King of the Fighting Street: Megamix Alpha Zero XIII
Copyright© 2026 by FozzieBare
I Just Need More Training
Prince Court Medical Center was one of those private, secure hospitals where those with the money and the contacts, could go get surgery from top physicians in the field, AND not have to deal with the common type of hospital patient.
Tan Sri Kamaruddin bin Mansor was one of those men. The chairman of Mansoor Holdings, he told people to call him “Kam”, but then made a vow to destroy anyone who would treat him in such a common, familiar way. He wasn’t at the hospital for surgery, just a checkup, as well as a full skin rejuvenation.
As he sipped his tea (imported British Green tea, none of this average hospital “tea”), he perused the latest stock prices on his iPad and tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for his driver to announce he was waiting outside.
Which made the man appearing out of nowhere, thudding down to the floor with an audible grunt of pain, more startling.
The rich man stared. His iPad dropped to the floor. The screen shattered.
He paid no attention to it.He just wondered where this man had come from. And the disrespect! Smoking in his august presence. Wait. He wasn’t smoking a cigarette.
He was just plain smoking.
He could believe many impossible things before breakfast. For example, someone told him that a certain police man had turned down a 15,000 Ringgit bribe to not arrest a smuggler who was bringing a priceless work of art to the Tan Sri to display. Unlikely. But Possible.
But that a man ... in a martial arts outfit ... would appear out of nowhere? He was sure that no one had opened the door to his private recovery room. He was very well aware of the world around him. This just was not the way things were done.
Maybe he was a demon from some mythology. In the form of a man. Who was smoking like he had recently been set on fire. No. Probably not.
Maybe the Buddha was trying to teach him humility, to show there were many things under heaven and earth that could not be explained.
Preposterous.
And the man, who had apparently been a victim of either a vicious attack, or spontaneous combustion, was now getting up off the floor like he had simply slipped and fallen.
At this point, his brain stopped working entirely.
He was not an altruist. But he had to say something under the circumstances.
“Young man, are you ... alright?”
“Oh yeah, fine. Feels like I just about dodged that laser shot from Mechamorpher. Hey, where am I? This is not the Han Qui fighting district tournament is it?”
“You speak English. Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Eric. Eric Atkins. Pleased to mee you, sir.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Sir, I’m originally from Abilene, Kansas.”
“That was not the question I was asking, young man.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, you just appeared in my recovery room. Smoking. You had just been set on fire, yes?”
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