The Underwear vs. Golden Rimmed Glasses

Section 1: Golden-Rimmed Glasses

It was a scorching summer afternoon.

The door of a small bakery opened, and Michael stepped outside with a steaming cup of coffee in hand.

Same outfit as always: white button-up shirt, slim-fit dress pants, polished leather shoes, and a black briefcase swinging neatly by his side.

He always looked like a man heading to a job interview. Every single day.

From the opposite end of the block, Dave—the man known as the Underwear—was walking down the street when he spotted Michael.

The golden-rimmed glasses. The black briefcase. There was no doubt about it—Captain Lam, one of the higher-ups in the Humble Organization.

Ever since his defeat by Brian, Dave had been craving a worthy opponent. For the past few days, he had been hitting the weights like a madman. His body had fully recovered, and now he could feel a fresh surge of energy running through him. He needed someone strong, someone who could truly test his power.

So he stepped straight into Michael’s path.

“Captain Lam. May I challenge you to a match? Right here, right now. I’ve heard a lot about you on TV. They say you’re strong. Please—let’s spar.”

Michael stopped and calmly looked at Dave for a few seconds.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I only fight when it serves a purpose. Random violence is meaningless.”

Section 2: Meaningless Violence

Dave stared at him in disbelief. He had finally found someone who looked like a worthy opponent, and this guy was actually turning him down for such a stupid reason.

His expression darkened.

“Meaningless? Alright, then. Let me give you some meaning.”

Without taking his eyes off Michael, Dave casually swung a fist to the side.

Shatter.

The bakery’s glass window exploded into thousands of pieces, sending shards raining across the sidewalk.

Inside, customers screamed. People jumped from their seats and scrambled toward the exit as panic swept through the bakery.

A satisfied grin spread across Dave’s face. If he caused enough trouble, Captain Lam couldn’t just ignore him. He’d have to do something about it.

And Dave wasn’t finished.

As people rushed out of the bakery, Dave reached out and grabbed one of them—an office worker in a suit and tie—and lifted him off the ground by the collar. The man’s legs kicked helplessly in the air.

“Give me your wallet,” Dave demanded.

“P-please! Don’t hurt me!” the man cried, his face pale. A dark wet stain spread down his pants.

Dave held him there and shouted toward Michael.

“Captain Lam! Look at me! I’m a menace now! A villain! A walking threat to society! So what are you gonna do—hero?”

He paused for dramatic effect, then turned to check Michael’s reaction.

But Michael was already half a block away, calmly walking down the street as if nothing had happened. He didn’t even look back.

Dave’s jaw dropped. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

To Michael, the world wasn’t black and white. Good and evil, justice and crime—none of that mattered much to him. The truth was simple: he just didn’t care.

Dave stared after him for another second, then flung the terrified victim aside like a bag of groceries.

He sprinted after Michael, closing the distance in seconds, then jumped in front of him with both arms spread wide, blocking his path.

“HEY! What the hell, man? You can’t just walk away like that!”

Michael stopped and gave Dave a slow once-over from head to toe. His eyes paused on the bright pink, triangle-shaped women’s underwear Dave was wearing, and a faint smile appeared on his face.

“That’s quite a fashion statement,” he said. “Tell me—don’t you think it makes you look a little like some kind of deranged pervert?”

Dave blinked once. “My underwear doesn’t concern you.”

Without warning, Michael threw the rest of his hot coffee straight into Dave’s face.

Splash.

Dave jerked back as the steaming coffee splashed across his face and forearms. He instinctively raised both hands to wipe his eyes, leaving the entire lower half of his body wide open.

Michael stepped in immediately.

Wham!

A clean, snapping kick landed straight between Dave’s legs.

Dave’s entire body froze. His eyes bulged, his mouth fell open, and his thighs slammed shut around Michael’s shoe. Both hands dropped between his legs as his knees buckled.

Michael didn’t hold back.

He had already figured it out. This guy wasn’t going to leave him alone. Rejecting him politely hadn’t worked. Walking away hadn’t worked. There was only one solution left.

End it. Fast.

If a fight had to happen, it would happen on Michael’s terms—efficient, merciless, and preferably over before it even started.

Dave remained standing somehow, trembling from head to toe. His eyes watered as he took several tiny breaths through his nose, trying desperately not to collapse in the middle of the sidewalk.

A few seconds passed.

Then a teenage boy came speeding down the sidewalk on a scooter, heading straight toward Dave.

Dave instinctively twisted sideways to avoid him.

Big mistake.

The instant his body turned and his balance shifted—

Pow!

Michael drove a perfect sidekick straight into Dave’s midsection.

The kick buried itself in his abs. Dave folded around Michael’s foot for an instant before the force launched his entire body backward.

He flew more than ten meters through the air. Pedestrians scattered as his shadow passed across the sidewalk when he flew past it.

Then—

THUD!

Dave slammed back-first into a brick wall. Dust burst from between the bricks as his body bounced forward and dropped to the pavement.

