Joe at School

Little Joe was late; it was his first day at school and, because of that, everything was new. The boys and girls in large groups were calling each other names and threatening to throw school supplies at each other's heads, while Joe watched everything like a stranger interested in an important matter. Everyone was messing with everyone else, except for him, who kept his distance and seemed like the ugly duckling of the class.

"Who is this weirdo?" asked one of the boys, pulling his hair.

Poft!

That was little Joe's response in the form of a punch, a quick and thoughtless reaction, purely impulsive. The boy was bigger than him, but even so, he couldn't withstand the blow to his face and collapsed crying. The other kids surrounded little Joe and, without any warning, attacked him, not giving him space or a chance to retaliate.

The teacher pretended not to see; she hated poor people and little Joe was excessively poor, which was evident in his way of being and dressing. From her point of view, this was nothing more than a good lesson for that insolent little boy who had just arrived and already wanted to show off.

After an intense five minutes, the noise stopped, and little Joe, with his two black eyes, kept sniffling while continuing to punch the bigger boy who had started it all. Unable to believe what she was seeing, the teacher stood up and ordered them to stop the fight, which had already ended some time ago with little Joe's victory.

Everyone was taken to the infirmary without exception. As they were all returning to the classroom, the troublemaker still dared to threaten little Joe:

"This isn't over, tomorrow you'll see what will happen to you."

"You don't have to wait until tomorrow, let's settle this now."

And right there in the school corridor, a new fight began, with the difference that no other boy dared to join that confrontation. And five minutes later, there they were again in the infirmary, redoing their bandages and adding more to each one.

At the teacher's request, little Joe, blamed for everything in her eyes, was expelled from school for at least a week and sent home with an adult, just to make sure there would be no more fights that day.

"Wait a minute, you brat. I need to meet someone important in the office. Stay here in the yard, and I'll deal with you. Don't think you'll get away from this mess without a beating from your parents. I'm going to write a detailed letter about what you did here. Or do you think you're going to spend a week at home as if it were a vacation?"

Little Joe showed no reaction; he didn't even remember if his parents were the kind of people who would beat him for a false accusation. And if he did get beaten for it, he would surely find someone to take his anger out on. Meanwhile, the door closed behind him with a muffled sound, locking him in that place. He didn't even try to open it, knowing it was a waste of time. So, without haste, he began to practice some quick movements with his hands while keeping his torso firm.

The heavy door opened silently and a tall, imposing male figure stood observing him for a long time

"How do you know the low and cutting wind style?" From whom did you learn it, boy?"

Despite the deep voice, there was no aggressive tone, but the question about something so secret and intimate to little Joe made him lose concentration. Seeing the boy's body start to tremble, the stranger realized he had asked the question in the wrong way.

"I'm sorry if I scared you, boy. My name is Roderik Von Shift, and I am a martial arts enthusiast. I have been teaching my son these arts since a very young age, and your performance, although incomplete, seems to be better than my son's. What is your name, young man?"

"Jon Jun Joe," the boy answered, stuttering.

"Jon Jun Joe? What a beautiful name. What family do you belong to?"

"No, my name is just Joe. And I don't belong to any family. Only to my father and mother."

The nobleman found the child's ignorance amusing.

"Very well, boy. Then I will call you Just Joe. And as for your father, what is his name and what does he do?"

"My father's name is Dondinel, and he doesn't do anything."

"Dondinel," the nobleman repeated, trying to remember if he knew that name. "Doesn't do anything? So he doesn't work? Is he sick?"

"My father doesn't do anything, he just works," the boy replied, not understanding why there were so many annoying questions.

"And what does your father do for work, Just Joe?"

"He works on a farm and takes care of milking cows and looking after other animals."

"Just Joe, I'm going to ask just one more question, then I'll give you a present. Is that okay?"

Little Joe thought for a moment and finally decided:

"Okay, just one more question and I get a present. You promise?"

"Of course, I promise. We, the Von Shift family, are not known to be liars or bad debtors."

"Then, Mr. Roderik Von, you can ask."

Roderik Von Shift took great pride in that name, more than anything, and thought of correcting him, but the curiosity about the answer that would come next was of utmost importance.

"Who taught you this beautiful art, Just Joe?"

"It was my father," little Joe replied without thinking.

But right after answering, his father's recommendations bombarded his mind.

"Son, whatever happens, avoid demonstrations of brute force and never say that I taught you to fight. Never show these movements to anyone, understand, son? To no one. If the wrong person recognizes this style, then we will all be in danger: me, you, and your mother. So please, son, never forget this."

Remembering those words, little Joe swayed back and forth, but before he could fall, strong hands held him up.

"Don't worry, Just Joe. We are among friends, and as I promised, I will give you a present."

But before he could react, the heavy door opened again, revealing the unpleasant face of the teacher, who was desperately looking for Mr. Roderik Von Shift.