Daniel pushed his apartment door open. Water dripped from his clothes onto the floor, forming a dark puddle on the wood.

  His hands were still shaking. More from the cold than fear, he told himself. That was close. Too close. Henry stood in the doorway behind him, soaked through, breathing hard. Water ran from his hair down his face. He looked like a drowned rat. Daniel probably looked worse.

  "That was..."

  "Yeah."

  They stood there for a moment. Daniel could still hear sirens in his head. Still feel the weight of the jade statue in his arms. Still see Li Mei's staring at him through the sprinklers, water pooling in those painted eye sockets.

  The apartment was dark. Cold. The heating barely worked on a good day, and this wasn't a good day. Daniel's teeth started chattering.

  "Go home," Daniel said. "Before your mom freaks out."

  Henry nodded. Didn't move for a second. Water dripping steadily onto Daniel's floor. Then… "See you tomorrow?"

  "Yeah. After work."

  The door closed. Daniel stood alone in his apartment. The radiator clanked somewhere in the wall, useless. His stomach growled despite everything. He peeled off his wet shirt and stood there shivering. The shirt hit the floor with a wet slap.

  Daniel and Henry walked down Jackson Street the next afternoon. Late sun cutting between buildings, throwing shadows across the sidewalk.

  The museum theft had been all over the news. "Coordinated heist at Asian Art Museum." Police were reviewing security footage. Asking for witnesses. The anchor had used words like "brazen" and "sophisticated."

  Daniel had spent his shift at Mr. Zhao's trying not to think about it. Trying not to flinch every time someone walked through the door. Every time the phone rang. Mr. Zhao had asked him twice if he was feeling okay. Daniel had blamed it on bad sleep.

  "You think we're on the news?" Henry asked. "There should be camera footage, I mean."

  "Maybe." Daniel kept his eyes on the sidewalk. Crack in the concrete. Flattened gum. A cigarette butt ground into the pavement. "Not much we can do about it. If they ask, we tell the truth."

  "The truth?"

  "We were in the area. Heard the alarm. Ran."

  Henry nodded slowly. "That's not really the truth though."

  "It's true enough."

  They walked in silence for a block.

  Produce vendors were packing up for the day, hosing down the sidewalk. Water running gray into the gutters. An old woman haggled with one of them over the last of the daikon, her Cantonese sharp and fast. Daniel stepped around them. A few doors down, the smell of lap cheong from a butcher's window. Sweet. Waxy. Underneath it, something rotting from a discard pile.

  He couldn't stop thinking about it.

  Li Mei was the same person who'd put him in the hospital. He'd thought she was just some girl who happened to know martial arts. Maybe a bit too intense. Maybe a little closed off. The kind of person you crossed the street to avoid.

  He'd been an idiot.

  She had a crew. Organization. Waterproof bags and coordinated masks and a plan that had probably taken weeks to set up. And she'd drawn a sword on him like it was nothing. Like killing someone in a museum was just another item on the to-do list.

  Guess it all made sense now.

  What were the odds of meeting someone who knew martial arts and wouldn't be interested in stealing authentic Taoist texts? The kind of texts that described how qi actually worked? The kind of texts that had been sitting in museum display cases for decades while everyone assumed they were just historical curiosities.

  The Hungry Tiger Claw. His first real technique. He'd learned it from a museum display. A traditional meridian chart on yellowed paper behind glass. And now he was starting to think that very soon, more than one group of people would figure that out if they hadn't already.

  That museums had real knowledge. The kind that hadn't been seen in centuries. The kind that actually worked. The kind worth stealing.

  "Should we tell her?" Henry asked.

  Daniel looked at him. "Tell who?"

  "Li Qinghua. About the museum."

  Daniel had been thinking about that. Turning it over in his head since last night. "And say what? That we accidently broke into a museum and watched masked thieves steal artifacts?"

  "That one of them attacked you with a sword. Wouldn't she know something about that."