For a moment, he stayed there.

Section 3: Captain Lam’s Lesson

Then Dave pushed himself up onto one knee and coughed hard. A thick mouthful of blood splattered onto the ground.

He looked at it.

Then he laughed—a bitter, defiant laugh.

“So this is the famous Captain Lam. One of the higher-ups in the Humble Organization. A man I thought deserved respect.”

He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“But you? You fight like a coward. Cheap tricks. Sneak attacks. Not an ounce of honor. You don’t even fight like a man.”

Michael glanced down at his watch and let out a quiet sigh.

“Alright. Looks like I’ve got a few minutes to spare. Guess I’ll waste some time with you.”

He adjusted his cuff and looked back at Dave. “I don’t usually waste energy on meaningless conversations. But this time… what the hell.”

Michael took a step forward. “You know what your real problem is? Even if you trained for ten lifetimes, you still wouldn’t make it to the top tier.”

He paused.

“Wanna know why?”

Dave didn’t answer. His breathing was heavy, his eyes locked on Michael. He couldn’t tell whether Michael was mocking him or actually trying to make a point.

Michael’s gaze drifted for a moment as three names came to mind.

Colin. Frank. Mario.

Not just fighters. Not just elites. Monsters even among monsters—the very top of the food chain.

Each of them represented something absolute: wisdom, strength, agility. They weren’t forged through hard work. They were born that way.

Michael had once been like Dave. He trained day after day, pushing himself in the gym and grinding his body to its limit. He made progress—a lot of it. But eventually, he realized something.

He might have traveled miles through years of hard work, but some people were simply born hundreds of miles ahead. And no matter how fast he ran, he would never catch them.

Michael looked at Dave again, and for a moment, he saw his younger self—the same fire, the same stubborn belief that hard work alone could rewrite fate.

He let out a long, heavy sigh.

“Underwear,” he said slowly. “You’re strong. Very strong, compared to most people. But in this world, there are monsters. And there are monsters even among monsters.”

He paused for a moment.

“The bigger your ego gets, the smaller you’ll start to feel. Until one day, you finally realize…”

“You’re nothing but an ant. Or worse—just a speck of dust.”

Those words sounded strangely familiar.

Just a few days ago, Brian had tried to tell Dave the same thing—but never got the chance to finish.

Dave’s face twitched. He didn’t want to hear any of it. His fists tightened, his jaw clenched, and his teeth ground against each other.

Then he snapped.

“Blah, blah, blah—what the hell are you even talking about?! You sound like a damn philosopher!”

“You’re a martial artist, aren’t you? Don’t you feel at least a little ashamed saying crap like this?”

Michael could see it clearly now. The look on Dave’s face, the anger in his voice, the stubborn fire in his eyes—he wasn’t listening, and there was no point in explaining any further.

Maybe someday, after the world beat him down enough, he would understand. But that wasn’t Michael’s problem.

None of my business, he thought. I don’t care.

Michael gave a slight shake of his head and turned to leave.

Then he stopped.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Dave’s right fist clenched tight. Every muscle in his arm was tense, his whole body loaded with anger and frustration.

Dave still wasn’t ready to back down. He wanted to prove something.

Michael slowly turned his head back.

“So be it.”

He faced Dave again.

“Alright. Let’s do this. No sneak attacks. No tricks. Just one clean, head-on strike. Fist to fist. Strength against strength.”

Michael raised his right hand and casually made a fist.

“I’m going to show you just how weak you really are.”

Section 4: Fist to Fist

Dave’s eyes lit up. This was exactly what he wanted—a clean, head-on test of strength. No tricks. No excuses. Finally, he could prove himself.

Dave crouched low and began channeling everything into his right fist. His muscles tightened, his breathing slowed, and the air around him began to stir. Dry leaves, dust, and scraps of trash lifted from the sidewalk and swirled around him as the pressure gathered around his clenched fist.

Veins rose along his forearm. His shoulder tightened like stone. Every hour in the gym, every punch, every drop of sweat from the past ten years—he poured all of it into that one fist.

All or nothing.

Across from him, Michael rolled his neck and yawned. “Hurry up. I haven’t had dinner yet.”

Then both men charged. Their shoes struck the pavement almost simultaneously. Dave drove forward with everything he had, twisting from his legs through his waist and shoulder as his right fist tore through the air. Michael simply stepped forward and punched.

Their fists met.

BOOM.

The collision cracked through the block like thunder. For an instant, both fists seemed locked together before a powerful shockwave burst outward, blasting dust, leaves, and loose paper in every direction. People raised their arms to shield their faces, while a few high school girls grabbed their skirts with one hand and covered their faces with the other.

Dave was the first to move. He staggered backward, his shoes scraping violently across the pavement as he fought to steady himself. One step… two… three… four… five… six. Finally, he stopped.

Breathing heavily, Dave looked up. Michael hadn’t moved an inch. He stood exactly where he had thrown the punch, his right fist still extended.

