Chapter 17: How to Beat Up Your Trainer Without Getting Grounded
Here's a fun life tip:
If a woman with a 10-year zero-loss record in a secret martial arts school tells you to "begin"…
Don't.
But if you're me? You're already moving.
Standing across from Lee Na was like standing across from a quiet thunderstorm wrapped in flawless skin and terrifying silence. You knew it was going to strike, you just didn't know how or when—only that it would hurt, and you'd probably regret not wearing armor.
Now, let me explain something before you assume I've got a death wish:
Lee Na isn't just a top student.
She's the top student.
Like, her record at the Wild School is clean. Cleaner than my socks after chakra laundry day (yes, that's a thing). She's been undefeated since the start of her career. Zero losses. Nada. Not even a draw. And this is a place where most people don't graduate with all their bones.
She wasn't born into a powerful family or some elite clan with bloodline hacks either. Nope—normal parents, strict rules, high standards. The kind of household where "disappointing your mother" feels more dangerous than a roundhouse kick to the teeth.
All of that turned her into a stone-cold rule enforcer.
Talking to her is like being interviewed by a high-functioning robot: efficient, emotionless, and unnervingly calm.
And if you break the rules?
She becomes a human guillotine.
Even outside of training hours, she doesn't change much. No wild parties. No drama. No revealing her vulnerable side. Apparently, she just goes home, watches TV, and occasionally ruins the dreams of foolish men who think they stand a chance with her.
Spoiler alert: none of them do.
Everyone's tried, especially since she's both beautiful and scary enough to give lesser men heart palpitations. But her standards are higher than the Grandmaster's wifi bill. And if you're not on her level?
You're dismissed with a glare.
She's 26 now. Ten years into her Ki cultivation journey. Currently at the Advanced Master level—fifth out of eight in the cultivation world. That's like making it to the semifinals of Olympus Fight Club (if such a thing existed—and I'm not saying it doesn't).
For context:
Beginner → Intermediate → Expert → Master → Advanced Master → True Master → Grand Master → Beyond.
The "Beyond" stage is so rare it might as well be a myth. No one's reached it in over a century. Not even the so-called Immortal Man—and that guy once fought a tank barehanded.
(Okay, maybe not a tank, but it was at least a rhinoceros on steroids.)
Charles, my current handler-slash-mentor, is a True Master. Pretty impressive. Even he admits he's not reaching any higher. That's his limit.
But Lee Na? She wants to surpass him. Reach the top ranks of the True Master realm and become the strongest woman in Korea.
Except... according to the Ki grapevine, she's not the strongest. Not yet.
There's an Elder from one of the big-name clans who owns that title, and Lee Na's been aiming to take it with the focus of a shark hunting dinner. It's not about pride. It's about conviction. That's just who she is.
So when I showed up, little ol' me with my sketchy underground fighting background and F-rank hiding status…?
She noticed.
Apparently, she watched my fights. Not just the Wild Guards warm-up ones, but the real ones—back in the ring. Where it was kill-or-be-killed. Where I'd taken more lives than I cared to admit.
And she wasn't just impressed.
She admitted—to herself, mind you—that I was more talented than she had ever been at my age.
Even the so-called "Queen" from the Wild Guards (who everyone says is a legend in the making) hadn't reached that level back then. I was different.
But there's a catch.
Talent in fighting doesn't equal talent in cultivating Ki. And for now, I was a maybe. A coin flip. I had the tools, but the question was…
Could I wield them without blowing myself up?
Lee Na didn't get excited like the other girls. No wide-eyed admiration. No jealousy either. Just a quiet acceptance:
"He's gifted. My job is to guide him."
That's all she said.
Which is kinda poetic in a scary, martial-artist-monk kind of way.
Now she was going to see for herself.
Was I truly a rising monster?
Or just another candle burning too bright?
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I squared up against Lee Na—calm, collected, and about as intimidating as a mountain with a black belt. The kind of mountain you don't try to push over, no matter how strong you think you are.
From the start, I knew this wasn't going to be a normal spar. Lee Na was on another level. Not just with her raw strength or speed, but her Ki—the invisible energy that could literally snap bones if she wanted. The stats didn't lie: even without tapping into her Ki, she could probably punch a hole in my chest. I wasn't about to find out firsthand, but hey, here we are.
