The dojo was still, filled with the subtle scent of cedar oil, old sweat, and incense. Shafts of morning light pierced through the papered windows, spilling across the polished floor in long golden bands. Dust hung suspended in the beams, undisturbed. The shrine of Shennong stood solemnly at the far wall, its lacquered wood catching the light, offerings of dried herbs, red silk, and flickering candles arranged with reverence. A faint crackle of incense burned low beneath a scroll that read, "In stillness, strength." The air was thick with a quiet that felt sacred — the kind of silence that wasn't empty but full, holding the weight of countless footsteps and whispered lessons.
Then the silence broke—with the sharp crack of flesh against flesh.
Ian Bennett pivoted on his back foot and launched a spinning kick toward his opponent's midsection. The movement was clean, honed by years of training, but it landed on empty air. Chan Lee had already moved, his body gliding out of range with the grace of someone who didn't need to think to respond—his reactions were memory made flesh.
"Too slow," Chan said, voice clipped, amused.
"I'm faster than you think," Ian replied, dropping low and striking out again with a swift jab to the ribs.
The blow connected this time. Just barely. Enough to make Chan grunt as he stepped back.
For a man in his late forties, Chan moved like a shadow. His form was lean, fluid, purposeful. He was built not for show but for utility, with a physique that seemed carved from decades of discipline. His black hair was streaked with silver, but nothing about him seemed diminished. If anything, the lines around his eyes gave him a sharper, almost predatory look. There was a calm intensity in the way he watched Ian—like a hunter studying the habits of a fledgling prey, patient but ready.
They circled each other again, barefoot on the hardwood floor, the silence broken only by their breathing and the occasional soft scuff of a pivot. From somewhere above, the ancient rafters creaked slightly, as though the dojo itself was watching. The faint scent of pinewood mingled with the incense, grounding the moment in something ancient and enduring.
For just a moment, as Chan watched Ian's stance tighten, something flickered in his mind—an image sharp and unwelcome.
The mountains of Sichuan, twenty-five years ago. Mist curling through pine trees like silk. The scent of damp earth and iron bark. He remembered the bitter sting of snowmelt on his knuckles and the rasp of his breath as he sparred in the freezing dawn. Opposite him, Michael Bennett—taller, younger, but every bit as intense.
Michael had been a contradiction—reckless and brilliant, full of energy that felt like it might set the forest ablaze. They had sparred for hours, both refusing to yield, their mentor watching with unreadable eyes.
"He's too fast for you," Master Wei had said to Chan once, in his patient gravel-voiced tone.
"Then I'll get faster," Chan had grunted, and launched himself back at Michael.
He remembered the look Michael had given him after knocking him flat—a mixture of triumph and apology. "Again?" Michael had said, grinning, offering a hand just like Chan had done now.
Chan blinked. The dojo returned to him in full color and present time.
He couldn't afford to get lost in memories—not now. Not with Ian watching, moving, learning.
Ian feinted right and lunged with a left elbow strike, followed by a spinning back kick meant to take out Chan's knee. Chan blocked the elbow with a tight parry and dropped into a low stance, using Ian's momentum to guide the kick past him. In the same motion, he swept Ian's planted foot with a quick hook and sent him staggering sideways.
Ian recovered quickly and surged forward again. This time, his fists moved in a blur—a flurry of rapid punches, one-two-three, a classic combination followed by a sudden palm strike to the chest. Chan absorbed the first few blows, stepped into the palm strike, and redirected it with a twist of his torso. Ian spun with the motion, attempting to land a backfist, but Chan ducked and countered with a palm heel to Ian's abdomen.
Grunting, Ian bent but used the angle to drop to the floor, sweeping his leg wide in a scything arc. Chan jumped just in time, and Ian rolled onto his back, kicking upward. Chan caught the foot, but Ian twisted, using the grip to yank his opponent off balance.
They both fell, hitting the mat with twin thuds. Ian scrambled to his feet first and moved in, feinting with his left, then throwing a hard right cross. Chan leaned back, letting it pass within inches of his nose, then struck low, a punch to Ian's thigh that made his leg buckle.
