was heavily anchored for linear, explosive thrusts—classic Karate methodology. His muscle memory placed him comfortably at the Advanced tier. The five syndicate soldiers backing his play were fundamentally weak on a technical level, but they possessed the dangerous, unblinking pragmatism of seasoned street brawlers.

My bright-blue eyes scanned their waistlines and sleeves. They were packing heavy brass knuckles, and two of the forward soldiers were loosely swinging weighted wooden bats. These bastards weren't here to execute a simple social hazing; they fully intended to permanently cripple or murder me on the asphalt.

Fine. Two can play that game.

When I hit a threshold of exactly thirty feet from their frontline, I came to a fluid halt. I casually leaned my heavy school backpack against the brick parameter wall, explicitly demonstrating to the entire crowd that I had absolutely zero intention of running away.

Tony narrowed his eyes, his voice carrying clearly down the empty street. "You are Rick Lee... also known within the network as the new Number 2?"

"Fuck you," I shot back, my voice completely muffled but carrying a razor-sharp edge through the mask. "Why the hell are you casually calling me names like that? No, look at yourself—you're a walking, talking number two, you absolute dick."

The university captain blinked, his clean-cut face twisting into absolute, unmitigated confusion as he scrambled to rectify the linguistic misdirection.

"No, you're misunderstanding the situation! I am currently logged as Number 7 inside the system ledger, and I am here to seize your Number 2 title! To claim the asset, I am required to definitively defeat you in open martial combat!"

I had absolutely zero comprehension of whatever subterranean, real-world role-playing game this elite psycho was trying to pull on me, but I didn't care.

"Then I immediately admit absolute defeat," I stated, waving a dismissive hand as I took a step forward. "Congratulations, you are now officially Number 2. Go take a shit somewhere else, pal. I am absolutely not playing your idiotic, numerical arcade games. I refuse any designated rank, so go fuck yourself with all the two's your heart desires. Now scram."

Tony stood entirely frozen in place, his tactical focus completely derailed by my instantaneous surrender. According to his rigid, competitive code of honor, my immediate submission stripped away his entire logical justification to initiate a physical duel.

Sensing the sudden operational paralysis, the lead Fire Birds gangster let out a loud, deeply annoyed sigh, stepping past the university athlete with his brass knuckles glinting in the morning sun. "Seven, ignore the little bitch. You can't legally secure the second slot on the master ledger unless you physically knock the kid unconscious in a verified engagement. Sigh. Come on, you four. We have a paid contract to fulfill. Let's warm this Rick kid up."

Tony hesitated, slowly stepping back to let the syndicate soldiers execute their black-market assignment. In his mind, watching his prospective opponent exhaust his stamina and reveal his combat forms against five street brawlers was an excellent strategic advantage. If Rick Lee went down to common street muscle, he wasn't worthy of the ledger anyway.

The tactical movement of the thugs was textbook street encirclement. The two gangsters wielding the weighted wooden bats aggressively split, flanking my immediate left and right sides. A third soldier quietly drifted toward my rear blind spot, while the remaining two brass-knuckle brothers advanced directly from my front.

I nonchalantly jammed both of my hands into the front pockets of my Kung-Fu jacket, adopting a loose, entirely bored posture. Despite my apparent indifference, the advancing fighters slowed their cadence, their eyes locked onto my covered waistline, deeply wary of whatever hidden hardware or concealed weapon I might be pulling from the fabric.

Inside the darkness of my pockets, my fingers wrapped around two distinct objects. I ensured the nozzle trajectories were oriented perfectly forward, smoothly flicked the safety caps into the unlocked position with my thumbs, and utilized my Acting skill to project the ultimate, cool persona of a modern action hero.

"Bats—execute!" the lead gangster roared.

The moment the tactical signal echoed through the block, my hands violently ripped free from my pockets. I didn't draw a firearm or my telescopic batons. Instead, my arms snapped outward like twin pistons, deploying two high-capacity canisters of military-grade, maximum-concentration pepper spray directly into the wider perimeters of my left and right flanks.

A thick, pressurized fog of localized chemical agent erupted instantly, painting the atmosphere in an aggressive orange mist.

"Ahhhhh!" the right-flank bat wielder screamed, his weapon slipping from his fingers as he violently clutched his blistering skin.

"Whaaaat the absolute fuck! My eyes! My fucking eyes!" the left soldier shrieked, collapsing to his knees as the vapor thoroughly scorched his mucous membranes.

I didn't waste a single millisecond of the chemical element of surprise. Pivoting smoothly on my heel, I swung both canisters forward, continuously depressing the actuators to flood the exact spatial coordinates of the two brass-knuckle brothers advancing from my front. I had two independent aerosol weapon systems on the field—it was basic arithmetic.

"Damn it, the kid is cheating! Ahh!"

"Nooooo! Get it off me!"

The third gangster positioning himself at my rear blind spot realized his frontline had completely disintegrated in less than three seconds. Attempting to salvage the operation, he lunged forward, throwing a desperate, uncoordinated sucker punch aimed straight at the back of my skull.

My Grandmaster combat instincts anticipated the kinetic shift before his foot even cleared the pavement. I dropped my center of gravity down to the freezing asphalt, executing a flawless, low-profile sweeping low kick behind my frame. My sweeping shin connected solidly with his unbraced ankles, instantly sending him airborne.

He crashed violently onto his back against the hard concrete. Before he could even register the spinal impact, I descended over his frame at point-blank range, depressing both actuators to discharge a lethal, direct stream of pepper spray straight into his wide-open eyes and gasping mouth.