  "And then what?" Daniel stepped around a woman carrying grocery bags. "She's an old lady. What's she gonna do about it?"

  "I don't know. She knows stuff. Maybe she'd know what to do."

  "Best case, she can't help. Worst case, she starts asking questions and gets involved with most likely an international ring of criminals." Daniel shook his head. "I'm not bringing that to her door."

  Henry was quiet for a moment. "Yeah. Okay."

  They walked another half block. A bus rumbled past, belching exhaust.

  "Other than that. You okay though?" Henry asked. "You look dazed."

  "Just thinking about more things." Daniel glanced at him. "You good? They were chasing you around in there."

  "Yeah, I'm good." Henry's face twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. "But fuck, man. Even the bad guys are calling me fat now. Do I really need to lose weight?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, fuck you too."

  "I'm just being honest."

  "You could lie. Friends lie to make each other feel better."

  "Fine. You're not fat. You're just healthy."

  "That's worse. That's what my grandma says. Right before she gives me a third bowl of rice."

  Daniel almost smiled. Almost. "I still can't believe that she drew a sword on me. Is that even legal? It can't be legal to carry something like that."

  "Who is she anyway?" Henry asked.

  "I met her at the museum a few days back. When you weren't there." Daniel kicked a pebble off the sidewalk. "But yeah. She's the one with the superpowers who kicked my ass back at the at the restaurant"

  "Heh. Got your ass kicked twice by a girl."

  "Shut up."

  Daniel shook his head and pushed off on his board. Henry followed.

  "Come on. We're gonna be late."

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  The courtyard looked the same as last time. Small. Brick walls stained with age, moss growing in the shaded corners.

  Worn stone pavers, uneven in places where tree roots had pushed through decades ago. Potted plants lined the edges. Some flowering red and yellow. Some just green and spiky. A ceramic water basin sat near one wall, the surface still, reflecting sky.

  The sounds of the street felt far away here. Like stepping into a different century.

  Daniel moved to the center. Sank low. Knees bent, thighs parallel to the ground, arms extended straight forward. Horse stance. The most basic position. The most painful.

  The burning started immediately.

  "Lower," Li Qinghua said.

  He sank another inch. His legs screamed.

  Li Qinghua circled him slowly, inspecting his form. She wore the same dark clothes as always. Simple. Practical. A gray tunic over loose pants. Her walking stick tapped against the stones as she moved. Tap. Tap. Tap. Methodical.

  She moved on to Henry, who was sweating against the wall, using it as a brace. His legs shook visibly. His face had gone red. Li Qinghua frowned but nodded. He couldn't hold a full squat yet. Baby steps.

  Building foundation. Building jing to better use qi. The boring work that made everything else possible.

  Daniel focused on his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The courtyard was quiet except for distant sounds of the street. Vendors calling out. Car horns. The clatter of a passing cable car somewhere beyond the walls.

  His thighs were already shaking.

  Li Qinghua tapped his lower back with her walking stick. "Straighten here. Don't lean forward."

  He adjusted. It made everything worse.

  "You know," Li Qinghua said, settling onto a small wooden stool near the wall, "in the old stories, they always talk about the 'greatest martial arts under the heavens.' 天下第—. Tiānxià Dì Yī."

  Daniel said nothing. Focusing on not collapsing.

  "Shaolin claims it. Wudang claims it. Every major school has some story about why their style is supreme." She paused. "But it's important to understand why things are the way they are. The history of these styles. This matters more than people think."

  She gestured vaguely northward.

  "Take the northern styles. Shaolin, Changquan, Baji. Wide stances, long-range attacks, big sweeping movements. You've seen kung fu movies. Lots of jumping, spinning, acrobatic kicks. Very dramatic."

  Daniel's legs were on fire now. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes.

  "Why do you think the northern styles look like that?" Li Qinghua asked.

