C43: Face to Face
With the explosive strength granted by the Dali Bone Forging Technique, Li Ran darted across Harlem's cracked sidewalks, swiftly arriving at the neon-lit entrance of Connie's Wok, a long-standing Chinese eatery nestled between a pawn shop and a bullet-scarred laundromat.
A ring of armed Black gangsters stood outside, decked in Harlem-style streetwear, radiating menace. They shouted and jeered, blocking the entrance. At the center were the restaurant's proprietors, Ji Si and Mrs. Connie, defensively clutching a wok and broom respectively.
"Where is the punk who showed up in your store last week?" A man stepped forward, raising a hand to hush the noise. The speaker, clad in a snakeskin jacket and dripping menace, was Willis Stryker, better known on the streets as Rattlesnake—a ruthless local shot-caller once affiliated with Cottonmouth's crew before founding his own splinter gang. His gravelly voice carried the weight of Harlem's bloodstained past. "You've lived here long enough to know the rules."
"You scum. Harlem's been dragged into the mud by people like you," Ji Si shot back, his voice trembling, though he stood his ground against the looming crowd. Decades of running his father's restaurant gave him courage far beyond what his aging frame suggested.
Willis sneered, raising a gloved finger and jabbing it near Ji Si's nose. "You forgot where you are, old man. This is Harlem, Black royalty's turf. You yellow-skinned folks ain't here 'cause you earned it. You're here 'cause we allowed it. So don't push it."
"That's racist and dead wrong!" Ji Si barked, clenching his fists. "This restaurant was built by my father after he came from Guangdong with nothing. We've survived crack wars, vigilantes, even Kingpin's old enforcers. But we never bent to criminals."
"Racist?" Willis chuckled darkly, looking around. "Y'all hear that? I'm a racist now?"
Despite the tension, the gathered thugs avoided eye contact. Even a couple of watching pedestrians shrank back under Rattlesnake's gaze. He was infamous, not just for his ruthlessness, but for surviving a shootout with Luke Cage himself years ago. No one wanted to be next.
Satisfied by the silence, Willis turned back. "See? No one here's offended. I make the rules."
"I am," came a clear voice behind him.
The crowd turned. A slap echoed through the air, metaphorical more than literal, as all eyes landed on a lean figure in a red undershirt and old sneakers.
Li Ran.
"That's him!" hissed Shamik, a young banger nursing a bruised jaw. He edged toward Willis, whispering urgently. "That's the guy who wrecked us at the barbershop!"
Li Ran caught Shamik's guilty glance and smirked slightly. He could already piece together what had happened. The attack on Connie's Wok wasn't random, it was retaliation.
Still, the exposure didn't bother him. If anything, being known as "Ah Xing", the elusive force cleaning up Harlem's filth, would help stir up the kind of reputation his system craved.
He just wasn't going to thank Shamik for it.
Willis narrowed his eyes. The name Cornell echoed in his mind. Last night's report came flooding back subordinates broken, humiliated. Now the target stood before him, completely unfazed.
Ignoring the couple, Willis stepped toward Li Ran, flanked by his crew. "So it's you? You the one who pulled a Daredevil move on my boys?"
"If you mean the punks from last night—yeah," Li Ran said calmly, glancing over Willis' shoulder. "They tried to rob a delivery girl. I disagreed."
"Robbery?!" someone behind Willis laughed loudly. The rest followed, mocking the word like it was a joke from The Daily Bugle's front page.
When the laughter died, Willis stepped in close. "Out here, we are the law. Harlem answers to us, not to some kung fu knockoff from Chinatown."
"No more talk, then?"
"What, getting scared? Want to beg for mercy?" Willis grinned with venom. "Too late. Only thing you'll beg for is breath, when I hand your corpse to the Pit Viper."
"Who?" Li Ran blinked.
Willis scoffed. "You're brave but stupid. Never heard of Cornell Stokes? He ran uptown before Mariah Dillard betrayed him. Now he's back, and this time we're not answering to anyone, not Kingpin, not Tombstone, and sure as hell not the Defenders."
So Cornell "Cottonmouth" Stokes was the boss. That clicked instantly—Li Ran had seen that alias in his system the night before. Now it made sense. A viper in a pit, waiting for prey.
Willis watched Li Ran's reaction and stepped back cautiously, his gaze flicking to Li Ran's worn sneakers. Something about them, how quiet he'd been, how effortlessly he stood, sent a chill up his spine. He remembered the mangled bones of his men. One wrong move...
But he couldn't back down.
"Maybe you beat a few nobodies. Maybe ten. But a hundred? Harlem belongs to us. You're cornered. Every alley, every rooftop, every door is ours."
Li Ran cracked his knuckles. "You talk too much."
Willis stiffened.
Li Ran took a stance, limbs flowing like water, his breath steady. The kung fu pose wasn't just for show, it radiated mastery, the kind that reminded old heads of Iron Fist or even Shang-Chi.
"Come on."
Provoked, one of the gangsters—a hulking man over two meters tall with arms like sewer pipes, snorted and stepped forward, ignoring Willis' silent gesture to hold.
"Damn," Li Ran remarked flatly. "Your fist's the size of a crockpot. You microwave with that thing?"
The big man didn't understand. Cultural lines blurred the sarcasm. He growled and raised his fist, aiming straight for Li Ran's skull—
And the crowd held its breath.
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