Morning sunlight spilled gently into the small kitchen, golden and quiet. The aroma of buttered toast and scrambled eggs hung in the air, but the atmosphere remained heavy. No one had spoken since sitting down.
Silver poked at his eggs in silence. His parents exchanged glances. The tension from the night before lingered like the final note of a long film.
Then, at last, Alric Curtis set down his cup of coffee with a quiet clink.
"We talked," he said.
Silver looked up, heart already pounding.
"Your mom and I stayed up all night," Alric continued. "We discussed about everything—about the risks, about your grandfather Fred, about CineNova…"
Rina reached across the table and gently placed her hand over Silver's.
"We still think it's dangerous," she said. "And we still worry about you. But…"
Alric nodded slowly. "We've decided to let you go."
Silver's eyes widened. "Wait—what?! Really?!"
Alric held up a hand. "On one condition."
Silver froze, nodding eagerly.
"You're not going straight into the exam like some wide-eyed fool with a dream," Alric said. "You'll first enroll at Master Toh's dojo."
"The martial arts gym?" Silver blinked. "The one across the river?"
"That's the one," Rina confirmed. "If Master Toh thinks you're not ready, the deal's off. No arguments."
Silver beamed, nearly jumping from his seat. "Deal! Totally fair! I'll convince him—I'll train hard, I promise!"
His parents smiled—just a little—but there was more.
Alric cleared his throat and added, voice softer now, "There's one more thing you need to know."
Rina's fingers tightened slightly over his.
Silver leaned in.
"We're… selling CineNova."
The words hit harder than expected. Silver's smile flickered, and his hands went still.
"But… why?"
Alric's jaw tightened. "We're too deep in debt. We can't afford to keep the doors open anymore. The maintenance alone is more than we bring in for a whole week."
Rina nodded sadly. "A real estate agent is buying the land. He wants to rebuild it into something modern."
Silver's voice was barely a whisper. "So… the theater's really gone?"
"For now," Alric nodded Then he looked his son in the eye. "But once you pass the exam—once you've made it—you'll have the chance to bring it back."
Rina smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "The CineNova will be your dream to rebuild, Silver. In your way. For your generation."
Silver's fists clenched on the table—not in anger, but determination.
He stood up fast, chair screeching behind him.
"Then I'll do it," he said. "I'll train. I'll pass. And I'll bring back CineNova bigger and better than ever."
Alric gave a rare smile. "We will be waiting for that day to come, then."
Rina nodded, her voice trembling. "But don't try to be your grandfather. Be your own, be Silver. Just come back to us, okay?"
"I will," Silver promised, his young voice burning with hope. "I swear."
...
Later that morning, a ten-year-old boy with a dream marched down the cracked sidewalk, orange tank top bright against the gray city backdrop.
A new journey was beginning—one punch, one step, one promise at a time.
And far behind him, CineNova's neon sign flickered one last time. The sign on the door shows "Closed."
.....
The dojo smelled of sweat, wood polish, and focus.
From the moment Silver Curtis first stepped onto the smooth floorboards of Master Toh's martial arts gym, something inside him clicked—like a reel snapping into place on a film projector.
The old man was gruff. Bald, wiry, with a scar above one eye and a constant air of quiet intensity. Master Toh had no time for laziness or excuses.
"Power is nothing without control," he said on the first day. "Control is nothing without purpose."
Silver remembered nodding, clueless but eager.
...
Year One: The training began brutally.
Push-ups on gravel. Sparring until his knuckles were raw. Running five miles before sunrise, and again after dark.
He got knocked down—often. Older students overpowered him, outmaneuvered him, humiliated him.
But Silver kept getting up.
He wasn't the strongest, or the fastest. But he was the most relentless.
He learned to breathe through pain. To watch feet, not fists. To move with intent, not impulse.
By the end of the first year, he could land clean strikes. He could hold his own.
And when Master Toh said, "Not bad, Curtis," it meant everything.
Year Two: The second year was refinement.
Forms became second nature. Footwork became rhythm. Defense became reflex.
Silver sparred with students twice his size. He lost. He learned. He got better.
"You fight like someone who's chasing something," Toh told him once. "That's good. Keep that fire."
In the evenings, when classes ended, Silver sat alone on the edge of the dojo, eyes fixed on the stars. He imagined the CineNova rebuilt, lights blazing, crowds cheering.
He imagined his parents in the front row clapping as the credits rolls.
He imagined the old man with the long beard watching from the shadows, nodding.
...
Two years after he first stepped into the dojo, Silver stood at the center of a makeshift arena. Local tournament. Dozens of fighters from across the region. Spectators lining the bleachers. His name had spread—a promising underdog.
Final match.
His opponent was older around the age of 40, well built, black afro along with long inverted "U" mustache. He don's a white cape. Beneath it is a brown kimono with white pants. On his waist is a champions belt.
"I suggest you surrender, kid." The man said. "You do not have the skill to steal the belt from me, Mr. Satan." He bragged as he throw away his white cape outside the arena.
"No." But Silver had something else: resolve. "This fight means something more to me than just winning."
The bell ring and the crowd erupted.