  Daniel tried to think. He knew the north had wider movements. He'd seen it in movies. But the reason? He'd never considered it. Just assumed that's how it was.

  He managed to speak through gritted teeth. "I don't... know."

  "Geography." Li Qinghua leaned back slightly. "The north is plains. Open spaces. Flat land as far as you can see. If you're fighting on the Mongolian steppes or the plains outside Beijing, you have room. Space to move, to circle your opponent, to use wide strikes that generate maximum force."

  She stood, demonstrating with slow movements. A wide stance. A sweeping strike that would cover several feet of distance. Even at her age, the motion was fluid. Practiced.

  "Northern styles adapted to their environment. Big movements because they could afford them. Power generation through full-body rotation. High kicks because the ground is flat and stable."

  Daniel's vision was starting to blur at the edges. How long had it been? Five minutes? Ten?

  "But then you go south," Li Qinghua continued, settling back onto her stool. "South of the Yangtze River. What do you find there?"

  "Mountains?" Daniel gasped.

  "Mountains. Rivers. Hills. Narrow valleys. The geography is completely different." She leaned forward. "And the cities. Guangzhou, Fuzhou, Hong Kong. These places grew dense. Narrow alleyways, crowded streets, buildings packed together. You can't throw a wide spinning kick in a three-foot alley."

  That made sense. Even through the pain, Daniel could follow the logic.

  "So southern styles adapted. Wing Chun, Choy Li Fut, Hung Gar. All compact. Short-range power. Narrow stances. Everything designed for close quarters, for conserving energy, for fighting in tight spaces where you might have your back against a wall."

  Li Qinghua tapped her stick against the courtyard stones. The sound echoed off the brick.

  "Southern masters don't jump and spin. They root themselves into the ground and generate power from structure, from angles, from efficiency. One inch of movement creates maximum force. Why waste energy on a big wind-up when you're fighting in a rice paddy or on a narrow boat?"

  Daniel's legs were trembling violently now. He was going to collapse any second.

  "This is the origin of the different styles," Li Qinghua said. "Yes, there is one dao, and all martial practices come from Taoism. But everything in nature is grounded in practical reality."

  She paused, pacing around.

  "For example, do you know where China's capital has been for the last thousand years?"

  "Beijing," Daniel managed.

  "Beijing. In the north. Why? Many countries put their capital near the center. Easier to govern. Equidistant from all borders. Even China for most of its history had its capital somewhere else. But in recent centuries, it always returns north."

  She paused, letting him think. Or maybe just letting him suffer.

  "Because that's where the threats came from," Daniel said. Understanding clicking despite the agony in his legs.

  "Exactly. Mongols from the north. Manchus from the north. Every major invasion in the last thousand years came from the northern border."

  She hesitated. Something flickered across her face. Gone before Daniel could read it.

  "Even the Japanese couldn't set foot into China until they had conquered Manchuria. The old northern capital region of the Qing Dynasty. So, you station your capital there. Station your armies there. Keep the threat close where you can watch it."

  Li Qinghua stood again, walking over to adjust Daniel's posture. Her hand was surprisingly strong as she pushed his shoulder back.

  "And where you have armies, you have martial training. Imperial guards, military officers, warrior monks. The north became the center of martial development not just because of geography, but because of constant military pressure. They needed soldiers who could fight on horseback, on open plains, against cavalry charges."

  She stepped back.

  "The south developed differently. Less military pressure, more civilian development. Martial arts for merchants protecting caravans, for villagers defending against bandits, for boat people fighting pirates in narrow vessels. Different needs, different styles."

  Daniel's vision was graying at the edges. His legs were beyond pain now. Just pure burning numbness.

  "Up," Li Qinghua said suddenly.

  He straightened with a groan that was almost a sob. His legs nearly gave out. He caught himself, stumbled, grabbed onto the courtyard wall. The brick was rough under his palms. Cool.

  "Walk it off," she said. "Don't just stand there."

