The Underwear vs. Zhongshan Suits — Part 1

Section 1: The Zhongshan Suits Mockery

Dave walked slowly through the streets he used to know so well.

The pavement shimmered in the heat, as if the whole city were steaming from the ground up. The air was thick and dry, but Dave didn’t mind. After all, he was wearing only a single piece of clothing: a pink, triangle-shaped pair of women’s underwear.

Naturally, he didn’t feel hot at all.

But inside, he felt heavy. Crushed. Useless.

He had always thought of himself as a fighter. But now, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he never was. Maybe it was time to let it go—to quit fighting and find a different path, a different career. Something far, far away from fighting.

Maybe something like accounting. Or even cleaning toilets. After all, he didn’t have a college degree.

As he turned the corner, Dave passed a familiar sight—a martial arts school.

He paused.

For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the building and watching the students come and go. Years ago, before it became a martial arts school, this had been Dave’s high school. Something tugged at his chest.

Memories.

Back when he was young, still a student, everything had been so simple. Just school. Just classes. Just classmates. There weren’t all these messy things—friendship, heartbreak, betrayal. Life back then was straightforward.

Sleep during class. Play poker with classmates. Go home and play video games until midnight. That was it.

That was also why his grades were terrible and he never made it to college.

“Kids have it good…” Dave muttered to himself.

For a moment, he found himself hoping he might catch a glimpse of some energetic, cheerful students training, laughing, or running around. Just to remember what it felt like. Just to borrow some of that youthful energy, even for a moment.

Out of curiosity, Dave walked up to the front gate and stuck his head between two of the iron bars, just to take a little peek inside.

And that was when he saw them.

A group of students walking straight toward him.

At first, Dave blinked in confusion. Then his eyes widened.

“Wait, what the hell is this?!”

Every student was wearing a buttoned-up Zhongshan suit, with every button fastened all the way to the top. Their hair was neatly parted down the middle, slick and stiff.

Dave’s chest tightened. His peaceful mood disappeared in an instant as a wave of frustration washed over him.

“Of all the uniforms in the world, why… this one?!”

Dave clenched his fists.

“Why Zhongshan suits?! Why buttoned to the damn throat?! Who still parts their hair like this?!”

His face twisted in frustration, because what he saw in front of him wasn’t just a group of students.

It was a parade of Marvels.

Dozens of them.

Each one looked like another stiff, emotionless reminder of the man who had ruined his life.

Dave couldn’t hold it in anymore. He tilted his head toward the sky and screamed.

“WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME AGAIN?!”

The students froze and stared at him—a nearly naked man in pink women’s underwear, gripping two bars of the gate and screaming at the sky like a lunatic.

Then one of the students whispered, “Is he on drugs?”

“Maybe he’s possessed…”

“Or maybe he’s some deranged serial sex maniac.”

But Dave didn’t move. He stayed there, gripping the two iron bars and trembling with rage as he stared at their Zhongshan suits and neatly parted hair.

The world wasn’t just messing with him anymore.

It was mocking him, deliberately.

Section 2: The Zhongshan Suit Clash

One of the students stepped forward and stopped right in front of Dave, just behind the bars.

“Sir,” he said politely, “just one look at you and I can tell—you’re a martial artist. Would you be interested in a quick spar?”

Before Dave could respond, the student walked around the gate and stopped in front of him. Then he suddenly reached for his waist and drew a katana.

A real one. A full-length Japanese sword that shimmered in the sunlight.

Dave had just told himself that he was done with fighting—but fate was forcing him to fight.

Dave looked at the faces of the students—cold, deadpan, emotionless. They looked like clones. A whole army of unbothered Marvels.

His insides twisted.

Without a word, Dave clenched his fist and launched a straight punch.

The student dodged quickly and immediately swung the katana in tight arcs, spinning and circling around Dave with a smooth rhythm. The technique was showy and fluid, almost artistic.

But Dave could see through it instantly.

“Newbies,” Dave muttered. “They’ve learned the form, not the meaning.”

As the blade came toward him, Dave raised his arm and tapped the dull edge with his forearm, knocking it completely off course.