I casually tossed the empty aluminum canisters into the drainage gutter, utilizing my Acrobatics to leap across the asphalt toward the first blinded bat wielder.

Shifting my weight onto my left leg, I unleashed a devastating, high-velocity roundhouse kick that connected cleanly with the side of the right gangster's cranium. The kinetic force shut his nervous system down instantly, knocking him unconscious before his body even hit the deck. As he fell, I smoothly snatched the wooden baseball bat right out of his slipping grasp, spun on my heel, and brought the heavy timber down with pinpoint accuracy against the patella of the left bat wielder.

An agonizing, sickening crunch echoed down the avenue. The soldier collapsed into the gutter, clutching his shattered knee while crying like a pathetic bitch.

Moving with rapid, systematic precision, I advanced on the two remaining brass-knuckle brothers who were still stumbling through the chemical fog. I delivered a synchronized pair of low, calculated strikes with the heavy wooden bat, handing them both my custom 'broken knee special.' Within seconds, all five syndicate soldiers were rolling across the public streets in absolute, unadulterated agony.

I paused, turning my gaze toward the center of the avenue. Tony was standing entirely frozen, his sophisticated athletic composure completely flustered as he stared at the carnage, his eyes wide as he looked from the heavy wooden bat in my hand straight into my masked face.

He was completely unarmed. To maintain the absolute illusion of a fair, honorable confrontation, I offered a theatrical sigh and tossed the baseball bat far down the drainage canal, ensuring neither of us could access the weapon. Then, stepping completely clear of the hovering pepper spray cloud, I reached up, pulled off my medical mask and sunglasses, and began a slow, deliberate advance toward Number 7.

Tony instantly snapped into a rigid, textbook traditional Karate stance, his muscles coiled for a linear thrust. I approached him with a completely loose, fluid, and deconditioned posture, keeping my muscular framework entirely flexible to maximize the kinetic output of the acrobatics and martial arts combinations loaded into my brain.

Most competitive Karate practitioners specialize in aggressive, straight-line intercepting strikes. To completely neutralize that mechanical advantage, a Grandmaster utilizes circular, off-axis vectors of attack.

The exact millisecond Tony committed to his forward entry, launching into a high-speed, linear front snap-kick, I activated my Acrobatics mastery. I vaulted into the air, launching my entire body into a high-speed, forward vertical rotation directly over his horizontal plane.

Using the massive torque generated by my forward somersault, I brought my right heel descending down like a guillotine straight through his guard.

My axe-kick slammed violently into the center of his face before continuing its downward trajectory directly into his right collarbone.

Crack!

The sickening, resonant sound of fracturing bone cut through the quiet morning air. The sheer unorthodoxy of an aerial, inverted flip-kick had completely scrambled his defensive parameters; he hadn't been able to calculate the trajectory in time to execute a counter-punch, foolishly attempting to block a multi-ton kinetic heel drop with his bare hands. The downward force didn't completely shatter the clavicle, but it left a severe, agonizing hairline fracture that instantly neutralized the operational mobility of his right shoulder.

Furthermore, the initial trajectory of my heel had aggressively grazed his face, completely fracturing his nasal cavity and sending a massive rush of autonomic tears flooding down his eyes.

As Tony instinctively recoiled, desperately clutching his bleeding face, I dropped low into his blind spot. I wrapped both of my arms securely around his forward leg, scooped his entire center of mass off the asphalt, and executed a brutal, high-impact body slam straight onto the hard concrete.

The impact violently drove every single molecule of oxygen out of his lungs, short-circuiting his central nervous system and knocking him completely unconscious. I released his limp form, stepping back to scan the area for any remaining active threats.

Seeing the entire six-man ambush unit completely incapacitated and groaning in the dirt, I calmly walked over to the drainage curb, picked up my fallen sports sunglasses, and slung my heavy school backpack back over my shoulder. I began a smooth, unhurried march toward the high school gates.

Now, thanks to my maxed-out Acting skill, I looked cool as an absolute cucumber on the outside—projecting the image of an untouchable, legendary martial arts master to the silent, terrified student body watching from the fence. In absolute reality? Every single bone, tendon, and muscle fiber in my torso was currently screaming in white-hot, agonizing torment. My bruised ribs felt like they were on the verge of collapsing entirely, and I wanted nothing more than to crawl into a commercial freezer and bury myself in crushed ice.

Executing those high-velocity Grandmaster maneuvers with a healing, unconditioned physical vessel hurt so goddamn bad. Fuck my life!

But I kept my jaw locked, forcing a smooth, confident smile onto my face as I slid my sunglasses back into place. I glided right past the completely silent, struck-dumb crowd of high schoolers. As I crossed the perimeter curb, I stepped right past a stunned woman dressed in a professional chauffeur's driving suit, who was standing frozen beside a pristine white luxury limousine.

Scott Tang was leaning against the stone brick pillar of the gate, his face completely pale, his hands shaking as he stared at the human wreckage down the block.

As I brushed past his shoulder, I paused for a brief second, letting out a light, mocking laugh. "Man, I am so incredibly glad I finally got around to reading that book last night... Kung-Fu for Dummies, ha-ha! Better luck next time, Scott!"

Without waiting for a response, I marched straight through the double doors, heading directly toward the privacy of the boys' restroom so I could change into my standard academy uniform and silently weep a few tears of pure agony for my aching, broken body.