Quest of Bottled Pepsi — Part 1

Section 1: The Pepsi Mission

Michael stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his golden-rimmed glasses. He straightened the collar of his crisp white shirt, brushed a speck of dust from his polished leather shoes, and gave himself one last look.

Today, he had been given a special assignment by his boss, Colin—the mysterious and cold leader of the Humble Organization.

Not to eliminate a rival. Not to infiltrate enemy territory.

He had been sent outside to buy a bottle of Pepsi.

Michael reached down, picked up the briefcase resting beside his feet, and turned around.

“All right, gentlemen. Let’s move out.”

Five underlings were already waiting behind him, and together they headed out into the busy city streets.

Their first stop was a local deli. Michael went straight to the drinks section, only to find rows of Coca-Cola staring back at him. Not a single Pepsi.

So they moved on.

One store became two, then three. But everywhere they went, it was the same story—plenty of Coke, but no Pepsi in sight.

Among the five underlings was one who stood out immediately—and not in a good way. He had an incredibly dumb-looking face and a pair of ridiculously thick, puffy lips, as if they had been permanently swollen for years.

Everyone called him Sausage-Lips.

After yet another failed stop, Sausage-Lips scratched his head. “Captain Lam, why can’t we just get a Coke? They’re basically the same thing.”

Michael stopped and slowly turned toward him.

“You naïve fool. Our boss is a perfectionist.” His expression turned grave. “Bring him a Coke, and you will face his wrath. Do you really want to die over something as trivial as a soda?”

Sausage-Lips immediately covered his enormous lips with both hands. “Sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean it.”

Michael sighed. “It’s all right. We’ll find one.”

They continued down the street. For a while, Sausage-Lips kept quiet.

But eventually, he couldn’t help himself.

“Captain Lam… is Colin really that scary? He doesn’t look that strong.”

Michael stopped.

He slowly turned his head toward him.

“Our boss may not be much of a fighter. In a fair fistfight, he might even lose to an ordinary martial artist.” Michael adjusted his golden-rimmed glasses. “But his intelligence is vast—far beyond your comprehension.”

Michael went quiet for a moment. His expression grew solemn, and a faint trace of unease crept into his eyes.

“Come to think of it, something happened three years ago.” He glanced at the others. “Our boss is by no means a forgiving man. I learned that the hard way.”

The five underlings immediately fell silent.

Michael looked up at the sky.

“If you gentlemen wish to know what happened… then listen carefully—and listen well.”

Section 2: The Sandwich Incident

Three years earlier, on a gloomy afternoon at the Humble Organization, Michael returned to the office after finishing his morning duties. He was exhausted—and absolutely starving.

As he walked in, something on a nearby desk caught his eye.

A half-eaten sandwich.

Michael looked around. No one was there. The sandwich still looked fresh, and he figured someone had probably left it behind.

Not wanting good food to go to waste, Michael picked it up and finished the whole thing in less than thirty seconds.

Just then, the bathroom door opened.

Colin stepped out, wiping his hands. He glanced around the office, then looked at Michael.

“Captain Lam, have you seen my sandwich? I thought I left it right here.”

Michael froze for a second.

Then he gave an awkward chuckle. “Ah… I believe I have eaten your sandwich.”

Colin stared at him.

The expression on his face slowly darkened.

Michael, however, thought nothing of it. He simply returned to his desk and began organizing his papers.

A few moments later, completely out of nowhere, Colin said, “Captain Lam, rumor has it that your feet stink.”

Michael looked up and laughed. “Ha! Rumor also has it that your breath is rather unpleasant.”

Still smiling, Michael went back to organizing his papers, humming quietly to himself.

He had no idea what was coming.

Colin looked at Michael again.

“Captain Lam, why don’t you take off your sock and give it a sniff? Let us see whether the rumor is true.”

As he spoke, a faint golden light flickered inside his mouth. Glowing letters emerged with his words, drifted through the air, and sank into Michael’s body.

