On the third floor of a castle-like mansion, in a room measuring roughly forty ping, the camera slowly moved closer. The steady clatter of keyboard keys contrasted sharply with the news broadcast coming from the television beside the sitting area five meters away. The news was covering the Punk Wing Chun heroics that had been making headlines these past few days, along with the same fight footage that kept getting replayed.
Then the keyboard clatter stopped. A seated figure scratched his head.
“Hmm? There are actually still idiots in this world who’ll step up like that?” he murmured.
He said to the artificial-intelligence butler, “Replay that news report from just now and record it.”
With that, he maneuvered his wheelchair to the sitting area to watch the news.
His name was Xiaoming. He was seventeen, male, and had no bad habits. At the age of twelve, he had been diagnosed with the rare condition spinal muscular atrophy. After that, he had studied at home by himself. He loved electronic engineering, computer science, and psychology—and, of course, hot-blooded classic battle manga.
Both of his parents were senior executives at technology companies. They spent most of the year traveling overseas for work and were rarely home, so out of a compensatory mindset, they gave Xiaoming an astonishing 300,000 yuan a month for living expenses.
Since Xiaoming studied at home, it was naturally impossible for him to have any friends. For the same reasons, he poured all the energy he might have spent making friends into inventing things instead. Quietly, he had acquired more than three thousand invention patents. Even more inspirationally, despite his young age, he had never squandered his allowance. He had made himself an invisible multimillionaire.
The scene returned to Xiaoming, who was sitting near the sofa and watching the news replay. “That really is interesting.” His voice was completely flat.
The camera once again focused on Xiaoming’s sharp, unwavering gaze. He looked as though he had made up his mind.
No one knew when it had started, but the streets all over CD began to fill with a faint buzzing like flies in flight. The source of that weak hum was a swarm of birdlike drones.
Their matte-black coating made them perfectly invisible in the night. At only 7.5 centimeters long, they could even be overlooked during the day. Swarm after swarm of drones regularly returned to what might have been their base to recharge. In the enormous room, nearly a thousand miniature drones were cleverly adhered to the walls, charging. In the glow of a forty-five-inch computer monitor, their owner’s true face appeared: Xiaoming, the boy mentioned at the beginning.
Xiaoming typed at incredible speed, using the data the drones had just gathered to write programs and improve his precious little creations. He controlled mechanical arms mounted on both sides of the room, reassembling the drones one by one. After countless tests and adjustments, the drones finally reached their final version. They had powerful resource-sharing and networking capabilities, ensuring they would never lose contact with Xiaoming. They also had ultra-clear 8K video recording, powerful amplification equipment, and integrated nanotechnology. With a blueprint, they could assemble themselves into practically any object or machine imaginable—or unimaginable.
An old grandmother was having her purse yanked by two punks when a faint buzzing like a fly suddenly exploded into a blaring siren.
“We have recorded your entire faces and uploaded them to the police department. Police will arrive in three minutes.”
Under Xiaoming’s control, the drone had been patrolling on its own. Since he was physically unable to intervene, the only thing he could do when it encountered trouble was sound an alarm and scare off the punks. Inspired by the heroic deeds of Punk Wing Chun, he was protecting the little town where he lived in his own way and helping people who needed help.
One night…
One of Xiaoming’s drones happened to record An'an fighting five delinquent teenagers to rescue his little aunt. AI analysis of his combat techniques showed a 43 percent similarity to Wing Chun. Xiaoming was thrilled. He had assumed that the righteous Punk Wing Chun was a boy around his own age, so from that day onward, he had his drones keep An'an under observation.
He discovered that An'an really was the town’s friendly neighborhood youth. Every day, An'an voluntarily patrolled around helping all kinds of people. He checked on elderly people living alone near his home, ran errands and bought things for his neighbors, and even opened his mouth to imitate an ambulance siren while escorting a neighbor grandmother across the street and walking her home. He thoughtfully helped lost children find their families, and when necessary, used his fists to stop violence.
His behavior indirectly influenced the delinquents he had beaten flat last time. Recently, they had joined An'an in protecting their community, picking up trash nearby and maintaining public safety in their own way.
“This is way cooler than bullying people!” shouted the Mohawk-haired delinquent leader at the sky.
Xiaoming decided the time was right. He parked a drone outside the second-floor window of An'an’s room and opened a communications channel, his heart racing.
“Hello, Punk Wing Chun. My name is Xiaoming. I’ve been observing you for a while. I hope we can team up to protect our CD and become CD’s guardian heroes!”
Xiaoming was so excited he nearly bit his tongue.
When An'an heard Xiaoming bring up Punk Wing Chun in that worried tone, his limited comprehension led him to interpret it as malice.
