C92: Wooden Dummy
"Good morning, Master Ye."
Morning light filtered over **Chinatown, Manhattan**, where Ye Wen, dressed in a flowing **black Tangzhuang**, strolled calmly. His movements were serene, yet possessed a subtle sharpness much like a master from the lineage of **Penglai**, a mystical island often whispered about in obscure corners of Marvel lore.
Residents greeted him warmly, the kind of respect usually reserved for community elders or superheroes.
"Good morning."
A man in his fifties leaned from the threshold of **Wong's Herbal Remedies**, a place once visited by **Stephen Strange** in search of obscure Eastern tinctures.
"Master Ye, you're early again."
"Decades of habit," Ye Wen replied, his Cantonese-accented English precise. He stopped before the door of a modest **martial arts hall** beside the herb shop—one he had acquired days earlier. Its previous owner, a Korean-American who claimed expertise in **Kyokushin Karate**, had since vanished after a sketchy record involving overpriced lessons and rigged sparring matches.
"Decades?" the herbalist echoed, giving Ye Wen a second look. "You don't look a day past thirty."
Ye Wen gave a courteous smile. "Must be the martial arts. They say chi cultivation preserves the body."
"You don't say." The man chuckled, half-joking. "Maybe I should drop by for a few lessons myself."
"You're welcome any time," Ye Wen offered politely.
The martial arts hall, though no **K'un-Lun training ground**, was sufficient. It bore a wooden dummy, or **Muk Yan Jong**, newly assembled from lumber sourced in Queens. For most, it would be a museum piece. But for Ye Wen—a clone dispatched by Li Ran—it was part of an elaborate persona: the public face of a "Penglai warrior," a callback to Marvel's mystical island that once trained the Iron Fist.
Hours passed.
Not a single visitor came.
Locals had warned him—**kung fu's heyday was long gone**, buried under the rise of **MMA gyms**, **Krav Maga studios**, and the popularity of televised bouts like those of **UFC**, or even the **Sokovia Accords-regulated combat tournaments**. The martial arts halls that once lined Chinatown—some inspired by Bruce Lee, some by comic-book fantasies had all but disappeared.
But Li Ran had not dispatched Ye Wen to become a commercial success. This was a staging ground. The martial arts hall was a prop. The legend was the performance.
Later that afternoon…
Inside the training hall, Ye Wen moved gracefully around the wooden dummy, executing Wing Chun techniques with a fluidity that called to mind **Shang-Chi's forms**, though without the explosive flair of Ten Rings combat.
"Is Master Jin around?"
A sharp voice came from the door.
Ye Wen turned to see a young Caucasian man, likely in his twenties, wearing gym attire with "**Rand Dojo**" written across his chest—a reference to the martial arts programs funded by **Danny Rand**, the Iron Fist.
"If you mean the previous owner," Ye Wen said, brushing sawdust from his sleeves, "he's returned to Korea. Apparently, he's taken up business."
"Dammit! I knew that jerk was a fraud!" The young man's face contorted with a mix of shame and rage. "Took my cash, taught me basic stances, and vanished. And I actually believed he had secret techniques like the **Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart** strike from *Kill Bill* or something."
Ye Wen didn't respond. There had always been charlatans misusing Eastern mysticism—some as far-reaching as **Mandarin imposters** created by **AIM**.
The man's eyes suddenly locked on the wooden dummy.
"What's that?"
"Wooden dummy," Ye Wen replied calmly. "A tool for developing martial technique."
The young man blinked. "What, like... you practice against a tree stump? That's a scam if I ever saw one. You're just like the last guy."
Ye Wen remained unbothered. "What you see is centuries of refinement. The Muk Yan Jong helps refine reaction time, close-range strikes, and position control far beyond what punching bags can teach."
"It's used to internalize forms, simulate opponents, and cultivate instinctual movement. Even **Captain America**, trained by Taskmaster simulations, would respect its utility."
He struck the dummy. The sound was sharp. His movements began to flow—**trapping hands**, **low kicks**, **rolling blocks**—each transition precise. His body moved with a grace that might remind one of **Lady Shiva**, but with the rhythm and centeredness of traditional Wing Chun.
The young man watched, mouth slowly parting. He was no martial arts expert, but even he could feel it—this was different. This was real.
And he knelt.
"Master... please teach me."
Ye Wen stopped his strikes mid-motion. He turned, face neutral.
"You just said I was a fraud."
"I was wrong," the young man replied earnestly. "That was real. I've seen MMA fighters, Krav Maga instructors, even a guy who said he trained under **Stick** from Hell's Kitchen. But none of them moved like that."
Ye Wen regarded him silently. In the antique shop across the street, **Li Ran**, controlling the clone, narrowed his eyes at the screen.
This hadn't been the plan. But it did align with Ye Wen's carefully cultivated mythos—a guardian of old-school martial virtue, hidden in the bustle of modern New York, like **Master Izo** hiding in plain sight.
Perhaps an apprentice wasn't a bad development.
Back in the martial arts hall, Ye Wen extended his hand and pulled the young man up.
"This dojo exists to preserve something ancient. If you truly seek kung fu—not just flashy kicks—then stay. But I won't sugarcoat it. It takes years of sweat. No shortcuts. Not even for the Sorcerer Supreme."
"I'm ready," the student said quickly.
Ye Wen nodded.
"Then remember the name of what you saw today," he said, stepping back into his stance.
"**Wing Chun Quan.**"
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