"Master, we're back in the living room. It's too bright up here, and Logan might hear us. I thought you were going to teach me the Biu Jee (Thrusting Fingers) routine right away? Why are you being so mysterious?"
Huang Liang whispered, a mixture of youthful impatience and nervous excitement in his voice, as he followed Huang Wen up to the second floor. The apartment section of the kwoon was quiet, a stark contrast to the thrumming energy of the training hall below.
Huang Wen turned, his expression serious, silencing the boy's eager chatter. "There are things you need to understand, Huang Liang, before we delve into the high-level secrets of the Finger Style. Biu Jee is dangerous; it's the emergency technique, the life-and-death application. I chose you as my eldest disciple not just for your talent in Wing Chun."
He paused, letting his words land. "You see more than just a boxing school here, right? Logan is… special. The things I know are not limited to just one martial art. I told you, if you dedicate yourself, I can teach you far more than just Wing Chun. Styles and forms are just tools. The power behind them is the key."
Huang Liang, however, was stubbornly focused. He knew the adage drilled into him since childhood.
"Master, I know the principle: 'don't bite off more than you can chew.' My immediate goal is to master Wing Chun. I want to achieve the highest level of mastery possible—to graduate from this system—before I even think about diluting my focus with other arts. Once I can truly stand on my own two feet in this style, then I'll beg my master to teach me everything else."
Huang Wen smiled, a genuine flicker of pride crossing his face. "A decisive mind. That's a good quality in a disciple. Very well. We will proceed with Biu Jee." He nodded, satisfied with the boy's conviction.
"The routine is deceptive. It's quick, precise, and aggressive. Its movements are designed to recover the center line when it's lost and to target the vital, soft points of the human body. Watch closely, and remember, every move is a warning."
Huang Wen then demonstrated the entire Biu Jee routine. Unlike the grounded, heavy power of Chum Kiu, this final Wing Chun form was lightning fast, relying on fingertip attacks, vicious elbow strikes, and short, lethal movements aimed at throat, eyes, and groin.
For the next hour, Huang Liang watched, his eyes wide with concentration, as Huang Wen carefully broke down the form, emphasizing the internal focus and the explosive, final-resort nature of the style.
Meanwhile, three thousand miles away, on the sunny West Coast, a completely different type of genius was facing a catastrophe.
Dr. Robert Bruce Banner, who currently went by the surname of his adoptive mother, Dr. Kozler, pedaled his bicycle across the vast, manicured lawns of the Berkeley Institute of Nuclear and Biochemical Technology. He was a man perpetually wearing the weight of the world, his brilliant mind struggling to contain its own frantic pace.
"Good morning, Dr. Kozler," chirped the gray-haired, slightly disheveled security guard at the entrance, flashing a grin.
Bruce barely registered the greeting. He was already thinking about his next move. A review committee was due soon, and the pressure to present successful data was immense. He and his partner—his long-time girlfriend, Betty Ross—had been working around the clock on their revolutionary experiment.
The core of their research involved nano microorganisms. The theory was elegant: inject these highly adaptive organisms into a trauma site, then blast the area with controlled gamma radiation.
The gamma rays would act as an energy source, forcing the nano microorganisms to accelerate cellular regeneration and instantly heal complex wounds. If it worked, they wouldn't just be curing diseases; they would be giving human beings an instant, Wolverine-level healing factor, provided they could withstand the radiation.
So far, the results were… disastrous. A moment later, Bruce was standing in the lab, looking at the charred remains of a test frog.
"I don't know what we're doing wrong, Betty. The regeneration is flawless for the first few seconds, then… catastrophic cell failure. The gamma radiation is just too much," Bruce muttered, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair.
"It's the energy-to-mass ratio, Bruce. We're asking too much of the host's body," Betty replied, matching his weary frustration. Compounding their scientific woes, a massive, shadowy corporation was already circling the institute, attempting a hostile takeover to profit from their not-yet-stable technology.
As they debated acquisition strategies, a colleague named Hap, a nervous, perpetually anxious man, called out from the experimental chamber.
"The wiring's gone squirrelly, Bruce! Looks like a short! Can you help me check the main conduit?"
"On my way," Bruce replied, moving instinctively toward the danger.
Just as he reached the console, the monitored wires Hap was touching exploded in a shower of sparks. The electrical surge bypassed all safety protocols, overriding the central computer and violently starting the gamma ray emitter. Hap screamed, trapped inside the shielded chamber.
"I can't shut it down! The power surge has locked the relays! The gamma charge is too high, Bruce, I can't stop it!" Betty's voice was strained with terror as she frantically tried to kill the power. Hap, meanwhile, had collapsed into a trembling fetal position, clutching his gas mask, completely paralyzed by fear.