“Stop criticizing the martial art I use to save people, Punk Wing Chun! I…I…I’m really angry! Punk…Punk…Wing Chun is obviously the most…the most…amazing, hmph!” he shouted. Then he walked away without looking back, casually grabbing the drone that had been talking to him and smashing it hard against the ground.
After listening, An'an tilted his head in confusion.
“I…I’m not…Punk Wing Chun. N…not…although…my…my martial art is called ‘Punk Wing Chun.’ My name is Zhao Ding'an. An'an. When I was…when I was…thirteen…a…a big brother who was the lead singer of a band…taught me how to be a hero. This…this…this is a man’s promise. I promised that would be the name of my martial art.”
After saying that, he grinned and began throwing Wing Chun chain punches for his own amusement.
When Xiaoming heard this, he realized that he had mistaken the wrong person because of his own wishful thinking. His mind raced, and he was so mortified he wanted to dig a hole and crawl inside. He froze for several minutes, until An'an grabbed the drone as though it were a floating chocolate cookie and gnawed on it a few times. Only then did Xiaoming come back to his senses. He cleared his throat and spoke again.
“Even though you aren’t Punk Wing Chun…well, I think your fighting skills are really impressive. Team up with me. Let’s protect this town together.”
“Together…together…protect…this town…Will there be cookies?” An'an asked with a drool-covered grin.
In front of the monitor, Xiaoming covered his face in mild frustration, then smiled despite himself.
“Of course. Not just cookies—drinks, too.”
The drone communication shut down. The monitor displayed the words See You Next Time, and the drone flew back to Xiaoming’s house to recharge, leaving An'an staring blankly out the window and wondering if something had just been on the screen.
“Starting today, I guess I have a partner, too. He’s kind of weird, but he’s really interesting.”
The shut-off monitor reflected Xiaoming laughing uproariously. It was probably the brightest smile he had shown since he was twelve.
Several nights later, Xiaoming’s drones assembled into a small aircraft and flew outside An'an’s bedroom window. Inside were a pair of automatically guided roller skates and a tablet computer for An'an.
“An'an, these are your new tools. These roller skates have automatic navigation, so they can get you to people who need help right away. It’s okay if you can’t skate—you just have to put them on. The tablet also has surveillance footage from a lot of streets. You can try operating it yourself.”
“I can’t read,” An'an said with a toothy grin. “But…but…I…I can skate.”
He immediately put them on and, without the slightest hesitation, opened the window and jumped onto the neighboring roof.
Watching the guileless An'an completely disregard his dignity, Xiaoming burst out laughing in front of the monitor. He laughed and laughed.
At that moment, drone ASW-G-08 sent back an image of a group of savage, ganglike men wielding katanas and chasing a father and son, hacking at them. Xiaoming immediately wiped the smile from his face, transmitted the image to An'an’s tablet, and set the coordinates on his roller skates. Sure enough, An'an didn’t need to skate himself. Xiaoming directly activated and controlled the skates.
“Sorry, An'an. It’s an emergency. Someone’s in danger and needs your help. I’ve already called the police, too. The skates will get you there as fast as possible,” Xiaoming explained apologetically.
About fifteen minutes later, An'an arrived. The bloodstained pavement frightened him, but then he suddenly heard someone shouting for help. An'an ran toward the sound, his heavy footsteps still steady and solid. When he saw the bad guys about to catch up with the father and son, he instinctively took off the roller skates and threw them, along with the tablet, hitting the attackers and buying the father and son more time to escape.
On the deserted, empty street, barefoot An'an stepped through the pool of blood and walked straight toward the knife-wielding bad guys. He rolled up his sleeves along the way and put on his favorite wrestling mask, crooked as usual. Under the moonlight, the camera angle looked up from below. Though An'an stood only 175 centimeters tall, he seemed to grow larger and larger as he advanced to rescue the victims. Every step went slap, slap, slap against the pavement, as though announcing the ringing bells of justice and proclaiming that justice would never be late.
An'an walked in front of the father and son and watched the group of apparent gang members slowly struggle to their feet. He took up his self-created martial-arts stance, “Punk Wing Chun: Open Palm, Opening Your Mind,” and shielded the two victims behind him.
“Who…who…are you? These bad guys…they…they hurt people with knives!” An'an stammered slightly, but every word rang out with force.
The apparent gang members had little interest in trash talk. All five immediately charged at An'an with their blades.
“You…you…get out of here. The hero is about…about…to appear.”
Calmly, An'an put on his symbolic wrestler’s mask. He murmured to the wounded father and son that they should hide, then his gaze sharpened.
An'an raised his bloodstained big foot and whipped out a side kick, spraying the blood and grit into the faces of the three men charging him with knives. Grinning, An'an began singing loudly as he ran forward with heavy slap-slap footsteps and closed in on the knife-wielding bad guys.