"You're rushing," Chan said.
"I'm adapting," Ian replied through clenched teeth.
"You're impatient. That gets you killed."
Ian didn't answer. He spun again, low and fast, legs sweeping like twin blades. Chan jumped, but this time Ian anticipated the landing and launched upward into a flying knee. It grazed Chan's shoulder, knocking him off center.
Chan stumbled. Just a step.
Ian pressed his advantage. He launched into a high spinning heel kick—a risky move, but one executed with nearly perfect timing. Chan ducked, but Ian was already twisting into a follow-up, using the momentum to bring a downward strike elbow-first into Chan's guard.
There was an audible thud as Chan caught the elbow with both forearms and used the impact to trap Ian's arm. Twisting at the hips, Chan used Ian's own force to spin him down into the mat.
Ian hit the ground hard, exhaling sharply. He stared up at the ceiling, his lungs burning and pride slightly bruised. He tried to grin through it.
Chan extended a hand, pulled him to his feet, and shook his head. "One of these days, I'll actually win."
"You'll win when you stop fighting like a student and start fighting like a man who understands himself."
"That sounds like something you pulled out of a fortune cookie."
Chan grinned. "You'd be surprised how often they're right."
They stepped off the mat, both breathing heavily. Ian wiped sweat from his brow with the edge of his T-shirt. His body ached pleasantly, the sort of soreness that came from being pushed to the edge of his abilities—but not beyond.
"Again?" he asked.
Chan checked the simple clock on the wall. Its ticking seemed louder now, more present in the sudden stillness. "One more," he said. "Then we clean up."
Back in the center of the room, they bowed. Not out of ritual, but out of respect.
This time, Ian moved first. His strikes were more focused now, less emotional. He flowed through the motions—jab, block, spin, kick—with increasing precision. Chan was still faster, but only just. Ian caught him off guard with a sudden switch in direction, feinted left, and delivered a clean roundhouse kick to Chan's shoulder that sent the older man stumbling back.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then Chan laughed—a short, surprised sound that echoed slightly in the tall-ceilinged room.
"Well," he said, rubbing his shoulder. "You've improved."
Ian tried not to smile too much. "You mean I won?"
"You mean I let you think you did."
"I'll take it."
They bowed again, and Ian moved to the side of the dojo, collapsing onto the bench that ran along the east wall. A jug of water and two clay cups sat on a nearby shelf. He poured himself a drink and downed it in one long swallow.
Chan joined him, dabbing his forehead with a towel, his breathing steady. He sat for a moment in silence, then spoke.
"Your father was good," he said.
Ian blinked. The sudden shift caught him off guard. "Yeah?"
"Very good. Strong. Natural talent, but he trained hard too. Never took shortcuts."
"You never talk about him."
Chan shrugged, eyes on the floor. "You never asked."
"I asked all the time when I was a kid."
"That's different."
Ian studied him. Chan rarely spoke about the past, and even less about Ian's parents. It had been a silent agreement between them—one born of pain, not indifference.
"I beat you," Ian said, cautiously. "That mean I get some answers now?"
Chan didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood and walked across the dojo to a small wooden cabinet beneath the shrine of Shennong. "You're getting bold," he muttered, half to himself. "Must be the bruises talking."
He opened the drawer slowly and pulled out a faded photograph, holding it for a second before passing it over like it might burn him if he stared too long.
He handed it to Ian.
It showed three men—standing outside a small mountain temple. One of them was clearly a younger Chan, still recognizable. Another was unfamiliar: a tall, sharp-featured man with long hair tied behind his head. And the third—
Ian felt something twist in his chest.
The third was his father.
Michael Bennett stood with one arm draped over Chan's shoulder, a smirk on his face and the kind of confidence that didn't need to be loud. He wore a threadbare hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, and a pair of sunglasses perched crookedly on his head like he didn't care what anyone thought—which, Ian suspected, was often the case. His eyes—so much like Ian's—held something deeper. Something sharp.
