The Hidden Art
In the quiet space before the clash, Dinello stood still, eyes low, speaking only to himself.
“Joshua… he’s not just my teacher, not just my master.
He’s also my boss.
The way he runs things, the way he fights—
I’ve learned so much from him.
And now, it’s time to show this pervert in pink underwear what our Qi technique is truly capable of.”
He took one step forward and raised his right arm, slowly forming a fist.
To the untrained eye, it looked like Dinello was simply punching the air. The three onlooking students furrowed their brows—none of them saw anything.
But Dave did.
He felt it.
A surge of energy rushed past him, invisible but sharp, as if the very air had split open. Dave instinctively crossed his arms in front of his chest just in time. The wave struck him like a silent hammer, sending him skidding backward five or six meters. Twin lines of torn-up dirt traced his path in the grass.
One of the students blinked in disbelief.
“What the fuck?” he whispered.
“Where the hell did he learn something like that?
Master Mario never taught us anything like this…”
Dinello didn’t respond. He was already preparing the next move.
He extended his right palm toward Dave—open and steady. A deep hum pulsed through the air as energy gathered in his hand. Within seconds, a powerful suction force surged forward like a vortex, pulling at Dave’s entire body.
Dave felt the shift immediately. Something was yanking him forward.
He gritted his teeth, dropped his center of gravity, and locked into a deep horse stance. His heels dug into the ground, sliding only half a meter before stopping. He managed to hold on—barely.
But Dinello wasn’t done.
Veins popped along his neck. His face flushed red. With a guttural roar, he poured everything into the technique.
The force tripled.
Dave’s resistance shattered. His entire body was ripped off the ground—sucked straight through the air like a missile—toward Dinello’s palm.
At that exact moment, Dinello’s open hand curled into a tight fist.
And he struck.
The impact was deafening. But it wasn’t just raw muscle—Dave could feel it. The strike carried more. There was energy inside the blow. A pulse. Like compressed steam bursting from within.
The fist slammed into him mid-air. Dave’s arms caught it, but the force still sent him flying backward—launched like a ragdoll—before crashing onto the grass more than ten meters away.
For a moment, everything was still.
Dave stared up at the sky, breathing slow and shallow.
“Damn…” he thought,
“Qi… is truly a terrifying art.”
Meanwhile, Dinello stood firm, fists lowered.
“If that had really been Joshua’s technique,” he muttered to himself,
“Dave would’ve been pulled in instantly. No struggle at all.”
He let out a quiet breath.
“I’ve still got a long way to go.”
The Floating Retreat
Just as Dave was struggling to rise from the ground, a goofy voice echoed behind him:
“How long are you planning to snack on dirt down there? Get up—we’re not done yet.”
It was Dinello.
Somehow, he had appeared silently behind Dave, not a single sound from his steps. This speed—it came straight from Mario’s classes. The fundamentals of ninja movement.
Dave hadn’t even found his balance when Dinello’s right fist came crashing in.
They clashed—fist against arm—again and again. The force behind each blow was massive, but Dave’s body was strong enough to endure. They went at it for a dozen rounds or more.
Then Dave noticed something strange:
Dinello had never thrown a kick. Nor had he used his left hand once. Every attack came from his right fist.
Was he holding back?
But before Dave could feel offended by the idea, Dinello’s punch landed—straight into his abdomen.
This punch wasn’t just muscle and speed. It carried an explosive surge of Qi, like a shockwave of steam that bypassed Dave’s iron muscles and hammered straight into his organs.
He was launched into the air, coughing blood the entire way. His body spun through the sky and landed hard over ten meters away.
Still alive—but barely.
Dave struggled to his feet, holding his gut. He couldn’t even stand up straight. The pain was deep and raw.
What now? How could he even keep fighting?
Truth was—he didn’t know if he could win. Maybe… maybe he couldn’t.
But just then, Dinello pulled out his phone, checked the time—and suddenly dropped to his knees, hands gripping his head.
“Oh no… I’m screwed…”
The three other students, still lying on the ground, stared at him, confused.
Then Dinello shouted:
“It’s already 4:02! I missed the Pokémon opening theme!”
He jumped to his feet in a panic. His upper body began gliding backward, eerily still, as if floating. The others stared, shocked at the illusion.
As his figure pulled away, he shouted:
“We’ll finish this another time! I really had fun today!”
But then someone looked down—and realized the truth.
Dinello’s feet were sprinting wildly, digging into the dirt with absurd speed. It was only his upper body that remained unnaturally still, creating the illusion of a floating retreat.
He was… running backward at full speed.
The Myth of Jessica
Dinello tore through the streets like a blur, sprinting at over 60 kilometers per hour—faster than most of the cars beside him. People on the sidewalk gawked in disbelief as he darted between pedestrians, lampposts, and parked bikes without losing momentum.
