𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 |

Ch.9

"I thought you were just a maintenance man, but you know kung fu," he exclaimed while reclining in the long chair.

"And why did you cover your face? So they would know how cool you are," he said as he sat up, and I playfully pulled his hair horizontally.

I rolled my eyes and looked at Mr. Han, who was holding bulbs. "Jiao fa," I said, and Mr. Han looked at me in shock.

"My mentor taught me that technique in case I got a bruise or got injured during a fight," I explained, while Dre listened attentively.

"Who taught you, Mr. Han?" I asked. "My father," he replied, and he began to light the candle, igniting his hands.

Dre started to panic, so I quickly grabbed his shoulder and reassured him, "Calm down, Dre. It's not going to hurt, trust me." Gradually, he began to calm down.

Mr. Han rubbed his hands on Dre's body, and I watched as he performed the jiao fa technique on him.

After finishing, Mr. Han asked Dre, "Tell me who your mentor is?"

"Well, I learned in Korea," I explained, and he nodded in acknowledgment.

"My best friend is cool, but Mr. Han, how did you do that?" Dre started to ask. "Do they really beat each other up?" he added, and Dre nodded.

"When fighting angry blind men, it's best to just stay out of the way," Mr. Han said softly as he brought the materials to the sink.

"So, where did you learn kung fu?" Dre asked, referring to what I had mentioned earlier about learning from my father.

Mr. Han paused for a moment, examining the boy's reflection in the mirror in front of him.

"No," he replied.

"Would you teach someone?" Dre asked once more, curiosity evident in his eyes.

"It depends," Mr. Han answered.

"On what?" Dre inquired further.

"The reason," Mr. Han clarified.

"How about kicking someone in the groin?" Dre asked, pushing the boundaries of his inquiries.

I glared at him and kicked his buttocks, leaving him surprised. "Dre, kung fu is not about kicking someone's ass. It's about knowledge for self-defense," I explained to him, and Mr. Han nodded in agreement.

"Not to make war, but to make peace," Mr. Han added, emphasizing the true purpose of martial arts. I nodded in agreement, while Dre stared at him in disbelief, trying to comprehend the concept.

"You won't be like that if you don't throw dirty water on Cheng and his friends," I sternly yelled at Dre.

"I want revenge and for you to stop hurting me," Dre replied, crossing his arms defiantly.

"You!" I yelled, ready to hit him again, but Mr. Han swiftly intervened, saying, "Let's make peace. We're going to the dojo."

With a collective sense of purpose and determination, Mr. Han, Dre, and I walked towards the kung fu studio where Cheng and his friends practiced. Dre had managed to freshen up and change his clothes before joining us for this crucial encounter.

As we made our way inside the dojo, a surge of dark energy seemed to engulf the room, accompanied by loud yells and thuds emanating from within. It was apparent that a mock spar was already in progress at the center of the fighting stage.

Zhuang and Liang, two familiar faces, were engaged in a heated battle. The intensity in their eyes revealed more than just a friendly match; there was fear present. Liang relentlessly threw powerful punches towards Zhuang's face, and a forceful kick aimed at his leg destabilized him. Though the sparring continued, it was clear that both boys were hesitant to cause harm to each other.

Zhuang, in a moment of desperation, grabbed Liang's collar, raising his fist as if to strike him. But his eyes flickered with doubt, glancing towards the teacher sitting on a bench, observing their fight intently. A stern voice broke the silence that hung in the dojo.

"What are you doing?" the voice demanded, drawing the attention of everyone towards the man on the bench. "What made you stop?"

Zhuang hesitated, unable to meet the man's gaze. The man's voice grew even sterner as he commanded, "Finish him!"

Clenching his teeth, Zhuang raised his fist higher than before and struck Liang with a powerful blow. Liang groaned in agony, and it was evident that Zhuang had followed his teacher's order, despite his own inner conflict.

Mr. Han, Dre, and I stood there as witnesses, watching the young boy approach his mentor. Zhuang's eyes were filled with fear as his mentor slapped his face, causing him to groan in pain. Anger surged within me, and my gaze pierced through the back of the mentor's head.

"He's not a mentor, he's a monster," I muttered under my breath, expressing my frustration. Mr. Han looked at me, understanding the shared sentiment of disgust.