Chapter: Kicking Destiny in the Face (Gently, of Course)
So, Charles called it the martial way. Dramatic, right? I was half-expecting him to start levitating and chant something in Latin, but nope—it was just him standing in a room that smelled like a potion shop had exploded. Herbs, incense, and wisdom of the ancients, all wrapped in a scroll burrito.
I couldn't help but be curious—what kind of techniques do they have here? Secret moves? Hidden styles? Ki-powered roundhouse kicks that make your enemies cry for their ancestors? Count me in.
See, here's the thing. My fighting style—Hard Fist—was like a casserole. Karate, Taekwondo, Muay Thai, grappling...all mixed in with a dash of please-don't-die. It was cool. Flashy. Explosive, even. But not perfect.
Let me explain: Hard Fist was new. Fresh out the dojo, still figuring out how to walk without tripping over its own foot. It relied heavily on raw stats and—here's the kicker—the Eight Gates. Those spicy little chakra limiters that let me go from "angry raccoon" to "unstoppable green hurricane" in ten seconds flat.
But even with that power…there was no guaranteed win. I had come to realize that.
Hard Fist? It was like trying to break a dam with a sledgehammer. Sure, it works—until you run out of sledgehammer. Or arms.
The truth? My old style had too many rules. Too much effort for too little return. Unlike Gentle Fist. Now that was a style. Soft, controlled, precise. Neji made it look easy—like crushing someone's dreams was just part of his Sunday routine.
I never beat Neji. Not even once.
And that sucked. Big time.
Not because he was better—but because Gentle Fist shut me down. Like a hacker disabling your Wi-Fi mid-battle. Once he closed my chakra points, that was it. No chakra, no Eight Gates. No Eight Gates, no hero moment. Just Lee—sweaty, exhausted, and slightly bitter.
But I had learned something important during the war. Strength? Not everything. There were shinobi weaker than me who mattered. Who won. While I? I punched mountains and still couldn't touch Naruto. Not unless I wanted to die doing it.
That was the moment I knew. If I ever got a second chance, I wouldn't just return to Hard Fist.
I would evolve it.
My master had brought Strong Fist to the edge of its potential. Now it was my job—my duty—to push it further. To break the limits and rebuild it with purpose. Like a ninja version of a martial arts architect.
And this chamber? Full of ancient scrolls, Ki-enhancing incense, and walls that basically screamed "TRAIN HERE OR BE A LOSER"—this was the place to start.
I trained for hours. My chakra was practically whispering through my body instead of roaring like it used to. Pathetic? Maybe. But the herbs helped. So did the scrolls. Their Ki wasn't just ink—it talked to me. Not literally. I'm not crazy. But I could feel the wisdom in every brush stroke. Like ancient martial artists were ghost-coaching me from the walls.
And so, even with my power crippled, even without the Eight Gates—I trained.
Because I had decided: if I got another shot at this whole "hero" thing…I wouldn't try to be better than before.
I'd be smarter.
Adapt. Evolve. Grow.
One kick at a time.
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Finishing my inner monologue—yeah, I do that a lot—I got up and stepped out of the training chamber, expecting maybe some quiet fresh air and a squirrel or two doing tai chi.
Instead, I walked right into Charles.
Not literally. That would've hurt. Because now I could feel the energy around him. Not like a glow or anything—more like stepping into a storm that hadn't broken yet. The air was thicker near him. Alive. Buzzing like a million silent fireworks.
And me?
I felt like a leaf next to a tree. A very old, very wise, definitely magical tree.
I didn't want to bother him. He was meditating, which for someone like Charles probably meant communing with the spirit of the mountain or downloading enlightenment from the universe.
But before I could tiptoe away, he opened his eyes, looked right at me, and beamed like I had just solved world peace and brought him pizza.
"You broke all the records," he said, springing up like a kid on his birthday. "Ki training takes years for most people, and you did this in hours!"
Okay, yeah, that felt nice to hear. My brain wanted to throw a party while my body screamed at me for more rest.
Charles clapped my shoulder like it didn't still ache from the last three hours of chakra-wrangling.
"Song Jae Gu," he said seriously, "you've exceeded my expectations. So now, I'll do everything I can to help you on this path. But for today, just keep doing the exercises. Your body needs to adjust."
I nodded, trying not to collapse from pride and exhaustion at the same time.
"Tomorrow," Charles continued, "we'll spar. I'll show you how to actually use Ki in combat. Even a few special techniques."
Wait, what?
My brain was suddenly wide awake. Special techniques? Like fireballs? Lightning punches? Dim Mak-style pressure point death pokes?
Charles chuckled like he'd read my mind.
"Each clan had its own specialty. But times have changed. These days, clans share, adapt, and learn from one another. I've got data on plenty of fighting styles, not just ours."
Data? What was this, martial arts Pokémon?
"Some of it's complete techniques," he added. "But most of it is just raw insight—moves the Wild Guards have seen, copied, or guessed. Normal people are crazy creative, Jae Gu. If you want inspiration, check out fighting games or martial arts films too."
Hold up. Did he just tell me to go watch Street Fighter as part of my training?