He didn’t slow down until he reached a deserted trail in a small public park. Suddenly, he hit the brakes—both shoes screeching against the pavement as he skidded several meters forward before stopping dead.
Standing in his path were twenty men. Every single one of them wore a crisp Zhongshan suit with all buttons neatly fastened. Their hair parted perfectly down the middle. They looked like clones from the same martial arts academy.
Dinello blinked.
“Junior classmates? What’s this about? If it’s not urgent, maybe we can talk another time?”
One of them stepped forward, face contorted in rage.
“You bastard! You know exactly what you did!
We’re here to beat you up and—fuck you good, Canelo!”
Dinello’s eyes twitched.
“First of all—don’t ever call me Canelo again!
It’s Dinello. D, not C. D as in Destiny. Dignity. Destruction.
Call me Canelo one more time, and I swear I’ll slice your lips off and mail them to your mom in a shoebox!”
That shut the guy up—but the tension didn’t ease.
Dinello scanned the group, baffled.
“Okay… seriously. What the hell did I do?”
Nobody answered. They all looked at each other, hesitant—until finally, a loud, emotional voice burst out from the crowd:
“Jessica… She wasn’t just a girl.
She was like a goddess—pure, distant, untouchable.
She never even spoke to us. That’s what made her divine.
We used to sit in the library and just… quietly admire her side profile.
That calm, literary aura.
And when she practiced martial arts—her smooth, elegant form… it gave our lives meaning.
It gave us hope.”
Then another one chimed in, just as breathless:
“She was a flower.
Delicate. Beautiful. Blooming alone in the middle of a grassy field.
She brightened the whole garden just by being there.
None of us dared approach her—not even a step.
Because even brushing against a single petal… would be sacrilege.”
Dinello furrowed his brow.
“What the hell are you guys talking about…?”
And then he snapped:
“Stop beating around the bush!
I’m missing my Pokémon episode!
Time is running out! Hurry up, man!”
At last, stepping out from the back of the group, came a boy with a greasy, skeletal frame.
His skin was pale and uneven, his arms stick-thin, and his face looked like someone had slapped a pepperoni pizza onto it—angry red pimples scattered across every inch.
He took a deep breath, preparing to speak the unspoken truth…
Consensual Thousand Kisses
“Hurry up, man!”
Dinello snapped, clearly annoyed. He jabbed a finger at the greasy, skeletal-looking boy in front of him.
“You—yeah, the one with the pizza-face acne! Say what you came to say already. I gotta get home for Pokémon.”
The bony, pimple-covered student stepped forward. His voice cracked out—a weak, nasally rasp like a broken speaker.
“We… we saw you. Last time. In this park… You stole our goddess’s… her first kiss.”
Dinello blinked. Then sighed, deeply.
He ran a hand down his face like he was trying to wipe away the stupidity.
“Come on, man. That’s what this is about?”
“And by the way, that wasn’t even her first kiss. Our first kiss was in the school bathroom.”
Silence.
Then gasps.
A book dropped. One boy dropped to his knees.
Several turned pale. A few clutched their chests as if their hearts had just cracked.
The acne boy took another shaky step forward, his voice rising in desperation:
“No… That’s not possible… You monster! You must’ve forced her! Or tricked her! Or threatened her somehow!”
“Explain yourself! If you don’t give us the full story right now—we’ll make sure you don’t walk away from here!”
Dinello rolled his eyes.
“Sigh… looks like I’m missing Pokémon today. You guys are killing me.”
He pulled out his phone, swiped around, then turned the screen toward them.
“Here. Watch this. It’s proof. We were both into it. No force. Just… vibes.”
The group leaned forward.
The video began.
First, Dinello’s voice:
“Are you sure about this? I’m not exactly a good guy… I don’t stick around. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Then her voice—soft, breathless, wrapped in emotion:
“Oh, Canelo, my dear…”
Even in the video, she got his name wrong.
“I don’t care. I love you. I want you to have me. All of me. I don’t need forever—I just need this moment.”
The video cut to a more… intimate scene.
She was riding him—completely absorbed in the act. Her face flushed with ecstasy, eyes half-lidded in pleasure. Her body trembled with every motion, her moans genuine, unfiltered.
Dinello calmly paused the video. Slipped the phone back in his pocket.
“See? Consensual. A thousand times over.”
The twenty boys stood like statues.
Two collapsed to their knees. Another let out a muffled sob.
One whispered in agony:
“She never even looked at me… never said a word. Always so quiet… so elegant…”
Another muttered:
“I used to watch her study at the library… just her profile gave me hope. She was like poetry in motion… And now this…”
The acne boy clenched his fists and roared:
“You vile bastard! That was sacred! She was untouchable!
Even if you die ten times, a hundred times—it won’t undo this!”
“Today, we serve justice! We’ll erase you from society!”
Dinello just stared at them.
Still no panic. No regret.