“With the iron fist of justice, I’ll open up a brave new world…”
He threw one punch, two punches, three punches, then a flurry of punches, completely knocking one man down. Calmly, he continued singing:
“You ask me what kind of punch this is? This is Punk Wing Chun!”
Seeing how happily he was singing, the other three became murderous. They raised their knives in fury and thrust them all together, intending to kill An'an!
Xiaoming’s voice came from the nearby drone, warning him to be careful. An'an heard it and twisted aside.
All three blades plunged straight through An'an’s cotton jacket, creating three cuts and six holes—an effortless makeover into a wonderfully grungy look.
An'an instinctively reached back, grabbed the drone, and threw it into one attacker’s head. Then he jumped and stomped his huge bare feet into the faces of the other two. Following through, he relaxed his entire body and dropped onto his butt, taking all three down in one chain of attacks. An'an had beaten the bad guys and rescued people, so he was in a fantastic mood. He began waving his arms, dancing, and clapping with laughter.
The remaining bad guy, who had not yet drawn his knife, was so frightened that he turned and ran. But how could An'an possibly let any bad guy escape? He picked up the tablet he had thrown at them earlier and hurled it again, hitting the man squarely in the back of the head. An'an hurried forward and planted his huge foot on the bad guy’s face, flashing a toothy grin. Then he dropped onto his butt again.
Pffft!
The fart knocked the man unconscious.
Watching the entire scene from another drone’s perspective, Xiaoming had originally intended to take An'an’s defeat of the bad guys seriously. But An'an’s moves were so ridiculous and unpredictable that Xiaoming ended up laughing his head off in front of the screen. The cost of that happiness was a little high, though, considering he had destroyed one drone and one tablet.
After the farce, Xiaoming guided An'an in locking the apparent gang members inside a huge abandoned dog kennel beside the street. Finally…the police, who never let us down, arrived only after the entire battle was over, bringing an ambulance to take the father and son to the hospital.
“It was me…I…I knocked these people down and saved them!” An'an excitedly waved both hands, trying to explain everything to the police.
Every officer at the scene stared at the excitable, slightly neurotic patient with Down syndrome in front of them with disbelief and contempt.
“Kid, quit joking around. These are gang members who were attacking people with knives. We’re busy, so go home, okay? If you stay here any longer, we’ll have to take you in for obstructing official business,” one officer said threateningly.
Elsewhere, Xiaoming watched An'an standing frozen through the drone and felt his spirits sink. Even though An'an’s feet were covered in blood and his clothes had been pierced by katanas, he had ultimately lost to the world’s prejudice. No one was willing to believe that the patient with Down syndrome standing before them was the hero who had saved two innocent citizens.
Xiaoming controlled the drone to project a miniature earpiece toward An'an.
“Great hero An'an, you worked hard tonight. Go home. Your Aunt Lily must really miss you,” he said, his voice slightly choked.
The moment An'an heard the words Aunt Lily, it was as though someone had pressed a switch. He immediately brightened.
“I really miss my Aunt Lily…but…why…but…I’m also a little sad.”
He flashed a silly, toothy smile, yet his eyes filled with tears as he waved his arms and slowly left the scene.
The next day, the news ran several huge headlines:
“Punk Wing Chun Strikes Again, Battles Five Knife-Wielding Gang Members and Saves Innocent Father and Son!”
“Who Exactly Is Punk Wing Chun? He Rescues Seriously Injured Father and Son!”
“Is He Venting Violence? The Evil Beneath Punk Wing Chun’s Mask!”
The camera shifted to A-Wan, who was at work, leisurely drinking milk tea from a breakfast shop. When he heard the news reporting on Punk Wing Chun, he was so startled that milk tea sprayed from his mouth.
I went to bed early yesterday, he thought. Did my sense of justice awaken a Stand ability? Or do I have a split personality?
Still shaken, A-Wan opened a YouTube news video and watched footage filmed by civilians. It showed a muscular man using moves that looked a lot like Wing Chun in a thoroughly goofy manner. Seeing that, A-Wan finally relaxed. Thank goodness he hadn’t gone crazy. He put it out of his mind and continued working.
A-Wan muted the news and focused on his work. He completely failed to notice the reporter’s follow-up report about why the father and son had been attacked.
The reporter said, “That’s right…The rescued father and son are accountants for a construction company. It’s been reported that the company has numerous suspicious money transfers currently under investigation. The two men, who handled the company’s accounts, were apparently targeted at this time…Our reporters are still working to clarify the matter…”
That report also caught Xiaoming’s attention.
Over the next several weeks, Xiaoming and An'an worked together flawlessly. They stopped several violent robberies, attacks with weapons, and drive-by robberies. Naturally, bystanders filmed each incident and uploaded the videos online, and every case was added to Punk Wing Chun’s record of saving people.
Meanwhile, the real Punk Wing Chun, A-Wan, was extremely baffled. He had only “happened to save someone” once, two months earlier, while on his way home from work. How had so many heroic deeds ended up being credited to him? His wife was even starting to suspect him.
