The Empty Dojo
Joshua, Frank, and Khan slid open the doors of their dojo. The place was huge—echoes bounced off the wooden beams—but it was almost empty. In fact, the three of them were the only students left. Everyone else had quit, too intimidated to keep training in the same room as Frank.
At the far end stood their master. White robe, beard flowing down like a curtain, easily past eighty. He barely moved, just stood there with his hands tucked behind his back, as if he’d been carved out of stone.
The three stepped forward and bowed.
“Good evening, Master.”
The old man gave the faintest nod. His eyes drifted over them—then froze on Frank. His tone cut the air.
“You again? Didn’t I tell you not to come back?”
Frank pouted, dropping his usual cocky grin. “But Master, I still need your guidance.”
The old man’s voice was steady, almost tired.
“You don’t need it. Every vein, every muscle in your body already flows with qi. You were born strong—you don’t need to learn how to use it. In fact, you’re too strong. Your presence alone scared the others away.”
Frank dropped to his knees, hands pressed to the floor. His voice cracked between stubbornness and desperation.
“Please, Master. I need to learn. I need your teaching.”
The master shook his head, as if already done with the conversation. He sighed.
“Fine. If you insist—go outside and chop wood.”
Frank rushed out, fired up. He raised his hand like a blade and slammed into the nearest tree. One strike. Then another. And another. Before long, the mountainside thundered with cracks and crashes. Whole trees toppled like matchsticks.
By the time the dust cleared, the entire slope was bare. Piles of lumber stretched so far it looked like they could last the dojo for years.
Inside, Joshua and Khan stared through the open doorway, completely speechless. The master just shook his head again. His plan to brush Frank off had backfired spectacularly.
The Match Begins
The master stroked his beard and looked at the two still standing in front of him.
“It’s been a week since I’ve seen either of you train. Why don’t you two spar? Let me see your progress.”
Joshua grinned, brimming with confidence. “Alright then. Guess it’s time I teach my junior a lesson.”
Khan didn’t answer. He just slid into a deep horse stance, eyes locked forward, every muscle tensed with focus.
The fight began. Joshua raised one hand—then another. With a surge of qi, he pulled Khan toward him like a magnet yanking steel. The sound of friction screeched across the floor as Khan’s boots scraped, sparks practically flying. His stance was solid, but the pull was relentless.
Just as he was about to be dragged right into Joshua’s chest, Khan gathered qi into both hands. With a sharp strike, he severed the force holding him. In the same motion, he ducked low and swept his leg across the floor. His kick carried the weight of his qi—Joshua’s body flipped sideways, seemingly helpless.
But Joshua didn’t crash. Ten centimeters above the ground, a burst of qi exploded from his chest, stopping him mid-fall. The floor shook as he shoved both palms down, releasing a shockwave of energy that launched him straight into the ceiling.
From there, he twisted in the air, leg cocked at a forty-five-degree angle, and dove like a missile.
Khan raised both arms to block, but the impact still ripped through him. The strike sent him flying, smashing straight out of the dojo doors.
The room went silent except for the fading echo of wood rattling in the beams overhead.
Talent and Effort
Their master knew the truth. Joshua was a natural prodigy. His lungs held twice the capacity of an ordinary man’s, and his skin wasn’t just tough—it was literally metal, a fused layer of steel and gold covering his body. Fire couldn’t scorch him, blades couldn’t pierce him. By any normal standard, he was a martial arts genius.
But compared to Frank, even that counted as “ordinary.” Frank was simply… something else.
Khan, on the other hand, had no such gifts. His body was plain, his breath no stronger than anyone else’s. Yet his one advantage was obvious to anyone who paid attention: he never stopped learning. He pored over dusty manuals at home, flipped through diagrams, even streamed PBS specials about qi. On YouTube, he’d study tutorials, pausing and replaying moves until he could mimic them exactly. Walking down the street, he’d mutter about the principles of qi; watching TV, his eyes stayed glued to anything that hinted at energy flow.
And the truth was, Khan wasn’t dumb. His IQ was high, his focus sharp. If he wanted to master something like the Golden Technique, he had the brains for it. But instead, he buried himself in the study of qi itself—the theory, the mechanics, the why behind every movement.
Months passed. Two, then three. Slowly, his obsession turned into mastery. Khan’s lung power still couldn’t match Joshua’s, but his control over qi—its precision, its efficiency—became razor-sharp. He had gone from the “ordinary one” to someone his master could finally call a true martial artist.
Frank the Janitor
Three months later, the three of them returned to the dojo after school. As usual, Frank was sent off to handle chores.
He grabbed a mop and tore across the floor like a man possessed, the woodboards squeaking under his speed. Then he picked up a rag and started wiping the windows—too hard, of course. The glass shivered, cracked in a web of lines, and nearly gave way under his hands.
