Canelo’s True Power

Section 1: The Two Fanboys

Ever since the fight between Sean and Canelo, the entire city had been talking about it.

Videos of the fight exploded across YouTube. Different angles, different uploads, slowed-down replays, reaction videos.

Almost everyone had seen it—Canelo defeating Sean, the Local Hero.

And for many, the video only deepened their fear of Canelo.

At a small coffee shop, two BFFs sat side by side on stools by the window, sharing a phone between them.

They had been friends for years. They hung out together, drank together, and had group sex together. They agreed on almost everything.

Almost.

One was a die-hard fan of Sean, the Local Hero, while the other was just as devoted to Canelo, the Peeing Man.

When the video of Sean and Canelo’s fight appeared online, the two BFFs immediately pulled it up. Both were certain their man was going to win.

The video began. At first, both men watched in silence, their eyes locked on the screen. But as the fight unfolded, they could no longer contain themselves.

The Sean fanboy suddenly pointed at the phone.

“Ha! Look at that! Canelo’s losing!”

“Bullshit!” his friend shot back. “He’ll come back!”

They leaned closer to the screen, watching every punch and every shift in momentum. Whenever Sean gained the upper hand, one erupted. Whenever Canelo turned things around, the other fired right back.

“Come on, Sean! Beat him up and fuck him good!”

“Get him, Canelo!”

Neither man paid any attention to the rest of the coffee shop.

Then the fight reached its end—and Sean lost.

The Sean fanboy stared at the screen, his mouth falling open.

“No! No… No fucking way!”

Beside him, his BFF erupted in celebration. He leaned right into his friend’s face, raised his middle finger, and shouted,

“In your face, man!”

The Sean fanboy couldn’t take it.

His face twisted with rage. He clenched his fist, pulled his arm back, and drove everything he had straight into the glass window in front of him.

BANG!

It was a furious punch, thrown with every ounce of strength in his body.

The window suffered a small crack. On the other hand, his hand suffered considerably more.

“AAAAAAAGH!”

He ripped his fist away and clutched it against his chest. Pain shot through his hand so sharply that he could barely breathe. Something was definitely broken, and his knuckles were already beginning to swell.

“Damn you, Canelo!” he cried. “You’ve destroyed so many people! You destroyed Sean, the Local Hero! And now you destroyed my hand! Is there any limit to your evil?!”

His BFF calmly reminded him, “Hey, man. I’m pretty sure you destroyed your own hand. That had nothing to do with Canelo.”

“AAAAAAAGH!”

His agonized howl filled the coffee shop.

Section 2: The Homeless Man

But not everyone in Flushing City cared about the latest news, online arguments, or who had beaten whom. Some people simply didn’t own a smartphone or a computer.

In Local Alley, a tall, heavily built man walked over to a pile of garbage. He stood 190 centimeters tall, with thick muscles, long, powerful legs, and a small belly. He wore a filthy shirt and a pair of worn-out shorts, with a few dried feces stains on the fabric.

His name was Tom, a homeless man.

Tom squatted down, exposing half his butt crack. He began digging through the trash, searching for leftover food, empty bottles, and old soda cans.

Less than a minute later, Tom pulled a half-eaten sausage out of a puddle of filthy, greasy liquid at the bottom of the garbage pile.

Without hesitation, he tossed it into his mouth and swallowed it whole.

GULP!

His muscle strength was replenished.

Section 3: The Homeless Man vs. Granny

After digging through the garbage for quite some time, Tom finally managed to pull an empty Snapple bottle from the pile.

An invisible smile appeared on his blank, innocent face.

Five cents.

Before he could put it away, a hand suddenly reached in and snatched the bottle from his grasp.

Tom turned.

A tiny, hunched old woman with white hair and ragged clothes stood beside him.

Tom looked at her and said nothing. His invisible smile disappeared.

The old woman raised her hand.

SLAP! SLAP!

Two strong slaps landed across Tom’s face.

“Look at you!” she scolded.

“A big, strong young man competing with the elderly in the recycling industry! Aren’t you even a little ashamed of yourself? Go get a proper job already!”

Tom didn’t answer. He simply stood there, looking at her—or rather, the Snapple bottle in her hand.

SLAP! SLAP!

She gave him two more across the face.

“Young people these days! Absolutely shameless!”