I wasn't going to argue.
"Thanks for the advice," I said, bowing slightly. "I'll look into it."
He smiled and ushered me back into the chamber, leaving me alone with my thoughts, my Ki, and a slowly dwindling supply of inner strength.
I sat cross-legged and started circulating my Ki again. It was a bit like trying to herd cats using only your mind—except every cat was on fire and eating your stamina.
But bit by bit, it grew. My body was absorbing the energy from the herbs, the air, the scrolls—and burning through me in the process.
Ki was life energy, sure. But that wasn't just a poetic way of saying "your power comes from good vibes." It came from food, breath, training, and—scariest of all—life force.
Yeah, that life force.
The kind you only have one bar of, and when it's gone, it's game over.
There were forbidden techniques—legendary, last-stand kind of moves—that gave you a power-up like the Eight Gates, but instead of just risking death, you were buying that power with your life.
Like using your house as firewood to stay warm for one more night.
It was suicide. Everyone knew that. But every fighter trained in it anyway. Not to use it—but to know it. To understand when that kind of card should be pulled. A last chance. A desperate escape. A promise to protect someone even if it cost you everything.
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Training was over, and I felt like a wrung-out towel—half proud, half dead, and maybe 10% radioactive from all the Ki I just absorbed. I stepped outside, expecting silence, maybe a breeze to dramatically flutter my shirt like I was in some martial arts drama.
Instead, I got Lee Na.
She was finishing up a sparring session with her team—aka, the elite "don't mess with me" squad. She wiped her forehead, glancing at me like she'd been waiting. Then, with all the grace of a soldier turned butler, she waved me over.
"Come on," she said. "Time to see your new place."
I blinked.
New place?
Oh, right. I did ask for my family to be moved somewhere safer. Cleaner. Happier.
What I didn't expect was to be led into a neighborhood that looked like it had never even heard of rent struggles. Every lawn was greener than my jealousy, every car looked like it had a name more complicated than mine, and the air smelled like… luxury. That's the only word for it.
But instead of some fancy mega-mansion with a private dojo and gold-plated rice cookers, we stopped at a modest two-story house. Small front lawn. Simple white paint job. Four bedrooms, a cozy little kitchen, a living room with natural light, and a garage big enough for a car and maybe some dreams.
I couldn't stop smiling.
"This is your new house and car," Lee Na said, parking the sleek white Hyundai Grandeur like she was in a drama ad. "Everything's under your mother's name. Master arranged a job for her too—training first, of course, so it won't look suspicious."
Suspicious? Lady, we just got rich overnight. Everything looks suspicious.
But I nodded. "Any other rules?"
"Your account's been created. You'll get money every month—or after missions. Anything else?"
I shook my head, genuinely grateful. "No, thank you. Please tell Master Charles I'm really thankful. And… thanks for handling all of this."
Lee Na gave me the ghost of a smile—like maybe, maybe, she approved of me now—and walked off toward the car that had followed us like a silent ninja SUV.
Alone again, I stared at the car for a moment. A white Hyundai Grandeur. Sleek. Modern. Basically the Batmobile if Bruce Wayne had a job as a government-licensed martial arts student.
I pocketed the keys and stepped into the house, my heart pounding.
The smell of cooked food hit me first.
"Jae Gu?"
Then she hit me.
My mom, Sun Mi, flew into me like a tiny human cannonball, wrapping her arms around me in a grip that could've tamed wild animals or me as a toddler.
"Explain!" she demanded.
Oh boy.
"Uh… so… I'm part of this elite training group now," I said, trying to sound cool while also not sounding like I joined a cult. "It's with the school. I got chosen for the Wild Guards. That means a new home, a job, and—they're even training you for work, Mom! Everything's good!"
I picked her up and spun her around like a K-drama hero with too much adrenaline and too few brain cells.
"Put me down, you maniac," she muttered between chuckles. "Your muscles are going to be the death of me."
I set her down and grinned.
Sun Mi didn't argue much after that. She knew what kind of world we lived in. She knew I wasn't exactly born to become an accountant.
"You're sure about this?" she asked, quieter now. "You know this kind of life... it isn't normal. It could be dangerous. One day they give you everything, the next—"
"Mom." I said it gently. "If anything feels wrong, I'll leave. I promise. But for now... we're safe. And we're finally going to live."
She nodded, but her eyes said she'd still worry forever. That's moms for you.
Before either of us could say more, we were attacked.
"BIG BROTHER!!"
A two-headed, hyperactive monster known as my younger siblings launched into the room. Song Jae Hyung and Song Jae Som—their war cries matching their chaotic energy—tackled my legs like they were storming a castle.
"Big brother, are we rich now?" Hyung asked.
"Can I have a bunny?" Som added.
"Can I have a sword?"
"Can I have a bunny with a sword?"
I laughed, lifting them both with ease. "Slow down, warriors. One bunny and one sword at a time."
I glanced back at my mom, who was still wiping her eyes.
This wasn't a dream. It was real.
We had a home. A future. And maybe—just maybe—a bunny with a sword.