Chapter 34: Kunlun Iron Fist, Greetings to You

Sergeant Barnes?
Steve Rogers?
Captain America?
Why do these names sound so familiar, as if I’ve heard them somewhere before?
But I can’t recall.
It hurts—my head aches!
Strange, why does thinking about this make my head throb?
No, I can’t think about it.
I’m here on a mission!
My task is to acquire the Dark Book, weaken S.H.I.E.L.D., and kill Agent Coulson and Agent Romanoff.
No matter what kind of enemy stands in my way, they must be eliminated!
The Winter Soldier decided to ignore Wong, focusing only on the fight.
First, finish him off, then the one called “Ghost Rider.”
However...

Wong suddenly pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket.
It was folded and crumpled.
With no other choice, Wong unfolded it, smoothed it with a surge of inner force, and gave it a gentle toss.
“Catch!”
Whoosh!
The thin paper flew like a throwing knife, landing before the Winter Soldier.
He meant to dodge—it felt dangerous.
But Wong’s deep, magnetic voice, like a ten-dollar bass speaker, somehow made him reach out.
His hand moved in a blur.
He caught the paper.
He used his left mechanical arm, and to his astonishment, the hard alloy shell was marked with a white scratch—unbelievable!

It was a page from a comic book, one edge torn, as if ripped from a volume.
The Winter Soldier picked it up and froze.
It depicted a train.
A train running along a cliff’s edge.
The dominant color was white—snow blanketed the landscape, mountains danced like silver serpents, plains stretched like wax elephants.
A vast, spotless whiteness.

The Winter Soldier grew unhappy.
Is this what you show me instead of a fight?

“The... backside,” Wong said, a little embarrassed.
He’d grabbed it by chance from the old mansion where he found the Dark Book.
The owner there was a devoted fan of Captain America, with high-quality replica shields, piles of comic books and posters.
Wong had wanted to use the restroom, but had no paper, so he grabbed a comic.
Unexpectedly, it came in handy now.
It had grown a bit moldy over time, but was still usable.
He’d torn several pages back then; never wasted one, thanks to the tradition of thrift he carried.
Now, unexpectedly, it still served a purpose!

The Winter Soldier flipped the page.
It was the same scene.
A dashing man, holding a round shield and clad in a rather embarrassing costume, crouched atop the train, face laden with concern, stretching out a hand as if to catch something.
Below, another figure was falling off the cliff, reaching upward, his face etched with despair.

The Winter Soldier was stunned.
He saw both faces.
The one above was familiar—where had he seen it before?
Was it in a dream?
Could that be Captain America from Brooklyn?
The face below was even more familiar—it was his own!

Strange, blurry images flickered through his mind.
Captain America, himself, a beautiful, formidable woman, a proud, brilliant scientist, and a band of loyal comrades.
A short, fearsome man.
And another, more terrifying figure staring at Red Skull.
Weapons that surpassed the era.
Too fragmented to form a story.
So each image was a story.

Suddenly, a peculiar emotion surged within him.

It was nostalgia, gratitude, an absolute trust born of friendship—a familiarity and alienation spanning sixty-four years.
A wave of dizziness and confusion swept over the Winter Soldier, for the first time stirring deep concern for his own past.
Who am I?
Where did I come from?
What am I meant to do?
What is my connection to Captain America?

His eyes grew wet, blurring his vision.
What is this?
A sign of weakness—tears?
No.
The Winter Soldier was a warrior; he must not shed tears!

He steeled himself.
His mechanical arm clenched, crushing the comic page into scraps.
His expression returned to icy coldness as he charged at Wong.

Wong shrugged.
Just as he expected.
Hydra’s brainwashing was formidable—even Captain America, meeting face-to-face, couldn’t restore his memories, let alone a mere comic page.
Still, perhaps it had some effect—maybe it would bring Hydra a little discomfort?

He shifted his right hand from behind his back to the front.
The Winter Soldier was, after all, the Winter Soldier; Wong decided to use his full strength.

He planted his feet in a figure-eight, crouched slightly.
One hand forward, one hand back.
Tiger stance!
Great Sky Wing—come and fight!

...

...