Then Dave felt it.

A sharp pain shot through his right wrist. His expression tightened as he slowly looked down. His wrist was bent backward at a grotesque ninety-degree angle.

For several seconds, Dave simply stared at it, his face blank. “I… I don’t believe it…”

He tried to move his fingers. They barely responded.

“No… no. This can’t be happening. Something’s wrong. Something has to be wrong. This… this can’t be real. I trained for ten years. Ten freaking years. Every single day, nonstop. All those long hours…”

His uninjured left hand clutched at his hair as he shook his head violently, tears running down his face. He had completely lost it.

“By now, I should… I should…” Dave stammered between heavy breaths. “I mean… I mean… I’m supposed to be the strongest man on Earth by now! Nobody should be able to beat me! No! No way! I can’t lose! I won’t lose! I won’t lose to anyone!”

His chest heaved as he looked at Michael, then back at his broken wrist. He had given ten years of his life to becoming stronger. How could it still not be enough?

Ten years. Thousands of hours.

And one punch had broken his wrist.

Section 5: Sock Attack

“ARRRGHHHH!”

Dave let out an almost animal-like roar and charged straight at Michael. His technique disappeared completely. He swung a wild left hook at Michael’s head, but Michael leaned back and let it pass inches from his nose. Dave followed with another punch, then a kick, then another punch, attacking relentlessly with no rhythm or restraint.

Michael calmly avoided every attack. Dave’s fist passed beside his cheek, and Michael simply tilted his head. A kick swept toward his ribs, and he stepped back half a pace. Another punch came straight down the middle, but Michael shifted slightly aside and let Dave stumble past him.

Dave spun around and attacked again. “I’m not weak!”

Another miss.

“I trained for ten years!”

Another.

“I’m the strongest!”

Dave threw everything he had, his broken right hand hanging uselessly while his left fist and legs attacked from every angle he could manage. Sweat flew from his face, his breathing became ragged, and every missed strike made him angrier. Michael barely had to move. He could have ended it at any moment with one clean strike, but he didn’t.

Looking at Dave now, Michael caught a glimpse of his younger self—the same obsession, the same refusal to accept that no amount of hard work could close every gap. He let out a quiet sigh.

“I gotta put an end to this.”

Dave charged again. Michael casually stepped away from another kick, set his briefcase down on the sidewalk, and loosened the laces of his right shoe. Dave swung at his head, but Michael ducked beneath it and slipped his foot out of the shoe. Another kick came toward him. Michael leaned aside, reached down, and peeled off his sock.

It was a damp, slightly yellowed cotton sock, worn from sweat and dirt after an entire summer afternoon inside a polished leather shoe. Michael held it loosely in one hand.

He was about to use his legendary finisher—

SOCK ATTACK.

Dave kept coming at him, throwing punch after punch, kick after kick. “I’m the strongest! I’m unbeatable! You’ll never defeat me! I—”

Before he could finish, Michael’s right hand shot forward in a blur, jamming the balled-up sock deep into Dave’s open mouth. His left hand immediately clamped over Dave’s mouth, sealing it inside.

“MMPHHH!”

Dave’s eyes went wide. For the first second, confusion filled his face.

Then the smell reached him.

His eyes bulged even farther. One second passed. Then two. Dave’s legs began to wobble. By the third, his entire body went limp.

The sock had ended countless men before. It carried the stink of shame, the weight of humiliation, and the raw power of athlete’s foot.

Dave’s knees hit the ground, and the rest of him followed. He collapsed onto the pavement, completely unconscious, the sock still stuffed in his mouth.

Section 6: Dumbbell in the Trash

Back at the dimly lit headquarters of the Humble Organization, Michael stepped into Colin’s office and was greeted by a strange sight.

Colin was lifting a ten-pound dumbbell.

Slowly. Painfully. Like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Michael blinked. “Uh… Boss? What are you doing?”

Colin didn’t answer right away. Still struggling with the dumbbell, he stared straight ahead.

“If I do strength training every day… do you think I could become a powerful fighter one day?”

Michael almost choked. He tried to hold back a laugh, but a quiet chuckle escaped anyway.

“Boss… with your intelligence, you might be the greatest mind in the past three hundred years—and probably the next three hundred too. But when it comes to fighting…” Michael paused. “With all due respect, even if you trained like this every day for the next hundred years, I don’t think you’d be able to beat that clown of a loser… Canelo.”

Colin stopped.

For the next ten seconds, he stood there in complete silence, apparently giving Michael’s words some serious thought.

Then he casually tossed the dumbbell into the trash can beside him.

Clang.

Colin returned to his seat, leaned back with his arms folded and legs crossed, and looked calmly at Michael.

“Captain Lam… do you remember the last time I made you eat that sock?”

Cold sweat instantly broke across Michael’s forehead.

“Yeah… I do remember,” Michael said, his voice trembling. “Please don’t do that to me again.”