The old woman shoved Tom’s Snapple bottle into her bag, then turned and shuffled down the alley, muttering to herself.

“Back in my day, young people worked hard and respected their elders…”

“But these days… grown men just stay home eating, drinking, and sleeping all day! No wonder they’ve got such big bellies! What a lazy generation!”

Her complaints grew quieter and quieter until the hunched old woman disappeared around the corner at the end of the alley.

Tom watched her disappear.

He waited.

Only when he was certain she was gone did he turn back to the garbage pile. If he resumed searching too soon, she might come back and take whatever he found next.

So Tom squatted back down and went back to work, exposing half his butt crack once again.

Section 4: The Homeless Man vs. Canelo

Tom continued searching through the garbage, his head lowered and his eyes fixed on the ground.

He dug through one pile, then another. Nothing. He kept moving forward, scanning the ground for anything valuable.

Then something caught his eye.

A slightly crushed Pepsi can lay beside a utility pole farther down the alley.

Another five cents.

Tom hurried toward it, his body hunched forward and his eyes fixed entirely on the can. He never looked up. When he reached the utility pole, he bent down and picked up his little treasure.

Standing right beside him was Canelo, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he casually relieved himself against the utility pole.

Sensing someone entering his territory, Canelo casually shifted his dick, deliberately aiming it at Tom’s face.

A stream of urine shot out, splashing straight across Tom’s face.

Tom jerked back two steps. He wiped his face with one hand and looked at Canelo.

“Hey, that’s not cool, man.”

Canelo stared back at him, cigarette still hanging from his lips, waiting for the big man to do something.

Tom didn’t.

He simply turned around, walked over to another pile of garbage, and went back to searching.

Canelo watched Tom walk away, his expression darkening. Nobody had ever dared to ignore him like that. Most people would have trembled in fear, dropped to their knees, and begged for mercy, calling him “Lord Canelo.” For the first time, Canelo felt deeply disrespected.

He zipped up his pants and marched after him.

Tom was already digging through another pile of garbage when Canelo came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, you! You just gonna walk away like that?”

Tom turned around, blinking at him with his usual blank, innocent expression.

“Oh. Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

Tom glanced at the Pepsi can in his hand, then held it out toward Canelo with total sincerity.

“Oh, is this your can? If you want it back, you can have it.”

For a moment, Canelo didn’t know what to say. He stared at the Pepsi can, then back at Tom.

This big bastard was mocking him.

Canelo suddenly slapped the Pepsi can out of Tom’s hand.

“How dare you! I’m gonna beat you up and fuck you good!”

The can clattered across the ground.

His fist shot forward, and Tom instinctively raised an arm to block.

THUD!

The punch slammed into his forearm. Tom barely moved, completely unharmed.

Canelo immediately followed with another punch, then a kick, then another rapid combination.

Tom didn’t fight back. He simply raised his arms and blocked whatever came at him, awkwardly but effectively, his huge frame absorbing the impacts.

Canelo stepped back.

His attacks were having almost no effect. Tom was still standing in front of him, wearing the same stupidly blank, innocent expression.

“What the fuck is with that silly look on your face?!” Canelo yelled.

Canelo had had enough. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and threw it onto the ground. Then he began backing away.

Ten steps. Twenty. Thirty.

Tom watched him with the same blank, innocent expression, wondering what this strange little man was doing.

Canelo stopped.

For a brief moment, neither of them moved.

Then Canelo exploded forward, his shoes hammering against the pavement as he accelerated through the alley.

After several powerful strides, he slammed one foot into the pavement, sending spiderweb-like cracks across the ground as he launched himself nearly three meters into the air.

His body turned, and his leg came crashing down toward Tom.

SKYFALL KICK

Even someone as dense as Tom could sense the danger and hostility behind the attack.

He immediately planted his feet and crossed both arms in front of his chest.

Canelo’s heel crashed into them.

BOOM!

A burst of sparks flashed from the point of impact.

CRACK!

A fracture shot through one of Tom’s forearm bones. His bare feet scraped violently across the pavement as the force drove his entire body backward nearly half a meter.

Then he stopped.

Tom slowly lowered his arms. Pain shot through his fractured forearm, but to someone as tough as Tom, it was little more than a minor annoyance.

Meanwhile, the force of the collision sent Canelo flying backward. Just as he had done countless times before, he twisted his body into a backward flip, preparing to land on his feet.