  Daniel forced himself to move. Shaking out his legs. Each step felt like walking on glass. Henry was watching from the wall, looking sympathetic and slightly relieved it wasn't him.

  "How long?" Daniel asked. Voice hoarse.

  "Eight minutes."

  It had felt like an hour.

  Li Qinghua waited while Daniel recovered, letting him walk slow circles around the courtyard. The brick walls were warm where the sun hit them, cool in the shadows. A bird landed on the wall, cocked its head at them, flew away. Somewhere beyond the walls, children were playing. Shouts and laughter, distant and muffled.

  Gradually, the burning subsided to a dull ache. His legs still felt like jelly. But he could stand.

  "Again," she said.

  "What?"

  "Again. Same stance. Three more minutes."

  Daniel wanted to cry. Or quit. Or both. But he thought about Li Mei. Her sword cutting through everything he threw at her. The way she'd moved like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.

  He moved back to the center. Sank down again.

  This time was worse. His legs were already exhausted. The shaking started immediately. More violent than before. His whole body vibrating with the effort of not falling. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the stones below. He watched the drops darken the rock.

  "The point," Li Qinghua said, resuming her position on the stool, "is that when someone claims their style is the 'greatest under heaven,' you have to think about what's realistic and practical for your situation. Style is only a small part of what makes a martial artist effective. Know your limits. Know your opponent's limits. Know the reason things are the way they are."

  She paused.

  "A northern master who relies on wide kicks would struggle in a cramped Hong Kong alleyway. A southern master used to close-quarters fighting might be overwhelmed on an open battlefield. The 'greatest' style is the one that matches the reality you're in."

  She was quiet for a moment. Somewhere beyond the walls, a dog barked.

  "There is no 'greatest.' There's only what's right for your circumstances. The real masters understood this. They studied multiple styles. Learned to adapt. That's what made them truly formidable. Not loyalty to one school but understanding of all combat contexts."

  Daniel was barely listening now. His entire world had narrowed to the burning in his thighs. The trembling in his calves. The desperate need to stand up.

  "Up."

  He collapsed forward onto his hands and knees. Gasping. The stone pavers were cool against his palms. Rough. He could see individual grains in the rock. A tiny ant walking between the cracks, carrying something white.

  "Good," Li Qinghua said. "That's enough for today."

  Daniel rolled onto his back and lay on the courtyard stones, staring at the sky. Blue fading to orange at the edges. A plane crossed overhead, leaving a white trail. He wondered why he'd agreed to this. Why he kept coming back.

  Because of Li Mei. Because qi existed. Because somewhere out there, people were stealing ancient texts and using martial arts like weapons, and he could barely hold a horse stance for eight minutes.

  Beside him, Henry had slid down the wall into a sitting position. Also gasping. His face was red and shiny with sweat. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his chest.

  "Dude," Henry wheezed. "That sucked."

  "Yeah."

  "Like, really sucked."

  "Yeah."

  Li Qinghua gave them a few minutes to recover. She disappeared inside briefly, came back with two cups of hot water. Plain ceramic. Chipped at the edges. Old, like everything else here. The water was clear and tasted faintly of minerals. Clean.

  Daniel drank it all in three swallows. Let the cup rest against his forehead. Cool ceramic on hot skin.

  Henry finished his water and set the cup down carefully. "Is it always going to be like this?"

  "The stance training?" Li Qinghua settled back onto her stool. "Yes. For a while."

  "How long is a while?"

  "Months. Maybe longer." She tilted her head slightly. "You can stop anytime. No one is forcing you."

  Henry looked at Daniel. Daniel looked at the sky.

  "No," Daniel said. "We'll keep going."

  Li Qinghua nodded. If she was pleased, she didn't show it.

  Finally, she gestured for him to sit up. Daniel pushed himself upright, legs still trembling. The courtyard had fallen into shadow now. The sun behind the buildings. The air cooling.

  "Now," she said. "Did you have anything you want to ask me?"