Chapter 53 Old Wang and the Seven Men

Ten minutes earlier.

“Robbie has been investigating a certain organization of blind people lately. It seems to be connected to drug manufacturing and trafficking.”

Skye scrolled through an online shopping site, absentmindedly adding items she liked to her favorites, while saying, “That organization of blind people is in Hell’s Kitchen, up north. They’re all East Asian faces—your people.”

Blind, drugs, Hell’s Kitchen, East Asians… Old Wang could pretty much guess who they were. He nodded, “Open the door. Business as usual.”

Skye hurried to unlock the door.

It was already dusk, and because Old Wang had just closed up shop, there were hardly any customers. Old Wang patted his stomach, which was no longer as round from hunger—a disgrace to his former identity as a panda person. How could the mighty Dragon Warrior of Pandaria ever go hungry? Had the Qing dynasty fallen? Had the empire run out of grain?

“Go two blocks down to Old Li’s and get two orders of bamboo shoot and braised pork rice bowls. Then head to the bun shop at the east end of the street and buy ten big buns, the ones stuffed with dried bamboo shoots.”

Old Wang glanced at Skye’s still-open laptop, with more than a dozen tabs open. One search was for cosmetics—a set for ninety-nine, shipping not included…

This girl is learning to dress up now? It used to be a miracle if she even washed her face, and now her standards have improved so much.

Indeed, money is the devil—it leads people astray.

“You really can eat,” Skye muttered, closed the laptop, fished some bills from the drawer, and left.

Old Wang casually grabbed a bottle of “Bamboo Leaf Green,” dragged his lounge chair to the doorway, and settled in for a more comfortable posture.

A general cannot be without armor, and a panda cannot be without wine.

The body was human, but the habits were pure panda. Old Wang’s love for wine had been cultivated since he was three in his first life, honed through more than twenty years on Earth, a decade in Azeroth, and eighteen years in the Marvel world—it was deeply ingrained.

Many monk skills required alcohol to activate.

For others, drinking was a hobby; for Old Wang, it was a necessity.

Fine liquor paired with the golden glow of sunset made for a unique pleasure.

If things could always be like this, it would be quite nice.

Unfortunately, there were always those who wished to shatter such rare tranquility.

Heavy footsteps sounded. Old Wang took a sip of his drink, ever calm.

“Hey, boss. Got any medicinal liquor? The kind every man needs.”

Seven men surrounded Old Wang, their heavy coats at odds with the temperature, hiding not only their muscular builds but also body armor, pistols, and tactical knives. One of them came up on Old Wang’s left; his gaunt face looked as if it had been carved by the wind, exuding a rugged masculinity. This man was no ordinary thug.

A pistol pressed against Old Wang’s lower back, concealed by clothing. The man lowered his voice, “The kind Black Widow bought—hand over everything, unless you want to die!”

“I have it.”

Feeling the hard metal at his back, Old Wang showed no sign of fluster. He slowly got up and, surrounded by five strong men, walked inside.

The other two closed the door, shutting out the world.

As if dividing one world from another.

…

Skye hadn’t actually gone far. She suddenly remembered she hadn’t asked Old Wang which soup he wanted—bamboo shoot and pickled vegetable yellow croaker, or bamboo shoot, pork rib, and egg?

Old Wang was easygoing about most things, but there were two things not to be taken lightly: what he drank, and what he ate.

He liked wine, porridge, and soup—preferably bamboo shoot soup, and he was particular about distinguishing between winter and spring bamboo.

Such refined tastes, despite living frugally.

Old Wang was quite capable of making money, but spent most of it on food and drink. “No matter how poor, never starve the stomach,” he’d say. After years of living alone, he’d saved nothing.

Skye knew this well, so she turned back to clarify.

Just as she turned, she saw seven sturdy men crowding Old Wang into the shop, locking the door behind them.

“Wang has this kind of hobby?” Skye’s expression was odd. “Isn’t this a little much? Can he even handle it?”