Then he stepped forward and slammed his fist straight into the student’s gut.

The student flew backward, his body folding in midair before he hit the ground and slid across the pavement for several meters. He lay there unconscious, his hand still gripping the katana.

Dave frowned.

“Damn… I shouldn’t have hit him that hard.”

He sighed.

“But every time I see those Zhongshan suits… I just can’t hold back. It’s just personal.”

From behind him, two more students shouted.

“Hey! It was just a friendly challenge!”

“You could’ve killed him! He’s the weakest in our class!”

Both students pulled out their swords without hesitation. Their movements were fast and confident, a little sharper than the last student.

They coordinated perfectly—one distracted Dave with a punch while the other slashed from the side, then they swapped positions.

They were using a technique called the Tornado Blade.

It looked great—stylish, synchronized, impressive on camera.

But to Dave, it was still child’s play.

He calmly raised both hands, shaped them into precise hand-chops, and struck both incoming katanas head-on.

In a flash, both swords snapped clean in half.

The two students froze, their eyes wide in disbelief.

“What… what the hell…”

But Dave didn’t wait. He stepped in fast, landing one punch straight on the first student’s jaw, then pivoted and threw another into the second student’s cheek.

Both heads snapped sideways, and both bodies went airborne. They flew across the courtyard, landed hard, and skidded across the pavement like broken mannequins, unconscious on impact.

Dave stood in the middle of it all, fists clenched with quiet fury.

He looked at the two unconscious students and muttered under his breath, “Damn these ugly Zhongshan suits.”

Section 3: My Name Is Not Canelo

In the distance, near where the first student had crashed into the ground, another figure appeared, calmly walking toward them.

He was also wearing a Zhongshan suit, but something about him was different.

Very different.

His hair wasn’t neatly parted down the middle like the others. Instead, thick, straight-cut bangs hung across his forehead.

And his Zhongshan suit?

Not a single button was fastened.

His chiseled chest and sharp abs were completely exposed. The loose fabric of his Zhongshan suit fluttered in the wind with every step he took.

He looked less like a martial artist and more like a street punk—confident, disrespectful, borderline feral.

He didn’t walk like a student.

He walked like a problem.

The first student, still lying face-down on the ground, barely lifted his head. His voice was weak and trembling.

“S-Senior… C-Canelo… that guy’s strong… be careful…”

The approaching figure stopped. His expression darkened.

Without a word, he stepped forward and kicked the student right in the mouth.

A wet snap echoed through the courtyard. The student’s upper lip tore clean off and flew several feet through the air, landing like a strip of meat on the concrete.

Then Dinello roared:

“I’m not Canelo, you stupid shit! My name is Dinello! D-I-N-E-L-L-O! Say it right or I’ll rip your whole face off, motherfucker!”

The student glanced at his upper lip lying several feet away. Tears immediately poured from his eyes, and he began slamming his forehead against the ground in terror.

“S-sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry—!”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Dinello rolled his neck and looked down at him.

“Next time you call me Canelo, I’m ripping off your lower lip too.”

He glanced at the injured student.

“Hey. Lend me your katana.”

Before the student could respond, Dinello crouched down and took the katana straight from his hand.

“Hey, be careful! That sword’s expensive!”

Dinello didn’t even blink. He kept walking toward Dave.

As he approached, he drew another katana from his own waist.

Now he held two, one in each hand. The twin blades shimmered under the sunlight.

“Alright, you pink-underwear freak,” Dinello said with a smirk. “Let me show you the pride of our school—the most famous and powerful blade technique we’ve got.”

He adjusted his grip on the two swords, his muscles tensing.

“And hey, if I wipe the floor with you, don’t go crying back to your mommy in your panties, alright?”

“HAHAHAHA—HAHAHAHAHAHA—”

But just as Dinello threw his head back to laugh, Dave was already right in front of him.

MUSCLE DASH.

Dave’s fist slammed straight into Dinello’s face.

CRACK.

Dinello’s body twisted in midair before he crashed into the ground and skidded across the pavement for several meters, just like the others.