Out in the courtyard, he switched to sweeping leaves. Only, Frank didn’t need a broom. He just took a deep breath and blew. The leaves spiraled up in a massive whirlwind, carried clean across the yard. Unfortunately, his “breath control” slipped, and the gust ripped the bricks from the ground. Concrete split, tiles went airborne, whole slabs of masonry flew across the sky and landed somewhere near Hongyong Lake.
Meanwhile, Joshua and Khan came walking around the front of the dojo—just in time to notice their master crouching behind a tree. At first they thought he was testing out some mysterious new technique. They crept closer, curious.
Then they peeked around the trunk.
The old man was squatting.
Joshua and Khan both blurted out, “What the fuck!?”
The master shook his head, stroked his beard with one free hand, and muttered, “Holy fuck. Your classmate Frank blew up our toilet.”
Khan stammered, “Wait, what? How?”
The master sighed and, still squatting, began telling the story of an hour ago.
Frank had been assigned to scrub the bathroom. The place was filthy, grime caked on every surface. He scrubbed and scrubbed, but nothing came off. So he pressed just a little harder—too hard. One swipe and boom. The entire restroom and half the outhouse went up like a bomb. By the time the dust settled, the bathroom was nothing but rubble.
Back in the present, the master calmly pulled out a rag, wiped himself clean, tugged his robes back into place, and stood.
“Well,” he said, dead serious, “guess we won’t have a toilet for the next few days. If nature calls, find a tree.”
Joshua and Khan just stared at him, speechless.
Effort Pays Off
Months rolled by, and the master decided it was time to see their progress again. Joshua and Khan squared off in the yard, fists flying, qi surging. This time the fight was different.
For fifteen minutes straight, they hammered at each other. Bruises bloomed, shirts tore, the ground itself cracked beneath their feet. And for the first time, Joshua realized his junior was no longer trailing behind. Khan’s precision with qi, his efficiency, had caught up. Even without Joshua’s monstrous lung power, he was matching him blow for blow.
Finally, Khan drove a fist into Joshua’s gut. The sound rang out like a hammer striking metal, echoing across the courtyard. Joshua slid back several meters, shocked—not just by the hit, but by the fact that he hadn’t won.
Their master clapped his hands once, his voice calm but approving.
“Khan… you’ve grown stronger. Your effort wasn’t wasted.”
From that day on, it became routine. After school, Joshua and Khan would meet in the dojo courtyard and fight until the sun disappeared behind the rooftops. Their battles weren’t just duels—they were lessons, each clash sharpening them both. They grinned through bloodied lips, enjoying every strike, every bruise, every push forward.
And in the background, as always, Frank was there—sweeping, mopping, hauling buckets—like some cosmic janitor doomed to chores while his classmates turned into legends.
But the master had finally learned his lesson too. Frank wasn’t built for delicate jobs. Glass shattered under his rag, toilets exploded under his scrub. Instead, he was given “heavy-duty” chores: digging massive pits, which soon filled with water and became ponds; hauling boulders, stacking them into decorative rock gardens; planting towering trees that transformed the dojo’s plain yard into something out of a painting.
Thanks to Frank, the once-empty courtyard became beautiful—ponds with fish, stone hills, trees that reached for the sky. The master stroked his beard and thought, with a touch of pride and fear, Never again will I let this boy near a window or a toilet. From now on—heavy labor only. If not, the whole dojo might vanish in a day.
Spring Festival Picnic
Before long, the Spring Festival arrived. The master and his disciples decided to celebrate right there in their newly decorated courtyard. Cherry blossoms were in full bloom, petals drifting slowly in the breeze and scattering across the grass. The place looked more like a painting than a dojo.
This time it wasn’t just the four of them. Friends came along too. A picnic blanket was spread across the lawn, dishes laid out, everyone eating and laughing under the blossoms.
They talked about their dreams. Conn and Frank both wanted to become policemen—heroes who could use their martial arts to wipe out crime. Joshua smirked and said he wanted to start his own company. Colin stayed quiet, offering nothing. Mario said he dreamed of opening his own dojo.
The master stroked his beard and looked at Mario. “Why don’t you study qi as well?”
Mario waved him off. “Nah. I’m into architecture. Qi doesn’t interest me at all.”
Then Rebecca leaned close, clutching Frank’s arm. Her voice was soft, almost shy. “I don’t really have a dream. I just want to stay by Frank’s side. To be… his teardrop.”
Frank’s face lit up with a smile, the kind of rare, honest smile that made him look almost ordinary for once.
And so, surrounded by cherry blossoms, good food, and laughter, they spent the Spring Festival together in peace and warmth.