He slowly raised his middle finger.
Then made a goofy, exaggerated face—crossed eyes, tongue out, lips puckered like a clown.
“Alright then,” he said.
“Come on. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The air turned heavy.
The twenty students tensed.
And just like that—
The fight was about to begin.
The Goofy Massacre
The pimple-faced boy sneered coldly at Dinello.
“You don’t even have a sword. What, you think bare fists are enough to take on all twenty of us?”
He raised a hand and roared:
“Kill him! Brothers and sisters—!”
Dinello glanced around lazily and muttered,
“Pretty sure none of you are girls.”
Suddenly, the boy in front vanished.
From above, a voice echoed:
“Spatial Slash!”
He reappeared midair, blade aimed at Dinello’s skull.
But Dinello raised his hand and caught the blade effortlessly—Qi flared around his palm, shielding it. With a snap, he broke the blade in half, then launched a casual kick that sent the attacker flying into a tree. The boy’s body draped across a high branch, limbs limp like a forgotten ragdoll.
Three more charged in.
“Tornado Blade!”
They spun around Dinello, slashing from all sides.
Dinello calmly snatched the sword on his left—crack.
Spun and caught the one on his right—snap.
Reached behind without turning and crushed the final strike—pop.
Then—spin kick.
All three flew like frisbees, landed hard, and skidded across the pavement. Each one groaned, coughing blood.
Then came fifteen more.
They surrounded him in a circle.
“Let’s see how many you can break now!”
Blades raised. They all lunged at once.
Dinello pressed his hands together, forming twin blade-hand strikes. His Qi surged down both arms, glowing faintly.
Slash! Slash! Slash! Slash!
He broke all fifteen blades in under two seconds—each one split cleanly.
Then, left elbow, right palm strike, knee to the stomach, spinning heel—Dinello struck with such force and precision that the attackers were tossed like dolls in every direction. Groaning. Spitting blood. Flattened.
Only one remained: the pimple-faced boy.
The last man standing.
He stepped forward slowly, full of dramatic flair.
“Now it’s just you and me. This ends here. I will win… because I have main character plot armor!”
Dinello stared at him, blank-faced.
“What the hell are you even talking about?”
Then the boy disappeared into the air again—coming at Dinello with a blur of low sweep slashes.
Dinello didn’t even flinch. He simply ran in place with high knees, lifting his legs rhythmically—casually dodging every attack like it was gym class.
“You done yet?” he mumbled.
Then, with a small hop, he grabbed a branch overhead with both hands. His body swung back and forth like a playground swing, easily gliding out of range while the opponent slashed the empty air below.
It was almost insulting.
Dinello yawned mid-swing.
The boy roared in frustration—rushing forward with a final overhead strike from behind.
Dinello dropped down lightly.
Without looking, he flicked his fist backward—
BOOM!
A clean punch to the face.
The boy’s head twisted grotesquely, his entire body flung backwards. In the same motion, Dinello grabbed the opponent’s sword from midair.
The boy slammed into the ground and skidded across the pavement, blood in his wake.
Dinello turned around.
All 20 fighters lay crumpled on the ground. Moaning. Broken. Defeated.
“Guess that’s it,” he muttered, brushing his palms clean. “So annoying… I missed Pokémon for this?”
He gave them the middle finger…
And made a goofy face before walking off.
Smell You Geeks Later
As Dinello slowly walked past the fallen pimple-faced boy, the boy weakly grabbed his ankle with one trembling hand. His voice rasped, hoarse and desperate:
“Why… why are you so strong? None of those moves were taught by our master… Where the hell did you learn them?”
Dinello kicked his hand away, raised his foot, and gently pressed it on the boy’s head—grinding lightly.
“That’s none of your business. But if Master Mario ever asks who left you all in this pathetic state—don’t you dare mention my name. If I hear it, I’ll come back and cut off every single one of your heads. Got it?”
The boy’s face turned pale. A warm patch spread across his pants. He had pissed himself in fear.
“I—I understand! I won’t say a word!”
Dinello paused, looked down once more.
“And if he insists… just say it was some muscle freak in pink triangle-shaped women’s underwear.”
He turned around, ready to leave.
But the pimple-faced boy called out, voice cracking:
“Hey—Canelo! That katana… it’s mine! Can you give it back?”
Dinello stopped in place.
He slowly turned his head and snarled:
“My name’s not Canelo. Fuck you. It’s Dinello.”
Then, casually sliding the katana into his waistband, he added with a shrug:
“I’m keeping it.”
And then, without another word, he walked away.
“You losers made me miss today’s Pokémon episode. So yeah… this sword? It’s your punishment.”
The pimple-faced boy collapsed, weeping quietly so Dinello wouldn’t hear.
Through gritted teeth, he whispered:
“That sword… my dad bought it for me… after saving three months working as a janitor at school…”
“I’m a total loser.”