But this time, Tom moved—and moved fast.

He charged forward two steps. Before Canelo could complete his flip, Tom grabbed him by both shoulders and yanked him straight in front of his chest.

Canelo immediately struggled to break free.

He couldn’t.

Tom’s grip was unbelievably strong.

Holding Canelo firmly by both shoulders, Tom began doing high knees in place, repeatedly driving his knees into Canelo’s stomach.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Twice every second, gradually accelerating to nearly three times per second.

After one full session of high knees, lasting about a minute, Tom finally stopped.

He looked down at Canelo, whose body had long gone completely limp. White foam leaked from the corners of his mouth, his eyes had rolled back, and his arms hung lifelessly at his sides.

He was unconscious.

Tom casually tossed Canelo into a nearby pile of garbage, where he disappeared into the trash with a soft crash.

Then Tom turned around and resumed searching through the garbage.

Section 5: The Wrong Place at the Wrong Time

Several hours passed, and night fell over Local Alley.

Canelo slowly crawled out from the pile of garbage and struggled to his feet.

“Fuck…”

His stomach still hurt like hell. The memory of Tom’s endless high knees came rushing back, filling him with rage.

“What the fuck was with that musclehead? Jesus Christ…”

Canelo brushed the trash off his hoodie and stormed down the alley, looking for someone to take his anger out on.

At the other end of the alley, a man was walking beneath a malfunctioning streetlight. The light kept flickering on and off, leaving him little more than a dark silhouette.

Canelo cracked his neck, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“Sorry, bro. Nothing personal. You’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Canelo leaned forward and suddenly shot toward the man like a shadow.

The streetlight flickered off.

Moving at incredible speed through the darkness, Canelo closed the distance in an instant. Neither man could clearly make out the other’s face.

As Canelo rushed into range, the man casually swung one hand to the side.

BANG!

Canelo flew backward, crashed onto the pavement, and slid all the way back into the same pile of garbage.

He was unconscious again.

The man turned around and glanced around the alley, muttering to himself.

“Hmm? Did someone just try to rob me?”

The streetlight flickered on for a moment, revealing the man’s golden-rimmed glasses, neat shirt, dress pants, and briefcase.

It was Michael.

From the corner of his eye, Michael caught a glimpse of someone lying in the garbage.

“Hmm… He looks familiar.”

The streetlight flickered off again. Michael couldn’t quite remember who it was.

“Whatever.”

He turned around and continued walking home.

Section 6: The Special Program

Later that night, Michael arrived home. After taking a shower, he changed out of his usual work clothes into a casual T-shirt and shorts.

He settled onto the couch and turned on the television.

By coincidence, a special program about Canelo was airing.

“Good evening, Flushing City!” the familiar female reporter announced.

“Tonight, we bring you a special program on Lord Canelo, the man who recently defeated Sean, the Local Hero!”

Footage of Canelo’s Skyfall Kick against Master Lee Kumkee played in slow motion, showing the devastating force of the attack.

Michael watched casually until a close-up of Canelo’s face appeared on the screen.

“Hmm?”

He leaned forward slightly.

“Wait a minute… Canelo? Was he the one who ambushed me in Local Alley and tried to rob me?”

On television, the female reporter continued.

“After defeating Master Lee Kumkee and Sean, the Local Hero, Lord Canelo has become one of the most feared fighters in Flushing City, seemingly unmatched!”

Michael stared at the screen for a moment.

“Hmm… Actually, he’s…”

He placed two fingers against his chin, carefully searching for the right word. After a few seconds, he finally spoke.

“Extremely weak.”

Section 7: Eternal Lord Canelo

But the people of Flushing City would never hear Michael’s words, nor would they know about Canelo’s humiliating defeats at the hands of Tom and the man with the briefcase.

All they saw was the special program. All they knew was that Canelo had defeated Master Lee Kumkee and Sean, the Local Hero—and the exaggerated visual effects added to his Skyfall Kick in post-production made him look even more powerful.

Canelo’s reputation rose to another level, and his name spread even further across Flushing City.

Just like before, whenever people saw him on the street, they trembled in fear. Some even bowed ninety degrees.

“Lord Canelo!”

Flushing City was still the same Flushing City.

Canelo was still the same Canelo.

Nothing had changed.