But he never let go of the swords. Both blades were still gripped tightly in his hands as he slid to a stop.

The three other students, still lying on the ground, stared with wide eyes.

One of them whispered, “Holy shit… even our strongest student… even Canelo got wrecked…”

Dinello slowly pushed himself up from the ground. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his body trembled with rage.

The three students stared at his furious expression.

Oh shit.

They were sure Dinello was about to explode at Dave for sucker-punching him.

Dinello wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and screamed:

“For the last time—my name is not Canelo! Fuck you, idiot!!”

Still furious, Dinello reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

Section 4: I Only Have 15 Minutes

Dinello tapped the screen a few times and checked the time.

“Alright,” he muttered. “I’ve only got fifteen minutes left. I need to be back before the 4 p.m. Pokémon episode.”

He said it completely seriously, as if getting back in time for Pokémon were more important than the fight.

One of the beaten students nearby mumbled weakly, “If you just subscribed to Netflix… you wouldn’t have to watch it at exactly four… you could watch it whenever…”

But no one heard him.

Dinello slowly stood up and tightened his grip on the two swords.

“I’m coming. You better be ready.”

He stepped forward. His shoes barely touched the ground as he moved in quick, light steps, almost gliding across the pavement.

In less than a second, Dinello was already in front of Dave.

Then he unleashed his attack.

TWIN-BLADE FLURRY.

The two swords blurred through the air as Dinello spun, dipped, twisted, and thrust. Every slash came from a different angle, one after another without pause.

But Dave wasn’t a speed-type fighter.

He managed to block about half of the strikes.

The other half hit.

Thin cuts opened across his chest, shoulders, and ribs, but none of them were deep. Dave’s muscles were simply too dense. Most of the slashes barely broke the skin, leaving only shallow cuts across his body.

Dave stood there silently as thin lines of blood trickled down his body.

Dinello stepped back and lowered his swords slightly, breathing heavily.

He stared at Dave.

“What the hell is your body made of?” he muttered. “Are you plated in gold or wrapped in steel or something?”

Then his eyes narrowed.

He suddenly thought of someone.

Joshua, the former West King.

His body was covered in a layer of golden alloy, making him almost impossible to injure with ordinary attacks.

Could this guy be the same?

Dinello tightened his grip on the two swords.

But Dave finally spoke.

“Aside from this pink underwear, I’m not wearing anything. No armor. No gold. Just muscle. Ten years of it.”

Dinello blinked.

“Even with ten years… that’s kind of insane.”

Then, without warning, Dinello struck.

A single, sudden thrust.

The katana shot straight toward Dave’s abdomen in less than a tenth of a second.

There was no time to dodge or block.

But Dave didn’t need to.

He flexed his abs as hard as he could.

The moment the tip of the katana struck his stomach—

CRACK.

The blade snapped clean in half.

Metal fragments scattered across the pavement.

Dinello stood frozen, still gripping the broken hilt. He slowly looked up at Dave.

Dave looked down at the broken sword, then back at Dinello. His expression remained calm, as if nothing had happened.

Dinello stared at him in silence.

Section 5: Blades Bought with Hard-Earned Money

Dinello quietly walked over to the injured student with only half his lips left, still holding the broken hilt of the katana he had borrowed.

He crouched down and gently placed it back into the student’s trembling hand.

“Sorry about your sword,” Dinello said. “I broke it.”

The student stared at the broken hilt for a few seconds.

Then he suddenly slammed both fists into the ground and burst into tears.

“Mother, I’m so sorry! You cleaned toilets for three whole months just to buy this sword for me! And I let it break! I’m the worst son in the world—ever! I don’t deserve to be your son! I don’t deserve to call myself a man!”

Even Dave paused.

“Damn…” he muttered. “That actually made me feel a little bad.”

Dinello stood there in silence for a moment. Then he tightened his grip on his remaining sword, widened his stance, and dropped into a deep horse stance.

Dinello suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs:

“SPATIAL SLASH!!”

Dave immediately raised both arms to guard his chest and neck.

Several seconds passed.

Nothing happened.

Dinello remained completely still, his eyes narrowed as he held the exact same pose.