"Wow," Ian said. "He looks like he was trying to start a rock band or a cult. Maybe both."
Chan gave a small, genuine chuckle. "Some days, I wasn't sure either. He had that... magnetism. Pulled people into his orbit and left them dizzy."
"And the hair. What was the plan there?"
"Intimidation through confusion, I think."
"You were about my age here," Ian murmured.
Chan nodded. "That was the year we trained under Master Wei. In the mountains, before everything changed."
"Who's the other guy?"
"Master Wei himself. Or at least the name he went by then. Not by accident."
Before Ian could press further, Chan's fingers tightened slightly at his sides. "Your dad... he was the best of us. But not because he was the strongest. It was how he made you believe you could be better—just by standing near him. That kind of energy... it's rare. Dangerous, too."
Ian looked down at the photo again, caught between awe and a new, gnawing curiosity. "He ever sweep you off your feet the way I did today?"
Chan arched a brow. "Once. Then he spent a week with a limp and a smug grin."
"So it runs in the family."
Chan smirked. "Unfortunately."
Then, as if reminded of something too heavy to name, he turned away, as if closing a door.
"We'll be late," he said. "Come on."
Ian didn't move. He was still staring at the photo. The image burned into him like a brand.
"Late for what?"
"You'll see."
"You always say that."
Chan glanced back. "Because it's always true."
They changed in silence. Outside, the city had begun to stir. Traffic hummed in the distance. But within the thick wooden walls of the kwoon, time felt slower, heavier.
When they returned to the main floor, Chan paused near the entrance. Something about his posture changed.
Ian caught it too.
"Something wrong?"
Chan was still. His eyes flicked toward the high window across the street. A breeze passed through the room—a subtle shift in the air, too cold for spring.
"No," he said slowly. "Just… something familiar."
Ian didn't ask. He knew better.
As Chan opened the door, Ian looked back at the dojo. The wooden beams, the aged mat, the shrine, the faint echoes of every sparring match, every breath, every lesson. This wasn't just where he trained.
It was where he became who he was.
And maybe, just maybe, it was where the truth about his father—about everything—had been waiting all along.
He turned to follow Chan into the daylight, but a shape caught his eye in the reflection of the window—just for an instant. A tall figure in a long coat, standing across the street. Something about the figure's stance, the outline of the coat—it rang a distant bell, like a name half-remembered in a dream.
When Ian turned, the sidewalk was empty.
A shiver slid down his spine.
He stepped outside, blinking against the sudden brightness. For a moment, he lingered on the threshold, the sounds of the city blurring into a low hum behind the door he'd just closed. He could still feel the echoes of their training, like vibrations in his bones. The photo was warm in his pocket, almost as if it pulsed with memory. A pigeon fluttered past, the wind shifting against his cheek, and for a breath, he let himself feel the stillness—what it meant to stand between two worlds, the known and the unknown.
Chan was already a few paces ahead, weaving through pedestrians with unconscious grace. Ian jogged to catch up.
"You saw it too, didn't you?" he asked.
Chan didn't look at him. "Eyes forward. Don't turn around."
"Who was it?"
"Someone I thought was gone."
The traffic noise swallowed them for a moment. A horn blared. Somewhere, a siren wailed in the distance.
"Where are we going?" Ian asked.
Chan gave a grim smile. "To where the past meets the present. And where the next fight begins."
Ian swallowed, the weight of the photograph still heavy in his pocket.
Whatever lay ahead, he could feel it now.
The game had started.
As they turned the corner, the city opened up into the orange glow of late morning. The breeze was warmer now, carrying with it the scent of bakeries and blossoms.
Chan exhaled slowly. "Let's go home. Li-Anne's probably wondering if we broke another mirror in the kwoon again."
Ian glanced at him. It was rare for Chan to say anything personal aloud.
"She'll be happy you're not limping," Ian said.
Chan smiled. "I said I wanted to see her. I didn't say I'd tell her the truth."
They walked on in silence, side by side. For now, they had peace. But beneath their feet, the world was already shifting.