She looked at me with that expressionless face that said, This is going to hurt you. A lot.
"We will start, and this will be painful for you," she said, calm and steady. No fear, no hesitation.
I smiled. Gotta stay confident, right? "I understand, so you don't have to worry about me, Miss Lee Na."
Charles—our unofficial referee and Ki scientist—gave the signal, and just like that, the fight was on.
Lee Na didn't even blink. I dashed forward, dropped low, and tried a classic sweep. I thought I had her—until her knee shot out like a piston and slammed into my chest.
I blocked with my hands, but the force pushed me back. No time to think—I countered with a kick straight to her face.
Her arm shot up and caught my foot like it weighed nothing. She then slammed me with a palm strike that sent me flying.
I landed safely, heart pounding, but it was fast. Way too fast. I could see through her moves, but catching up? Not a chance.
Her reaction speed is insane, I thought, tasting blood from the kick I just took.
Her limbs are like iron. My kick would have shattered anyone else.
The fact she blocked it without flinching? That meant trouble.
Fighting people this durable is like trying to punch a steel door. I remember those days with Master—painful but necessary.
Even though she had superior stats, my attacks weren't just flailing punches. They were calculated, smooth, with no wasted motion. She even admitted my coordination was impressive (if she thought it at all).
I closed the gap, like I was teleporting right next to her. She stood firm, steady as a mountain.
I pushed off the ground and threw a strong straight punch. She redirected it with her arm and fired back.
I saw it coming and sidestepped, aiming my head toward hers in a classic "headbutt meets punch" combo.
She met my head with her own, and the impact sent me tumbling backward.
Before I could hit the ground, I caught her right leg with my own. I wasn't strong enough to move her, but at least I wasn't going down alone.
"This is just so wrong," I muttered with a grin, holding her leg. Not using any chakra, and she was still stronger than me. Without Ki, that was a punch to the ego.
She gave a rare light tone—almost like a smirk. "It was better than I expected. I hope to have a balanced fight with you in the future."
Then I jumped back just in time to dodge a flying kick to the head.
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Standing in the ring, face to face with my trainer, I had a sudden realization.
This was awkward.
Not "forgot-your-homework" awkward or "called-your-teacher-mom" awkward. No, this was the I'm-about-to-beat-up-my-teacher kind of awkward. And trust me—there's no textbook for that.
Lee Na was supposed to be training me, molding me into a decent fighter. The only problem?
I was already better than her—at least when it came to energy control.
For them, it was Ki. For me? Chakra. Old-school ninja stuff. The kind that let me run sideways on trees and punch rocks into sand before I hit puberty in my last life.
Still, this wasn't about showing off. I needed to prove myself. Because if Charles—the scientist-monk-masochist combo deal—thought I was just a talented rookie, I'd end up doing tea runs and log chopping for the next three months. And I was not about to become Support Boy.
So, I bowed slightly and spoke with the respect of a student... about to kick some serious trainer butt.
"Miss Lee Na," I said calmly, "I'm going to be serious now. I understand your physical stats are higher than mine—but my Ki control is very good."
Polite, right? Not rude, not arrogant. Just facts.
Lee Na blinked. I think that was the most surprised I'd ever seen her, which still wasn't much. Her face was made of steel and nonchalance, but this time it cracked. Just a little.
She was probably thinking: This kid's supposed to be twelve. And he's talking about high-level Ki control like it's snack time?
The thing is, she knew I wasn't the braggy type. My record was clean. I didn't strut. I didn't flex. I trained. I studied. I worked. So if I said something like that, I meant it.
"I understand," she finally said. "Then I shall go full power as well."
Oh boy.
Her aura exploded as she enhanced her body with full Ki. I'm talking phase-through-walls, punch-through-steel, tank-a-bazooka level. The air around her shimmered like it had second thoughts about existing. She wasn't holding back anymore.
And I smiled.
Because this was the real deal now. I activated chakra enhancement across my body, feeling that familiar buzz of energy flood my limbs. Not quite what I used to be back in the Hidden Leaf, sure—but close enough.
Closer than I'd been in years.
I took a slow breath, fists clenched, body humming with chakra.
