Dojo Adventures

Section 1: Illidan’s Dojo — Discount

Hoping kung fu might finally land him a girlfriend, Benson decided to look for a dojo. Before long, he spotted a flyer tacked to a wall.

SUMMER KUNG FU SESSION
ORIGINAL PRICE: $400
95% OFF — ONLY $20

Twenty dollars was still far beyond Benson’s daily five-dollar allowance. He hesitated for a moment, then went inside anyway.

There were almost as many women as men training inside—perhaps even more. Quite a few were young, attractive, and in excellent shape.

His interest in martial arts immediately grew stronger.

He approached the receptionist.

“I saw your flyer,” Benson said. “I only have five dollars, but I really, really love martial arts. I’ve always wanted to learn kung fu. Could you make an exception just this once?”

The receptionist replied flatly.

“No.”

Benson blinked.

“Come on. I’m only fifteen dollars short. That’s not that much.”

The receptionist pointed across the room.

A man was kneeling on the floor with nineteen dollars clutched in his hands, repeatedly bowing.

“Please! Please! I’m only one dollar short!”

The receptionist said, “You see? He’s only one dollar short. And he’s still not getting in.”

Before Benson could argue again, a solemn voice came from behind him.

“Twenty dollars is the price. And the price must be honored.”

An extremely lean man in his late fifties stepped in front of Benson. He was bare-chested, with a strip of black cloth tied across his eyes, and wore black martial-arts pants secured with a black belt.

The receptionist immediately straightened.

“Master Illidan.”

Illidan turned his covered eyes toward the kneeling man.

“Nineteen dollars is not twenty. The rules have been set, and I shall not bend them. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

Section 2: Illidan’s Dojo — Exceptions

At that moment, the front door opened and a beautiful young woman walked in. She had a striking figure, with a full chest, narrow waist, and long, shapely legs.

She approached the desk and explained that she wanted to join but had forgotten her wallet. She didn’t have a single dollar on her.

“But I really love martial arts,” she said. “And I think I have a lot of potential.”

She straightened her body, pushing her chest forward slightly.

“Don’t you think I have the perfect physique for kung fu?”

Illidan slowly raised his head.

“Alas, these blind eyes cannot behold the physique you speak of.”

Illidan slowly extended one hand toward her.

“But sight is not the only path to truth. If my eyes cannot judge your potential…”

He held his hand before her.

“…then perhaps my hands must.”

The woman looked at Illidan’s outstretched hand, then smiled.

“All right.”

She took his wrist and gently placed his palm against her breast.

Illidan’s expression remained completely serious. He carefully squeezed it from different angles, as though searching for something hidden beneath the surface.

“Hmm…”

For several seconds, he said nothing.

“The pectoral is firm. Its development is exceptional. The strength within it… outstanding.”

But Illidan did not withdraw his hand.

“Yet my judgment remains incomplete. One pectoral has revealed its truth. The other remains unknown.”

Slowly, Illidan raised his free hand.

“No warrior may be judged by half the truth.”

The woman smiled and gently guided his other hand into place.

Now Illidan stood with one hand on each breast.

His face remained solemn beneath the black blindfold. Both hands tested them carefully, comparing their firmness and balance.

At last, he stopped and nodded slowly.

“Yes… Perfect balance. Strength on the left. Strength on the right. Neither yields to the other.”

His voice deepened.

“The two stand as one.”

Illidan slowly withdrew both hands.

“The path has spoken. Your potential cannot be denied.”

He turned toward the receptionist.

“Admit her.”

“But, Master—” the receptionist protested.

Illidan raised one hand, silencing him.

“Some talents are too rare to be denied by the chains of worldly wealth. For her, we shall make an exception.”

Benson watched them.

Maybe there was another way to get into this dojo after all.

Perhaps he could seduce the master too.

Before Benson could act on the idea, another man stepped forward.

He was muscular and broad-shouldered, with thick arms and powerful legs. His eyebrows were carefully shaped, a light layer of makeup covered his face, and his lips carried a touch of glossy color.

“Master Illidan,” he said, “I forgot my money too. Perhaps you could examine my potential?”

Illidan tilted his head.

“I… do not know about that.”

The man smiled.

“Don’t worry, Master. You’ll know.”

He took Illidan by the wrist and placed the master’s hand firmly against his thigh.

Illidan said nothing.

The man slowly guided the hand higher.

And higher.

Illidan’s expression changed.

In the next instant, Illidan drove his free elbow straight into the man’s chest.

BAM!

The man’s eyes bulged. The force of the strike shattered his heart inside his chest. A mouthful of blood spilled from his lips as his knees buckled beneath him.

“Oh—”

He collapsed onto the floor and lay completely still.

Illidan calmly withdrew his arm.

“Apparently, his potential was lacking… He was not the chosen one.”

Two disciples hurried over to the body.

Illidan gestured toward the back of the dojo.

“Take him to the backyard. See that he receives a proper burial.”

One of the disciples stopped.

“The same place, Master?”

Illidan silently nodded.

“Very well.”

Benson stared at him.

His plan to seduce Master Illidan was already dead. Now he decided it would be wise to leave before he joined the others in the backyard.

He quietly slipped out of the dojo.

Section 3: I.P. Man’s Dojo — Demonstration

Benson wandered the streets for less than ten minutes before he came across another dojo holding an open house for new students.

By the time he stepped inside, a demonstration was already underway. A crowd of prospective students stood around the training floor as a man in his forties stepped forward.

“That is our master,” one of the instructors announced. “Master I.P. Man.”

Benson raised an eyebrow.

I.P. Man? What the hell does that I.P. mean? What does it stand for? Internet Protocol?

A volunteer stepped onto the floor and raised his arms.

“Master I.P. will now demonstrate his signature technique.”