The slightly chubby youth strode like dragon and tiger, his thick hands tracing circles in the air, every movement flowing seamlessly, naturally.
Like Tai Chi, like the Eight Trigrams, like an ink painting drawn by five thousand years of history.
Like running script, like cursive script.
Ink splashed, brush danced like dragons and serpents.

But really, it was none of these.
This was the blocking and dodging method of the Drunken Immortal.
Having sipped a watered-down shot of Erguotou earlier, he was now half-drunk, half-sober—airy and ethereal, the so-called Drunken Immortal.

In the blink of an eye, he deflected seventeen attacks from the Winter Soldier.

No matter how fierce you are, the mountain breeze brushes the hills;
No matter how wild, the bright moon shines on the river.

Wong shifted his steps, spun his body, suddenly struck with a palm—inner force surged forth with the roar of tiger and leopard.

Wind-stepping combo!
Thunderous Fury Strike!

Bang!

The Winter Soldier was sent flying again, chest caving inward.
This barrage shattered his carbon fiber suit, broke through the super soldier’s powerful physique.
With a sharp crack, ribs snapped.

Wong pressed his advantage.
Feet like the wind, he quickly followed up.
A flurry of punches.
Then a series of kicks.

Rising Sun Kick!
Crane-neck Kick!

The Winter Soldier soared even farther, smashing through a wall.

Whoosh!

Wong curled himself into a ball, rolled across the ground, inner force bursting forth.
In an instant, he caught up to the Winter Soldier.

Mechanical arm swung.
Wong sidestepped, fingers together, hand chopping down.
He struck the Winter Soldier’s left shoulder.
Then grabbed hold of the mechanical arm with both hands.
A sudden twist.

Crack!

A crisp snap echoed from the shoulder.

Wong raised his leg and delivered another Crane-neck Kick.

The Winter Soldier was sent flying yet again, but this time, his high-tech mechanical arm remained in Wong’s grasp.

The Winter Soldier struggled to his feet, preparing to fight on.
Suddenly, he froze, as if he heard something.
He turned and fled.

Wong was about to pursue when his expression shifted, brow arched.

High-explosive grenades were tossed in.

They were about to detonate.

“Has Hydra gone mad?”
Wong stopped in his tracks and turned to run.

The corridor was about to collapse.
The building above was about to collapse.
The whole area would soon collapse.

If he didn’t run, he’d be buried alive!

Although Wong was confident he wouldn’t die, it wouldn’t be pleasant—and besides...

He thought of the Black Widow, kneeling in the corridor behind him, and sighed.

There was still a burden to carry!

Grenades exploded.

A surge of inner force wrapped around his body, shielding him from harm.

Wong rolled along the ground, turning mid-roll, quickly reached Natasha, and scooped her up.

With a toss, he slung her onto his shoulder.

He ran.

Natasha felt immense pain—her waist, her back, her chest, her lower abdomen all hurt, as if pressed against something hard.

She reached out and understood.

It was the Winter Soldier’s mechanical arm—awkwardly positioned!

Of course, the Black Widow would never blush, nor would her heartbeat quicken—that wasn’t important.

What mattered was that she’d survived.

Had she been rescued, or captured?

This masked figure, whose age and appearance were impossible to discern, seemed to wield a mysterious Eastern force—a thing called “Qi”?

Natasha remembered a previous mission where she fought someone from the Hand.

He used “Qi” too.

But he was weak, no match for her.

Compared to that man, the figure beneath her was far too strong—completely different league.

Who was he?

Lost in thought, Wong stopped.

With a gentle push, he set Natasha down and arched his brow:

“You’re free to go.”

“Remember, you owe me a favor!”

No sooner had he finished speaking than a gust of wind swept by—Wong had vanished.

Natasha was stunned.

He left?

He didn’t capture her?

Didn’t imprison her?

Didn’t torture her?

Didn’t interrogate her?

Didn’t use any inhuman methods against her?

This wasn’t according to protocol!

She’d hoped to extract intelligence from him!

“Your name?” Natasha suddenly called out.

She immediately regretted it.

How could he possibly answer?
This wasn’t some romance drama!

Then, a drifting voice reached her.

“Greetings from the Iron Fist of Kunlun!”