That Tournament, the Dojo Fighting Dragons Studio

Four years after the tragedy in the London shop, it was the second day of February in Max's third year in China.

A cold spring had settled in, and a heavy snowfall had just passed. The mountain that housed a mixed martial arts temple was tall, and its path was steep. The hundreds of feet of blue stone steps leading to the mountain gate were frozen, making the climb even more treacherous.

A few unaffiliated novice practitioners reluctantly ascended from the mountain's base, their presence making the deserted entrance to the martial arts temple seem even lonelier.

The auspicious day when the dragon raises its head should have seen the temple brimming with incense and prayers. However, last year, only a dozen new practitioners climbed the mountain to honor the occasion, and this year, the number was even smaller.

Yet, near an open square on the temple grounds, a fifteen-year-old boy was moving back and forth, diligently practicing his martial arts.

This boy, his hair tied into a ponytail, bore a chilling sight: his left eye was completely clouded, surrounded by a prominent scar left untouched by surgery.

The boy's movements, all taught at the Fighting Dragons Studio, were designed for maximum damage, to incapacitate the enemy without mercy.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The wind seemed to shatter with each strike he delivered to the air, producing dull sounds far too powerful for someone his age.

"Yah!"

The boy—none other than Max—executed a spinning jump kick. It was only after finishing his morning special training for the upcoming tournament that he noticed an elderly man observing him.

"Looking for something?" Max's tone was sharp, as always.

"Your martial arts are riddled with flaws," the man said calmly.

"Who the hell are you?" Since the incident at the shop and regaining vision in one of his eyes, Max had dedicated himself to martial arts. He first learned karate from his uncle Terry and later traveled to China to deepen his training.

There was no better place in the world for tournaments than China. Here, martial arts were as celebrated as any mainstream sport.

Unlike other countries where combat sports were less central to daily life, China held martial arts in the highest regard. That was why Max had come.

Having faced the best fighters of his age—and even older—Max was confident in his martial arts. He wouldn't tolerate criticism from a stranger.

"Care to show me some of your moves?" Max gestured provocatively, daring the older man to step forward.

The man, who appeared to be over forty, shook his head. "I hear there's a tournament. If you participate, you'll understand what I mean."

Irritated, Max wiped his sweat and returned to his room within the temple.

Ever since regaining vision in one eye, Max had devoted every second to maximizing his physical and martial abilities to never feel weak again.

The criminals who had murdered his parents had received the maximum penalty, but whenever Max thought of them, his blood boiled with uncontrollable fury.

Day and night, the mental images of his parents' deaths consumed him. If not for his uncle, he might have done something reckless long ago.

"I'm still weak..." Max murmured, clenching his fists as he stared at his reflection in a large mirror.

...

Max had earned a nickname—The Cyclops—because of his missing eye and his relentless cruelty in combat.

No matter his opponent, Max always sought to inflict as much damage as possible to ensure they wouldn't stand again.

"Ahhh!"

"Stop!"

In the quarterfinals of the tournament, Max stood over his crying opponent. "What's the problem?" he asked coldly.

"You're disqualified! You've been warned too many times, yet you used excessive force in a match meant for points!" the referee shouted, raising his arms to signal Max's disqualification.

"I didn't even use my full strength. That guy wouldn't be conscious if I had," Max protested, though everyone, including himself, recognized his strikes had been excessive.

Many others, some even his own peers, shared his aggressive approach to combat.

"It was a good fight, but you should've held back," said Cheng, a fellow student with immense potential, as Max stepped off the stage.

Cheng was eager to face Dre, another formidable contender, and wasn't in a position to lecture Max about restraint.

"Are you coming back for the finals?" Cheng asked, noticing Max packing his things.

Max looked at Cheng and said, "Just win. Fight by the rules, or you'll be expelled from this stupid tournament too."

"I will."

Max didn't care. He'd won his match, and circumstances beyond his control had disqualified him.

This wasn't the first time he'd been disqualified. After all, not every tournament allowed such power-driven strikes.

"It's a shame, you could've won." His martial arts instructor remarked.

Max glanced at the crowd and replied, "What would people think if a foreigner won in their own backyard? "

"This is the best outcome for you."

Leaving the quarterfinals area, Max walked to the bathrooms, where he encountered the same elderly man from earlier.

"Here to gloat?" Max asked, tying his disheveled hair into a ponytail.

"Your strikes are filled with rage, not against your opponents, but against something that's hurting you."

Max's expression turned icy. He glared at the man and asked, "What the hell do you know?"

The man smiled, stepped aside to let Max enter, and said, "The end result is self-destruction, isn't it?"

Max froze. He'd thought about it often.

The guilt was suffocating. Who wouldn't feel guilty for failing to save their parents?

"You don't know anything..."

"I'm Chozen Toguchi. Let me show you the other side of the coin in martial arts," the man said, handing Max a karate book he always carried.