Dave frowned.

“…The hell is this?”

Dinello suddenly cracked a grin.

“Oh. Just kidding.”

“You son of a—” Dave began.

SLASH.

Dinello shot forward in a blur and slashed straight across Dave’s neck.

He continued past Dave, then dropped dramatically onto one knee, holding his sword out in a perfect finishing pose.

A confident grin spread across his face.

“Oops,” Dinello said coolly. “One clean slice to take your head off. Maybe I went a little too hard?”

Behind him, Dave was still standing.

Crack. Pop. Pop.

Dave casually tilted his head from side to side.

“Man… my neck’s been stiff all day. No idea why.”

He rubbed his neck, then glanced at Dinello’s sword.

The blade was broken.

Again.

Dave raised an eyebrow.

“Wait… did you just try to cut me with that?”

Dinello slowly turned around. His eyes widened as he stared at the broken blade.

He had thought the slash went straight through Dave’s neck.

But the sword had shattered the moment it struck him.

Not a scratch.

Not even a mark.

Dinello stared in disbelief.

Then, with a sudden cry, he threw the broken hilt onto the ground, dropped to both knees, and grabbed his head with both hands.

“DAAAAGHH!!”

Tears poured down Dinello’s cheeks.

“That sword… that was from my dad! He spent six whole months dumpster diving just to save enough money to buy it for me!”

Dinello collapsed forward, still wailing in despair.

Dave stared at him.

A moment ago, Dinello had looked like a confident martial artist.

Now he was kneeling in the dirt, crying over a broken sword like his entire life had just fallen apart.

Section 6: What a Jokester

Dinello remained on his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Not just crying—screaming, howling, his entire body shaking.

“UAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

Dave stood there watching him in silence.

For the first time in a long time, he actually felt bad.

He carefully walked over to Dinello.

“Hey… I didn’t mean to break your swords, man. If I had money, I’d pay you back. Really. It’s just that… well, I haven’t worked in like ten years.”

Dinello didn’t answer. He just kept slamming his fists into the ground.

BAM. BAM. BAM.

Cracks spread across the pavement beneath him.

Dave crouched beside him.

“Seriously… you don’t need to cry this hard. Just get a part-time job and save up for a while. You’ll be able to buy another sword.”

Dave glanced at the cracked pavement, then back at Dinello.

“Honestly, watching you like this is kinda making me feel worse.”

Suddenly, Dinello stopped.

The crying stopped. The screaming stopped. His fists stopped.

He slowly stood up and turned toward Dave.

His face was completely dry.

Not a single tear.

Dinello smiled.

Then he burst out laughing.

“Just kidding, you silly goose! You really believed all that? That whole sob story?”

He gave Dave a thumbs-up and winked.

“My sisters are both high-ranking members of the Flugal Organization. We’re doing just fine financially. I’ve got plenty of swords at home. Don’t worry about it.”

Dave froze. His entire body stiffened.

Did I seriously just get emotionally trolled for five straight minutes?

For a moment, he felt like the biggest idiot on Earth—the most gullible person alive.

He took a breath and managed to steady himself.

“You win,” Dave muttered. “You’re officially the greatest prankster on Earth.”

He forced a stiff smile and let out a dry, empty laugh.

But Dinello’s expression suddenly changed. His smile disappeared, and his eyes sharpened.

“Alright,” he said calmly. “Round two. Let’s go.”

Dave blinked.

“Wait… I broke both of your katanas. Do you have any other weapons? A dagger? Another sword or something? You’re not actually going to fight me barehanded, are you?”

Dinello shrugged.

“Oh, those swords? I only come here on weekends to practice blade techniques. It’s just a hobby. Something fun.”

Then Dinello’s tone changed. His eyes sharpened.

“But my real training is in Qi.”

He raised one hand, spreading his fingers slightly.

“I was trained in internal energy. My master is Joshua, the former West King.”

Dave’s expression changed.

Joshua.

That name carried weight.

Dave stared at Dinello for a moment.

“Is this goofy troll for real…” he muttered, “…or is this just another prank?”