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Some people show respect by bowing. Some by sharing a heartfelt speech or giving a meaningful gift.
I show respect by trying to kick your lungs out through your spine.
Don't get me wrong—it's not a mean thing. It's just how I was raised... when you respect your opponent, you don't go easy. You give them your all, even if it means they have to regrow a rib or two later.
And Miss Lee Na?
She deserved everything I had.
The second Charles gave the start signal, I launched forward, chakra flaring in my legs. The floor cracked under the pressure. My body blurred. I don't mean anime speed lines—real blur.
Lee Na moved too, her movements as smooth and precise as ever. She fought like Neji Hyuga—if Neji had mastered six different martial arts, could break a watermelon with a flick, and didn't believe in mercy.
Her hands came up in a blur, targeting my nerves with pinpoint accuracy. One brush of those fingers, and I'd be paralyzed faster than a Wi-Fi connection dying during your favorite episode.
But I wasn't some rookie off the bench.
I bent backward under her strike like a human bridge, then shot upward with a spinning back kick. She blocked, twisting her arm just right, trying to grab my ankle and throw me—
Too slow.
I vanished mid-air.
She spun. I was already behind her.
My elbow came down like a hammer. She caught it—barely—and countered with a judo sweep aimed at my right leg. I leapt, flipping into a flying knee aimed straight at her solar plexus. It would've ended the match for 90% of fighters.
Lee Na?
She just tilted, took the blow on her shoulder, spun into a Muay Thai clinch, and pulled me in like we were dancing... violent, bone-breaking dancing.
Her knee rammed into my gut.
Or rather—it tried to.
I caught it with both hands, twisted, and hurled her over my head.
She flipped mid-air like a cat on caffeine and landed gracefully.
The crowd (Charles and a couple of support staff) gasped.
I didn't care.
I charged again.
This time she drew a weapon—a short wooden baton, training-safe but still painful. It came at me like a blur, aimed for the side of my neck. I ducked under it and launched a barrage of punches. Left. Right. Uppercut. Spin. Kick.
She blocked and weaved like a master. Because she was a master.
But still—I was faster. Stronger. Not by much, but enough that it counted.
Lee Na was a 9.
Me?
A 10.
Not godlike. Not unfair. But when you're going toe-to-toe with someone that talented, a ten percent edge is the difference between "holding your own" and "dominating."
And I was sixteen.
Sixteen!
I saw it in her eyes. That flicker of disbelief. She wasn't going easy on me. She was going full power. Enhanced muscles. Ki in every fiber of her being.
And I was keeping up—and more.
For every jab she threw, I was already moving around it. For every kick she landed, I returned it harder. Every throw she attempted, I reversed.
Then she got sneaky.
She went full nerve-strike mode.
Her fingers flicked like lightning bolts, aimed for every point that could shut me down. Arm. Thigh. Shoulder. Neck.
I let her hit me twice. Just to test it.
Yeah, it hurt.
A lot.
But chakra coating? Pretty great insurance. She might've weakened my right arm, but my left was still good.
So I used it.
I launched a punch that tore the air apart. She twisted to block—but her stance wobbled.
I'd hit her balance.
Respectfully, of course.
She tried to reset her guard. I swept in low, kicked her back leg with enough force to send her tumbling—but she caught herself on one hand, twisted, and flipped over me.
Except—I was already there.
She landed facing me, but my foot was inches from her face.
"Enough," she said, calmly, her breath just slightly off.
I held the pose.
Then slowly lowered my leg.
We stood there, sweaty, bruised, but smiling.
"You're terrifying," she said flatly, which for her was basically screaming YOU'RE AMAZING.
"Likewise," I said with a slight bow.
She touched her ribs gently and winced.
"Broken?" I asked.
"Hairline. It'll heal."
"Cool," I said, rotating my right arm that still felt like jelly. "I think you got a few nerves there. I can't feel my pinky."
She nodded. "We're even."
We weren't. But we were close.
And as I looked at her—a 26-year-old Ki master, weapon specialist, martial arts prodigy—I didn't feel proud.
I felt grateful.
Because I knew I'd made it. Not all the way, not yet. But close enough to see how far I'd come.
And how much further I could go.