I.P. Man stepped forward and threw a punch.

The volunteer blocked it with his forearm.

The punch didn’t look particularly powerful. There was no dramatic visual effect, no impressive sound effect—nothing that made it look like a master’s signature technique. The volunteer merely stumbled back two steps and stopped.

Benson waited.

That’s it?

Then the volunteer’s body began to shake.

At first it was only a slight tremble. Within seconds, his entire body was shivering violently. His lips turned blue as he dropped to his knees, clutching his arms against his chest.

“F-fuck… it’s cold.”

A thin layer of frost spread across the forearm that had blocked the punch.

“It’s so fucking cold!”

Two disciples immediately rushed over with a thick blanket and wrapped it around him.

The instructor proudly addressed the crowd.

“Master I.P.’s signature technique—the Ice Punch.”

Benson’s eyes widened.

“Ohhh. Ice Punch. I.P.”

He nodded.

“Makes sense now.”

After the demonstration, Master I.P. turned and headed toward the back of the dojo, leaving his disciples to handle the new applicants.

Before he could get far, a thin young man walked through the door.

I.P. stopped.

“You, lad… I recognize you. You’re the mayor’s nephew.”

The young man smiled.

“Yes, Master.”

I.P.’s expression immediately warmed.

“Excellent. Come with me. There is no need for registration.”

He put an arm around the young man’s shoulder and personally led him toward the back.

“And when you see your uncle, remind him about our dojo. We could use some funding.”

“Of course, Master.”

Benson watched them disappear into the back.

Section 4: I.P. Man’s Dojo — Referrals

Benson joined the line at the reception desk. There was only one man ahead of him.

“Do you have a referral?” the receptionist asked the man. “Anyone you know in the martial-arts community?”

“I’m a member of the Robinson Gang.”

The receptionist looked up.

“Membership ID?”

The man handed over his membership card. The receptionist examined it carefully, then nodded.

“Very good. The Robinson Gang is a well-established and highly respected organization in our community. They’ve made many valuable contributions to society over the years. You’re approved.”

The man took his card back and walked inside.

The receptionist turned to Benson.

“Referral? Any connections to the martial-arts community?”

For a moment, Benson considered saying he was with the Robinson Gang.

Then he remembered the membership card.

Shit.

“No, sir.”

The receptionist shook his head.

“Then I’m afraid we can’t accept you. Our kung fu is passed only within the inner martial-arts community. We don’t teach outsiders.”

“But I really want to learn.”

The receptionist barely looked at him.

“Yeah, well, we’re really busy. If you don’t have anything else, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Benson sighed and turned toward the exit.

Before he reached the door, another man stepped up to the reception desk.

He was thin, with a knife scar across his face. His shirt hung completely open, exposing a narrow, ribby torso above a pair of shorts. A cigarette rested between his lips.

The receptionist gave him the same question.

“Any referrals? Connections to the martial-arts community?”

The man pulled the cigarette from his mouth.

“Yo, man. I’m with Canelo’s gang.”

The receptionist immediately looked at him more carefully.

The man reached toward his pocket.

“What, you wanna see my fucking gang ID or something?”

“No, no, no.” The receptionist quickly raised a hand. “That’s not necessary.”

He looked the man up and down.

“Look at you. You’re a total badass. If you’re not a gangster, I’ll eat this table right here, right now.”

The man stuck the cigarette back between his lips.

The receptionist nodded. “You’re approved.”

A sudden flash of inspiration crossed Benson’s mind.

Apparently, if you looked and talked enough like a gangster, nobody even bothered asking for proof.

Benson filed that information away and left the dojo.

Section 5: Master Lee’s Courtyard

It wasn’t long before Benson found a third dojo.

This one looked very different from the first two. Beyond the entrance lay a peaceful traditional courtyard, with neatly trimmed grass, blooming flowers, and a small wooden bridge over clear water. Even the stone paths were spotless.

There was only one blemish in the otherwise beautiful surroundings.

Beside the path near the entrance sat a dry pile of dog shit.

Benson stopped.

“Oh. Dog shit.”

He stepped around it and continued inside.

A short distance ahead, two disciples were sweeping the courtyard as they talked.

“Master Lee KumLok really is a good man,” one of them said. “My son got really sick a while ago and needed surgery. I didn’t have enough money, so Master gave me everything I needed right away. Didn’t even hesitate.”

“Yeah, that’s the kind of person he is,” the other said. “I got hurt during training once, and Master came over himself and bandaged my wound for me.”

He swept a few more strokes across the courtyard.

“So how’s your son doing now?”

“Oh, he’s dead,” the first disciple replied casually.

The other disciple stopped sweeping.

“What?”

The first disciple continued in the same casual tone.

“On the way to the hospital, I passed an underground casino. Figured I’d play a few hands of Texas Hold’em and make a little extra money. Lost all of it. Couldn’t pay for the surgery, so my son died.”

The other disciple stared at him.

“Oh, how unfortunate.”

They went back to sweeping.

Benson had overheard enough to decide that Master Lee KumLok sounded like a good man.

But after what happened at the last dojo, he wasn’t taking any chances.

This time, he came prepared.

Section 6: Master Lee’s Main Hall

Benson had carefully chosen his outfit to make himself look like a total badass gangster.

He wore a Hawaiian shirt with every button left open, exposing his bare chest, along with shorts and dark sunglasses. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.

He took a deep drag from the cigarette.

It wasn’t even lit.

Benson stepped into Master Lee’s main hall, where dozens of disciples were gathered.

He approached them with his chin raised, doing his best to look like a total badass.

“Yo, what’s up, dudes?”

Several disciples turned toward him.

“What do you want?”

Benson took the unlit cigarette from his mouth.

“Yo, man, where’s this Master Lee KumLok at?”