♠ BREAK FUCKING EVERYTHING! ♠
Zui Fang
Zui Fang
Real Name: Zui Fang (Formerly Li Mei)
Social Media: @ZuiFangFist
Age: 22
Birthday:
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 170 cm/5’7”
Weight: 68kg/150 lbs
Alignment: Heel
Nationality: Chinese
Fighting Style: Boxing/MMA/Weapons
♠Appearance♠
Wrestling Gear
Wrestling Gear 2
Crouch
Variety
Variety 2
Nude
NICE TRY DUMBASS
EAT A BAG OF DICKS
Jingo Jungle - Myth & Roid
Fist+Face
Warm Welcome
Back Alley Makeover
Pavement Facial
Alley-Oop Bullshit
Fucking Give Up
♠Finishers♠
Bitch Blaster
Dead End
Over This Shit
♠Likes♠
•Hong Kong Action Flicks: Old 70s and 80s martial arts movies are a guilty pleasure.
•Fireworks: Cheap poppers and sparklers are fine, but she loves the big stuff.
•Karaoke: The louder the better.
•Borrowing Clothes: Most people don't want their stuff back after you rip the sleeves off.
•Busting Up Vending Machines: It's basically just a window shower pinata.
•Urban Ambience: Trains, cars, all that stuff helps her sleep.
♠Dislikes♠
•Peace Sign Selfies: Photobomb those hippies every day.
•Niceties: You get a nod. Bows? Handshakes? Fuck off.
•"Nice" Girls: Always up to something.
•Wannabe Heroes: Tough guys trying to stand up for someone else to look good.
♠Personality♠
Zui Fang is the embodiment of defiance turned flesh and blood. Every part of her life has been a rejection of what came before: her father’s discipline, her family’s values, the suffocating chains of tradition. She spits in the face of anything that smells like hierarchy or reverence. To her, there’s no honor, no rules, no greater truth, there’s only survival and victory.
She’s loud, brash, and confrontational by nature. She’ll start fights with a smile, throw insults before she throws fists, and laugh when she gets hit. She thrives on chaos, almost feeding off the tension she stirs up around her. The louder the boos, the angrier the crowd, the bigger her grin. She doesn’t care if you hate her, she wants you to. Indifference is her only real insult.
At her core, Zui Fang is a leader of misfits. Her outlaw years taught her how to command respect from people who had none left to give. She’s magnetic, the kind of person you follow even when you know she’s trouble. She has no patience for weakness or excuses, but she takes in strays the way a wolf collects a pack, not out of kindness, but because she knows the strength of numbers. And once you’re under her banner, she’ll fight like hell for you. Not with tenderness, but with teeth.
In wrestling, she’s the same, she treats every match like a battlefield, and her opponent like prey. She doesn’t see herself as an athlete, but as a predator in a cage with someone who’s about to bleed for the crowd’s entertainment. If she’s winning, she’ll toy with you, drag it out, humiliate you so the crowd has no doubt who the stronger fighter is. If she’s losing, she’ll cheat, claw, or weaponize anything she can get her hands on. Fair play isn’t in her vocabulary.
But there’s another side to her. For all her noise and swagger, Zui Fang is carrying a chip the size of China on her shoulder. Her father’s defeat, her family’s disownment, and her own vow never to be humiliated again all drive her. Beneath the laughter and bravado, she’s a woman constantly daring the world to try and break her, because if nothing is left to stoke the fires that make her anger burn red hot, she’s not sure what will be left among all the ashes.
♠History♠
Li Mei grew up in Guangzhou in a household ruled by discipline. Her family name was steeped in tradition, her days built around ritual and routine. At dawn she was on the mats, practicing tai chi forms while her father oversaw her posture with hawk-like precision. At dusk she was back in the courtyard, repeating those same movements under the setting sun. For her family, tai chi wasn’t just exercise, it was philosophy, medicine, and the very measure of a person’s worth. The household mantra was simple: 纪律至上 [discipline above all].
From her earliest memories, her father was her world. Master Li was a respected teacher, a man with a reputation that stretched beyond their neighborhood. To Li Mei, he was untouchable, a living legend. She grew up watching his demonstrations where he could toss his students around like straw dolls, their bodies hitting the ground with a thud before they could blink. He could move a man twice his size with a flick of the wrist. And when he demonstrated the “chi push”, sending disciples sprawling backward without appearing to make contact at all, Li Mei was awestruck. To her, her father wasn’t just a man; he was proof that tradition was power, and that she, too, was destined to inherit it.
She was a prodigy. By her teens she could mimic every movement her father taught, her forms sharp, her balance flawless. When visitors came to watch her father, she sometimes performed alongside him, earning whispers of admiration. Her parents praised her as the continuation of their legacy, the daughter who would carry the family name into a new age.
And then came The Mad Dog.
When word reached Guangzhou that Chen Hao, “The Mad Dog,” was coming, it spread like wildfire. Shops buzzed with rumors, students whispered about his brutal challenges, and phones lit up with videos of him dismantling respected masters across China. Each clip showed the same thing: traditional stylists collapsing under his fists, their ancient forms crumbling in seconds to his style of mixed martial arts.
For Li Mei, the idea of this brash outsider stepping into their city to stir trouble was both terrifying and thrilling. Deep down, she wanted her father to face him, humble him where so many others had failed. To her, Chen Hao was just a thug with no respect. Surely, this would be the moment her father proved to the world what tai chi was truly worth. When he finally came to their dojo, Master Li answered his challenge.