On the other hand, An'an had a habit of putting on a mask whenever he saved people. With so many coincidences piling up, netizens naturally merged the images of the two men into one.
Xiaoming was always gathering information online. As he read the comments, he saw that everyone kept mistaking An'an for Punk Wing Chun. Because of what had happened last time, Xiaoming felt guilty toward An'an. He brooded angrily over how people’s preconceived image of a hero always made them refuse to believe that a plain-looking patient with Down syndrome could be the tireless hero saving people.
“An'an, doesn’t it bother you that you’re the one saving people, but the credit keeps going to Punk Wing Chun?” Xiaoming finally said, unable to keep it in any longer.
When An'an heard Xiaoming mention Punk Wing Chun in that worried tone, his limited comprehension again led him to interpret it as malice.
“Stop criticizing the martial art I use to save people, Punk Wing Chun! I…I…I’m really angry! Punk…Punk…Wing Chun is obviously the most…the most…amazing, hmph!”
After shouting, he walked away without looking back and grabbed the drone beside him, smashing it hard against the ground.
The act terrified Xiaoming, who had not interacted with anyone in years, so badly that he could not get out half a sentence. Through the camera lying on the ground, he watched An'an’s retreating figure. His heart ached, and tears suddenly burst from the corners of his eyes. Xiaoming silently shut down the computer and slumped back in his chair.
After the misunderstanding, Xiaoming became utterly dispirited. He no longer had the heart to manage his drones, which lay scattered chaotically across the floor. He lost interest in everything and curled up on his bed like a heap of wreckage.
Suddenly, a voice broke through the cold atmosphere in the room.
“Is anyone home…? Is…is anyone…home?”
An'an had opened a communication channel through the tablet computer.
Xiaoming had been lying in bed all day. After going so long without speaking, he cleared his throat.
“An'an, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that,” he said through a sob.
Knocking and other noisy sounds came from the other end.
“Why do you…you…say s…say sorry?” An'an asked while continuing to tap around on the tablet, exploring its functions.
“Last time, I only said that because I was so worried about you. I just didn’t want people to misu—” Xiaoming carefully chose his words.
At that moment, a crisp, resonant sound came from the other end, accompanied by the faint crash of breaking glass. An'an had let the tablet slip and dropped it on the floor.
“I…I…I told you…Punk Wing Chun is the martial art I created! I am Punk…Punk Wing Chun! It was…Punk saved me…Punk…Punk Wing Chun saves people!” An'an shouted at the top of his lungs while throwing punches and taking up his Wing Chun stance.
After hearing An'an out, Xiaoming finally realized that he had overcomplicated things. An'an could not even use a phone. He had simply kept hearing Xiaoming say that the credit belonged to Punk Wing Chun. No wonder Xiaoming’s words had made him angry.
But An'an’s words also untied a knot in Xiaoming’s heart.
Xiaoming sprang to his feet, sweeping away his earlier depression.
“An'an…anyway, I’m sorry. Can we go on missions together like before?”
As he spoke, his hands never stopped. He turned on the computer and activated all the drones, sending them back to work.
An'an shouted from his bed, “You haven’t…haven’t called me in so long. I…I want to find friends and beat up bad guys together.”
The word friends made Xiaoming’s heart jolt.
He murmured in wonder, “So this is what it feels like to have a friend?”
After a long silence on the other end came the roar of snoring like a tank engine. Sitting in front of the computer, Xiaoming listened to the noisy rumble, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes as he burst into laughter.
He understood. This friend of his really was a completely guileless, simple, good friend.
Not long afterward, that familiar faint buzzing stopped outside An'an’s bedroom window. It was Xiaoming’s drone.
The drones assembled into a huge hand, opened the window, and delivered a cardboard box inside. At the same moment the drones flew away, the snoring stopped.
An'an opened his mouth wide, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. Seeing the box in front of him, he instinctively tore it open without the slightest courtesy.
“Wow! This is…this is…cookies and drinks!” An'an shouted happily, dancing and waving his arms.
“An'an, this is an apology gift for you. I was overthinking things before. I should have trusted my friend,” Xiaoming confessed sincerely through the tablet.
But An'an was already too busy to respond. He had dismembered every snack and cookie and was devouring them.
“An'an, from today on, let’s work together to protect our home. Let’s smash the bad guys!” Xiaoming said with a smile.
It was unclear whether An'an had heard Xiaoming’s whole string of words. He stopped with a cookie halfway to his mouth, and his gaze gradually grew determined.
“Call me a hero!” he said without stammering once.
A true hero does not worry about who gets the credit. Helping the vulnerable and saving people is what matters most.
Seventeen-year-old Xiaoming finally understood that truth through his collision of wills with An'an.