It was Golden Speech—Colin’s signature technique, feared throughout the Kung Fu world for its ability to bend another person’s will.

Michael didn’t question him. He sat down, pulled off one of his socks, and brought it to his nose.

One sniff was enough.

His face twisted instantly.

“My goodness…” Michael muttered, fighting back a gag. “It really does stink.”

Colin watched him for a moment, then decided to put a few more ounces of mental power into his next words.

“Why don’t you taste it as well? Just to be certain.”

The golden light flickered inside his mouth again, brighter this time, and another stream of glowing letters flowed into Michael’s body.

Michael hesitated.

Every rational thought in his head was telling him not to do it. There was absolutely no reason on earth to put that filthy sock anywhere near his mouth.

Colin looked at him calmly.

“Go on. Give it a try.”

The golden light in his mouth burned brighter still. Another wave of letters shot forward, faster and more forcefully than before.

That was the final straw.

Michael fought with everything he had left, desperately clinging to the last bit of reason in his mind. But it was no use. His resistance finally crumbled beneath the overwhelming force of his boss’s intelligence.

And suddenly, the idea didn’t seem so ridiculous anymore. He wanted to know. No—he needed to know. He must know what his sock tasted like.

Slowly, Michael raised it toward his mouth.

Section 3: The Ultimate Taste

Michael opened his mouth and stuffed the sock inside.

The taste hit him immediately—salty, bitter, and sour. His face twisted in disgust, but the Golden Speech still had its grip on him. Instead of spitting it out, something inside him compelled him to keep going. He licked it again, bit down, and slowly rolled it across his tongue, determined to experience every last trace of flavor.

Then the taste exploded.

Burnt plastic. Sewage. Vomit. Rotting meat. Moldy cheese. Expired milk. Every disgusting flavor seemed to merge into one indescribable taste from hell.

Goosebumps spread across Michael’s arms. His stomach churned, his eyes watered, and every instinct in his body begged him to stop.

But he couldn’t…

He must uncover the sock’s ultimate taste—the final flavor created when every disgusting, foul taste within it merged into one.

Unfortunately, despite Michael’s extraordinary determination, persistence, and spirit of self-sacrifice, his body could take no more.

His eyes rolled back. His strength gave out, and one knee dropped heavily to the floor. Somehow, he remained upright—kneeling there stiffly like a fallen soldier refusing to collapse all the way.

To Michael, the torment seemed to last an eternity.

In reality, he had lasted less than thirty seconds.

Back in the present, Sausage-Lips walked beside Michael with tears welling up in his eyes.

“I never thought Captain Lam would die such a horrible death…” He sniffled. “I feel so sorry for him.”

Michael stopped and stared at him in disbelief.

Then he swung his hand and smacked Sausage-Lips square across his enormous lips.

“I’m standing right here, alive and kicking, you naïve fool! What on earth are you talking about?”

Sausage-Lips grabbed his swollen lips with both hands and stared at Michael for a few seconds.

“Oh, right. You’re still alive.” He nodded slowly. “My mistake.”

Section 4: The Origin of the Golden Techniques

Another underling looked puzzled. “Captain Lam, there’s something I don’t quite understand. Someone as intelligent as you still got hit that badly by Golden Speech? I heard Golden techniques only work effectively on people with inadequate intelligence.”

“That’s why I hesitated when Boss Colin cast Golden Speech upon me,” Michael said, his face turning grim at the memory. “But compared to his vast, almost inhuman intelligence, nobody stands much of a chance. His Golden Speech has never failed—not even once. If it were any of you fools, you wouldn’t last a single millisecond before giving in to the command.”

Every single one of the underlings trembled in fear.

Sausage-Lips was still rubbing his swollen lips. After a moment, his expression suddenly brightened.

“Captain Lam, maybe one day I’ll unlock a golden technique too.” He grinned. “Something like… Golden Lips.”

Michael immediately smacked him across the lips again.

“You naïve fool. Even a man of my intellect has failed to master a single golden technique after all these years.” Michael adjusted his glasses. “What makes you think you can?”