The day of the fight, the courtyard outside her family’s school was packed. Students lined the walls, neighbors craned their necks, and someone had already set up a camera to stream the showdown. Chen Hao arrived in street clothes, sneakers, shorts, a t-shirt, grinning like he’d already won. He barked insults in front of the crowd, calling tai chi “slow dancing” and mocking the “myth of chi.”
Master Li stepped forward in his crisp white uniform, bowing respectfully as tradition demanded. The two men couldn’t have been more different: Chen Hao bouncing on his heels like a caged animal, fists loose and ready; Master Li standing tall and serene, hands raised in the flowing guard of tai chi.
Li Mei’s heart pounded in her chest. She believed. She knew. Her father would silence this clown.
The fight lasted less than a minute.
The Mad Dog bulldozed through Master Li’s opening stances, shrugging off strikes, tackling him to the ground, and pummeling him mercilessly. There was no elegance, no mysticism, no chi magic, just fists and brute control. Her father flailed, collapsed, and was pinned in humiliating fashion. Chen Hao laughed, spat on the mats, and left Master Li broken in front of his students, his family, and his daughter.
For Li Mei, it was a revelation as much as a betrayal. The man she worshipped as a hero was exposed as a fraud. The chi demonstrations she had marveled at now looked like parlor tricks. The discipline she had been taught to revere seemed hollow, worthless against the brutality of real combat. That night, she screamed at her parents, demanded to know why they had lied to her, why they had fed her illusions. Their silence, their desperate clinging to the same traditions, only hardened her rage.
From that point on, Li Mei tore herself free of the family’s teachings. She rejected tai chi, rejected meditation, rejected every ritual and bow. She spat on the very floor she used to train on. What replaced it was rebellion, a hunger to fight, to hit back, to never be humiliated the way her father was.
She learned the crude effectiveness of knees and elbows, the leverage of a choke, the brutality of a board swung at the right angle. To her, fighting wasn’t about honor or legacy. It was about survival. It was about never being the one humiliated again.
Her parents disowned her after she bloodied a boy in a street fight and came home grinning and bragging how many teeth she’d knocked out. Li Mei didn’t plead, didn’t beg, didn’t cry. She grinned, wiped the blood from her knuckles, and walked out with nothing but contempt for the house that had raised her. She left behind “Li Mei,” the dutiful daughter and prodigy of tai chi, and in her place she gave herself a new name: Zui Fang. A declaration of everything she had become, a living rejection of purity, tradition, and obedience.
At first, she survived off the streets of Guangzhou, fighting in underground clubs for scraps of cash and scraps of respect. Her reputation grew quickly. People whispered of the girl with wild fists, the girl who smiled when she broke bones. But Zui Fang wasn’t just a fighter, she was a magnet for others like her. Runaways, exiles, kids cast out by their families, foreigners drifting through with no place to go, she drew them in with her loud laugh and her promise of belonging.
They weren’t disciples. They weren’t students. They were her pack. A loose gang of outcasts who followed her from fight to fight, scraping together food, money, and shelter through whatever means they had to. They stole, they hustled, and when pushed, they fought back, sometimes with fists, sometimes with blades, sometimes with whatever they could grab. Zui Fang was their leader, their mouthpiece, their Iron Fang who would bite for them when the world tried to chew them up.
But Guangzhou became too small, too hot. Authorities knew her name. Masters whispered curses behind her back. Families crossed the street when they saw her. Zui Fang didn’t care, but she knew staying meant stagnation. So she took her gang on the road. Across the border, across the sea, across anywhere they weren’t wanted.
They cut through Hong Kong, scraped by in Taiwan, and eventually drifted into Japan. Tokyo was perfect: neon lights, crowded streets, endless fight clubs tucked in basements and warehouses. Zui Fang thrived there. She entered underground brawls where gamblers shouted and smoke choked the air, cutting her teeth against karateka, judoka, kickboxers, and wrestlers. She didn’t study their disciplines, she stole from them, took what worked, discarded what didn’t. Her gang grew sharper too, picking up scraps of technique and survival while running side hustles on the side.
In Japan, Zui Fang finally found something new: professional wrestling. At first, she mocked it, the theatrics, the pageantry, the lights. But once she stepped in, once she felt the crowd roar with every blow, every weapon shot, every moment of dominance, she was hooked. Wrestling wasn’t fake to her. It was perfect. A stage where she could fight dirty, fight loud, fight with the weapons and chaos she craved, and where everyone would pay to see it.
She threw herself into the craft, shaping her hybrid style into something brutal and unpredictable. She wasn’t there to honor tradition or please trainers. She was there to make the crowd gasp, to break her opponents down, and to leave her mark stamped on their bodies. She fought like a predator, smothering, clawing, biting down with the fangs of her namesake.
Her gang, once just fellow outcasts, became her entourage. They hyped her up, ran interference, even sold bootleg merch of her name scrawled across shirts and jackets. They became her brand, her crew, her family, the family she chose after burning the one she was born to.
Now, as Zui Fang, she isn’t just another wrestler. She’s an outlaw queen of the ring, a woman forged in humiliation and reborn in rebellion. Every time she steps through the ropes, she spits on her past and revels in her present, a loudmouth, brash fighter who’ll do anything to win. And as far as she’s concerned, that makes her more real than any “master” who ever bowed before an altar.