Each of the seven was muscular, at least six-foot-two, with both American and Russian faces among them—some white, some black.

It wasn’t even fully dark yet. How open-minded did you have to be?

But, on second thought, Old Wang probably could take it.

A kung fu master’s body could withstand chest-breaking feats for money.

Skye remembered once, discussing ways to cook bamboo shoots with Old Wang in a truck—when she got tired and he stopped, she was woken in the night by something hard poking her.

Seven men—Wang should be able to handle it, right?

Wait… why am I thinking about this?

This isn’t the point!

Skye hurried over.

Just as she reached the door, she heard heavy breathing inside, and a creaking sound, as if a bed had collapsed.

Wait, that can’t be! The shop has no bed, only the floor and shelves. Wang, are you that desperate?

No way. Old Wang’s orientation must be corrected!

Skye raised her foot, ready to kick the door in.

Suddenly—

The heavy breathing continued, but the vibrations stopped.

“That’s it?” Skye was stunned. “How long was that—thirty seconds?”

Hardly.

From the time the door closed, it had been at most twenty-five seconds.

Seven people—less than four seconds each?

Wait, that’s not how it works…

Skye’s expression shifted, and she turned to leave.

Forget it. Better leave Old Wang some dignity. She’d correct his orientation with action later.

Such a fine young man couldn’t be allowed to go astray!

She had just taken her first step when a calm voice sounded, “Perfect timing. Come in and lend a hand.”

Skye was surprised, even hesitant. “Wang, didn’t you all finish already? Besides, eight men and one woman—what could I possibly help with…”

Wang, what are you thinking? This is going too far!

Old Wang spoke blandly, “With what you’re best at—tying knots.”

…

Half an hour later.

Night had fallen.

A car pulled up to the entrance of “Azeroth Specialty Shop.”

The door opened, and a long, shapely leg in black emerged. Natasha, her waist simply bandaged, twisted her hips as she walked to the door.

Hawkeye followed, his eyes sharp as an eagle’s, constantly scanning the surroundings, always alert.

Natasha hesitated at the closed door for two seconds, then knocked.

“It’s unlocked.”

A slightly muffled voice floated out; Natasha recognized “Master Wang” and finally relaxed, her face easing as she waved back.

Hawkeye hesitated.

The phone had said everything was fine, but who could be sure of the truth? For all he knew, “Master Wang” was being controlled by Hydra, luring S.H.I.E.L.D. agents into a trap.

He had to be wary.

Hawkeye shook his head ever so slightly, drawing his bow.

Natasha wavered.

He was right.

Master Wang might be a kung fu master, but that was no match for bullets. A well-trained sniper could kill any so-called martial artist with a single shot.

If Hydra had made a move, how could Master Wang be unharmed?

It was likely a trap.

Natasha gave Hawkeye a look.

Hawkeye blinked—message received.

Several S.H.I.E.L.D. agents took up positions, weapons ready, prepared for anything.

Bang!

Natasha suddenly kicked the door open, striking a pose with both hands holding S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued pistols, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

Wait…

What was this?

Seven muscular men, tied together with rope that wasn’t particularly thick—the knots amateurish, but none of them resisting. That was odd.

On closer inspection, each man’s mouth was stuffed with something strange, allowing only muffled grunts, unable to call for help.

Their body armor, pistols, and tactical knives were piled aside—Stark Industries’ finest, no less.

Even stranger, their arms and legs were twisted in ways that shouldn’t be possible—as if…

Dislocated?

“Master Wang, what happened to them?”

Natasha suddenly realized she had underestimated this slightly chubby kung fu master.

“As you see, I dislocated their arms and legs and gagged them to prevent suicide.”

Old Wang lounged in his chair, gazing up at Natasha as she walked in. She seemed to shine with her own light, like a pile of glittering gold coins. “I caught seven Hydra agents for you. How much are you paying me… And by the way, you kicked down my hardened krypton magic door—how are you going to compensate me for that?”