"Hap! Get out of there! Now!" Bruce yelled, but Hap was useless.
The giant emitter began to hiss, charging its deadly payload. It was the critical moment. Bruce didn't think; he just acted. He threw himself forward, shoving Hap out of the chamber and into the corner, then slammed his body against the protective hatch just as the massive, invisible wave of concentrated gamma radiation pulsed through the room.
WHOOSH.
Bruce Banner absorbed the full, lethal spectrum of the experimental blast. Then, everything went dark.
When Bruce finally woke, it was to the smell of disinfectant and a blinding white ceiling. He was in the institute's medical bay. Betty was beside him, tearful but relieved.
The doctors couldn't explain it. Bruce was fine. More than fine.
He felt powerful. Clean. Not only was his body perfectly intact, but the old, lingering knee injury he'd suffered years ago, which had caused him chronic pain, was completely gone. He was convinced their experiment had succeeded, that his body had been the perfect host.
But the truth, which would shatter his world, was already creeping into the light.
He was visited by a shrunken, furtive man working as a janitor—the man he still knew as the elderly Dr. Kozler. This wasn't his adoptive mother; this was David Banner, his biological father.
David Banner confessed to Bruce the horrifying genesis of his existence. Years ago, the military had shut down David's research into human genetic enhancement—the creation of super-soldiers. Obsessed and desperate, David had used the one subject he could control: his own developing embryo. He had injected Bruce with a cocktail of experimental serums in utero.
Bruce wasn't just his son; he was the living proof of his mad genius. The gamma rays hadn't initiated a new, successful experiment; they had merely acted as a massive energy trigger, activating the dormant, unstable, genetically altered blueprint his father had installed decades ago.
Fear, confusion, and a blinding, searing rage flooded Bruce's mind. He kicked his father out of the lab, desperately seeking solace in his own research data, only to confirm the horrifying truth: his blood structure was fundamentally, impossibly different from any normal human. He was a monster, a science project.
The terror and disgust were overwhelming. The anger was a bonfire.
A low, guttural moan rumbled deep in Bruce Banner's chest, a sound that quickly escalated into an ear-splitting, primal ROAR!
The transformation was fast and agonizing. Muscle fiber tore, bones cracked and reformed, and his skin stretched and turned an impossible green. His clothes ripped, shredded by the explosive growth of his monstrous physique. The expensive leather belt snapped like a rubber band, the cuffs of his trousers were immediately ripped to shreds, and his shirt exploded off his back.
Only his pants, stretched and tearing, seemed to possess a strange, divine resistance, turning from trousers into ragged, almost indestructible shorts, clinging desperately to his massive frame.
The Hulk was born.
Inside the shattered laboratory, the green goliath raged, his every step crushing the delicate, scientific equipment. He was pure, uncontrolled destructive force until he laid eyes on his father, David Banner, who was hiding just outside the room.
David Banner looked at the raging, seven-foot-tall green beast, and instead of fear, his face was contorted with a mixture of overwhelming excitement, scientific vindication, and greedy satisfaction. He reached out slowly, a terrifying paternal pride in his eyes, intending to touch the beast he had created.
The Hulk's eyes, usually clouded by primal instinct, seemed to clear for a moment. Flashes of childhood memory—a brief, warm image of his father playing with him, a man who was once proud and kind—flickered in his consciousness.
But the warmth was immediately obliterated by a second, darker memory: the truth about his mother's death. The terrible day when David Banner, realizing the irreversible mistake he had made in experimenting on his son, had rushed home, intending to end the project by killing the four-year-old Bruce. Bruce's mother had intervened, and in the ensuing struggle, she had died at David's hands.
"ROAR!!!" The Hulk's roar was deafening, a sound of absolute heartbreak and betrayal. Yet, he held back. The deep, complicated connection to his only remaining parent, the man who was both creator and executioner, prevented the final blow.
Instead of fighting, the Hulk chose escape. With a final, explosive surge of power, he leapt, his feet smashing through the concrete floor and breaking the ceiling of the laboratory. He landed heavily on the roof, surveying the city, and then—with two impossibly long, spring-like leaps—vanished into the night, a monstrous green blur leaving behind a trail of shocked witnesses and shattered masonry.
David Banner stood amidst the wreckage, looking up at the hole in the ceiling where his creation had disappeared. His expression was not one of defeat, but of profound, covetous hunger.
"My good son..." David murmured, a disturbing intensity in his voice. "That power... it's everything I ever dreamed of. I must have it. All of it." The scientist had seen his ultimate vision realized, and now he craved the same terrifying, boundless strength.