Dragon Port, Dock District.
The air was a thick cocktail: half salty sea breeze, half intoxicating aromas wafting from roadside food stalls. The smoky char of satay skewers, the rich coconut milk of laksa, and the aggressive herbal scent of Bak Kut Teh swirled together, relentlessly assaulting Lin Feng's nostrils.
Leaning against a mottled corner of a wall, Lin Feng felt his stomach being wrung out like a piece of fruit in a juicer. He was hungry—the kind of hollow hunger that made your head spin.
It had been twenty-four hours since he'd crossed over into this world. In that time, his "broke and penniless" status hadn't budged an inch. To make matters worse, he was an "illegal resident" with zero identification, meaning even the simplest manual labor jobs were out of reach.
After hitting wall after wall, a kind-hearted lady had tipped him off: the Dragon Port Dock District was a chaotic melting pot where a man might find under-the-table work that didn't require papers.
Clinging to a final shred of hope, he had dragged himself here.
Just as he was starting to think he'd become the first transmigrator in history to starve to death in Dragon Port, something outside the "Power Gym" caught his eye.
A group of burly, muscle-bound men were laying into a practice partner with a flurry of punches and kicks, the air filling with the dull thud-thud-thud of impact. Once the beating was over, the "sparring partner" actually received a thick stack of Dragon Port dollars from a man who looked like the boss.
Lin Feng's eyes nearly popped out of his head. He crept closer to investigate.
In this world, "Fighter" was one of the most respected and lucrative professions. What he had just witnessed was merely the bottom rung of the martial arts industry: the Human Punching Bag. And even then, the hourly rate was insanely high.
Lin Feng's gaze drifted to the price list hanging by the gym's entrance:
Gold Tier Partner: Trained by "Brother Long" – 500 DP Dollars/hour. Silver Tier Partner: Led by "Ah Hu" – 300 DP Dollars/hour.
Looking at those figures, Lin Feng's inner "corporate slave" DNA screamed to life. A spark of inspiration hit him.
He quickly scavenged a relatively intact piece of cardboard from a nearby alley and found a discarded stump of charcoal. With a few frantic strokes, a brand-new advertisement was born.
Taking a deep breath, Lin Feng walked to a prominent spot diagonally across from the gym and hoisted his sign high. In jagged but perfectly legible letters, it read:
Crippling Discount! Human Punching Bag!
Only $9.99 Until You're Full of Punches!
Experience The Raw Thrill of Fist-On-Flesh!
"You've got to be kidding me. When it comes to price wars, I'm a pro!" Lin Feng hyped himself up internally. "I'll undercut them all. I'll be the Pinduoduo of the punching bag world!"
For a moment, the air in the district seemed to freeze.
Every eye—from passing dockworkers to the meatheads exiting the gym—snapped toward Lin Feng and his utterly bizarre sign. His slim, refined frame stood in grotesque contrast to the hulking titans around him. And then there was that price... a price so low it made people question reality.
"Hey! Kid! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"
A roar erupted.
A man nearly six-foot-five, covered in knots of muscle and sporting a shaved head that made him look like a sentient wrecking ball, stomped over with two lackeys in tow. This was "Sandbag Head," the man who held a monopoly on the local sparring market.
Sandbag Head jabbed a finger—one thick enough to kill a man—right into Lin Feng's face. "Kid, do you know the rules? Who gave you permission to dump prices like this?"
Lin Feng's legs were weak from hunger, but he refused to let his vibe falter. He replied with total sincerity: "Big brother, it's a market economy—free competition. You guys are going for the high-end luxury route, while I'm targeting the 'sinking market' demographic. Our client bases don't overlap. No conflict at all!"
This modern business jargon was clearly several pay grades above what Sandbag Head's muscle-clogged brain could process. He stared blankly for a long moment before his face turned a violent shade of crimson.
"I don't give a damn about sinking or floating! In this neighborhood, I am the rules! Today, I'm gonna show you exactly why life is pain!"
Without another word, Sandbag Head's fist—the size of a dinner plate—whistled through the air, aimed squarely at Lin Feng's face. The punch was heavy, fast, and carried the force of a gale.
Lin Feng's pupils shrank. He wanted to dodge, but his starved body refused to move.
It's over. That was his only thought.
However, at that exact millisecond, a hidden power within him—the core passive of his Golden Finger, [God-Machine Evolution], titled [Instinct Optimization]—quietly flickered to life.
Lin Feng didn't even realize it, but his body no longer felt like his own.
His right foot "accidentally" stepped on a small pebble on the ground.
"Whoa!"
Lin Feng lost his balance instantly, falling backward in an incredibly clumsy heap. But that "clumsy" fall allowed him to clear the path of the heavy punch by a fraction of an inch! The wind from the fist grazed the tip of his nose, stinging his skin.
Panic-stricken and trying to regain his balance, Lin Feng's arms flailed wildly in the air. His left fingers "just so happened" to hook into the loose waistband of Sandbag Head's gym shorts.
Then, he pulled.
Riiiiip—
The sound of tearing fabric echoed.
Sandbag Head, having missed his mark and already leaning forward, was yanked by the sudden force on his waistband. His center of gravity vanished.
Thud!
Under a chorus of disbelieving stares, the king of the dockside sparring partners performed a perfect face-plant, hitting the pavement with a bone-shaking thud.
The silence lasted for a heartbeat. Then, the street exploded into raucous laughter.
"Hahaha! Holy crap, Sandbag Head just tripped himself!"
"Is that kid the luckiest guy alive? How did he even pull that off?"
Lin Feng sat on the ground, panting heavily. He was exhausted and utterly baffled. Did... did I do that? No, it was luck. Definitely just luck!
Sandbag Head scrambled up, his face the color of a bruised liver. Being humiliated in public like this felt like having his dignity dragged through the dirt. He glared at Lin Feng, his chest heaving.
Try again?
He looked at the unharmed, slightly dazed kid, then thought back to that bizarre fall. A chill actually crept into his heart. This kid is creepy!
And so, in front of a crowd waiting for a beatdown, Sandbag Head made a decision that perfectly matched his IQ while catching everyone off guard.
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
"Hello? Police?! I want to report a crime!" Sandbag Head screamed into the phone, pointing a trembling finger at the seated Lin Feng. "There's a guy here engaging in unfair competition! And he assaulted me! Yes! Him! Get down here now!"
The crowd froze again. Lin Feng was stunned.
Seriously? Brother, you have all those muscles and you're calling the cops? Are those biceps made of balloons?
Not long after, the shrill wail of sirens approached.
Lin Feng—the poor transmigrator who just wanted to undercut the market for a meal—was escorted into a police car by two stern officers, charged with "disrupting market order" and "malicious assault."
The police car slowly pulled away.
Lin Feng leaned against the police car window, looking like he'd given up on life as he listened to the two officers chatting in the front seat.
"Boss, this kid doesn't look like a fighter. How do we handle him?"
"How else? We hand him straight over to Officer Chun-Li."
"Huh? To Chun-Li?" The driver sounded genuinely surprised.
"Yeah. She absolutely detests people stirring up trouble in the Dock District. Let her deal with the headache."
Chun-Li?
Lin Feng's heart skipped a violent beat. That legendary name—bundled in his deepest memories with countless "Hadoukens" and "Lightning Kicks"—sent a sudden chill racing down his spine.