Sausage-Lips lowered his head and went quiet.

Michael glanced at the others and lowered his voice.

“Let me tell you gentlemen something few people know. Every golden technique you have ever seen—every single one—was created by Colin.”

The underlings stared at him in shock.

“Wait… you mean our boss invented all of them?”

Michael nodded. “Indeed. Anyone who possesses a golden technique, no matter who they are, has some connection to Colin. He is the origin—the creator of them all.”

Sausage-Lips stared at him in awe, his lips hanging slightly open.

A faint smile appeared on Michael’s face.

“Although I was never able to master a golden technique myself, Colin did give me something.”

He tapped the side of his frames.

“These golden-rimmed glasses.”

The others immediately turned their attention to them.

“Colin once told me, ‘Wear these, and people will mistake you for a harmless intellectual. They’ll underestimate you—and in battle, that gives you an advantage.’”

Michael smiled with quiet satisfaction.

“And that, gentlemen, is why I wear them every day.”

Section 5: The Sock Attack

They continued down the street toward the next store.

After a while, Michael spoke again, his voice calm.

“You know, gentlemen, tasting that sock wasn’t entirely a tale of pain and suffering. Something useful came out of it.”

The others looked at him curiously.

“That day, I discovered the true potential of my sock—and from that discovery, I developed a new technique.”

He paused for a moment for dramatic effect.

“The Sock Attack.”

“I simply shove the sock deep into my opponent’s mouth. But this is no ordinary sock. It carries the stink of shame, the weight of humiliation, and the raw power of athlete’s foot. The moment it touches their tongue, the smell and taste invade every sense at once. Their mind collapses. Their body shuts down. And within seconds…”

“The fight is over before you can even say ‘geez.’”

Michael spoke with quiet pride.

“Over the years, the Sock Attack has defeated many formidable opponents. These days, when people hear the name Captain Lam, they think twice before challenging me.”

The underlings nodded in admiration.

Sausage-Lips looked especially impressed. His eyes widened as a goofy smile spread across his face.

“Captain Lam, I’ve learned so much from you today.”

Section 6: The Bakery Incident

They continued their search, checking one store after another with no luck.

Eventually, they passed Ray’s Bakery. Through its large glass windows, they could see young people sitting around, chatting over cakes and drinks.

Michael was about to walk past when something near the entrance caught his eye.

A sign.

WE SELL BOTH COCA-COLA AND PEPSI.

Everyone stopped.

For the first time all day, there was hope.

Without another word, the six of them rushed inside and headed straight for the counter. On the way, Sausage-Lips shoved a skinny customer aside so hard that the poor guy stumbled backward and collapsed onto the floor, still clutching his cup of hot coffee.

“Out of my way, nerd!”

As soon as they reached the counter, one underling slammed both hands down and yelled, “Give me a bottle of Pepsi right now, you dick!”

The employee flinched and took a small step back.

“S-sorry,” he said nervously. “Someone just bought the last bottle of Pepsi.”

Their faces fell in unison.

Section 7: The Last Bottle

While the others stood there in disappointment, Sausage-Lips didn’t seem bothered at all. His attention had already drifted elsewhere. He slowly turned his head from table to table, openly checking out the young women scattered around the bakery.

Michael noticed.

He walked over and smacked Sausage-Lips square across his enormous lips.

“You naïve fool! What the hell are you doing? We’re in crisis mode and you’re out here checking out girls?”

Sausage-Lips grabbed his lips with both hands. Before Michael could lecture him any further, his eyes suddenly widened.

“Captain Lam! Over there!” He pointed toward a table near the window. “I found it!”

Everyone turned.

There! At a table near the window sat six people. Right in the center was a familiar face—Canelo.

Five younger lackeys surrounded him, each holding a bottle of soda as they laughed and talked among themselves.

And in Canelo’s hand was a bottle of Pepsi.

Still sealed.

Untouched.

The very thing they had been searching for all day.

There it was, sitting right in front of them.