Andrew's mother stood by the kitchen window, arms folded tightly as she watched the quiet street outside. The morning sun crept over the rooftops, bathing the road in pale gold.
"Why is he always late…" she muttered. "Do I need to wake him myself again?"
She wiped her hands on her apron and walked toward the hallway.
"Andrew, wake up," she called, knocking lightly on his door.
No response.
Her brows furrowed. She pushed the door open.
The room was empty. The bed was neatly made—too neatly.
Her heart skipped a beat.
"Andrew?"
A chill ran through her. She hurried back toward the front door and stepped outside.
That's when she saw him.
Andrew was already outside, running laps along the street in front of the house. His breathing was steady and controlled, sweat glistening on his forehead as his feet struck the pavement in a consistent rhythm. Not frantic—focused.
He turned, surprised to see her.
"Oh—good morning, Mom," he said, slowing down.
She stared at him, speechless.
Running before school. By choice.
"…Since when do you do this?" she asked cautiously.
Andrew smiled, a little embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just thought I should start my day early."
She didn't reply right away.
Something about him felt different—his posture straighter, his eyes clearer. Stronger. More focused. For the first time in a long while, she felt relief bloom in her chest… followed closely by fear.
She gently shook her head.
"Now come inside," she said. "Eat your breakfast before it gets cold."
Andrew nodded. "Yes, Mom."
He followed her inside, washed his hands, and sat at the table. His body still felt warm from the run, his breathing calm and controlled—something he hadn't noticed before.
His mother placed the food in front of him and sat across from him. She was smiling—not angry, not worried.
Proud.
Andrew noticed and looked up. "What is it, Mom?"
She hesitated, then spoke softly.
"You've started caring about discipline," she said. "Waking up early. Exercising. Taking responsibility."
She reached across the table and gently touched his hand. "So… I'm proud of you."
Andrew froze.
Those words hit harder than any punch.
"…Thank you," he said quietly.
His mother smiled, unaware of the truth hidden behind that discipline—unaware of the fire slowly awakening inside her son.
Andrew lowered his eyes to his plate.
I'll protect this smile, he thought. No matter what.
---
The dojo echoed with sharp impacts as Ryo's leg snapped forward in a fast, precise kick.
Andrew reacted instantly, raising his arm to block the strike with his forearm. The force sent a jolt through his body, but he didn't lose balance. Twisting his waist in the same motion, he countered with a punch, stopping just inches from Ryo's chest.
Ryo stepped back, eyes narrowing. "Good."
They moved again—kick, block, strike, dodge.
Sweat dripped onto the wooden floor as the training intensified. Ryo attacked relentlessly, testing Andrew's guard, his footwork, his breathing. Andrew stumbled once, then twice, but each time he recovered faster.
His movements were no longer wild. They were controlled.
Ryo circled him.
"Phoenix Style isn't about brute strength," Ryo said mid-motion. "It's about balance. Feel the attack. Accept it. Then return it."
Ryo struck again.
Andrew exhaled sharply, shifted his stance, absorbed the blow, and countered. This time, his fist carried weight.
Ryo raised a hand, stopping the exchange.
Andrew stood there, chest heaving and arms trembling, but his eyes burned with focus.
"You're learning faster than I expected," Ryo said. "Your body understands the flow."
Andrew wiped sweat from his face. "It feels like… I'm not forcing it. It's just happening."
Ryo allowed himself a faint smile. "That's the Phoenix. It doesn't fight against the fire."
He stepped forward again.
"Now," Ryo said firmly, "let's make it burn."
---
Andrew lowered his guard, breathing hard. "Uncle, why don't you teach me specific moves from the Phoenix Style?"
Ryo studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. "I can't."
Andrew frowned. "You can't?"
"I can only guide you," Ryo said calmly. "The Phoenix Style doesn't work like other techniques. There are no fixed moves."
He walked past Andrew, footsteps slow and deliberate.
"You must feel when to defend, when to strike, and when to rise again," Ryo continued. "If I give you my movements, you'll only copy me—and copied fire always burns out."
Andrew clenched his fists. "So… I have to create my own?"
Ryo nodded. "The Phoenix Style chooses its fighter. Each body, mind, and heart is different."
He pointed to Andrew's chest. "You must discover which movements belong to you."
Andrew took a deep breath. It was frightening—but also freeing.
"All right," he said quietly. "I'll figure it out."
Ryo smiled. "That's the first real step. Now… show me what your fire looks like."
Andrew stepped forward, his stance uncertain and imperfect—but his own.
And the Phoenix began to take shape.
Andrew sat on the dojo floor with his back against the wooden wall, legs stretched out in front of him. His arms trembled uncontrollably from exhaustion, muscles aching deep beneath the skin. Sweat soaked through his shirt and pooled lightly on the floor beneath him, his breathing slow but heavy as he tried to recover.
Nearby, Ryo stood with his hands resting loosely at his sides, watching him in silence. His gaze wasn't critical—it was observant, measuring progress rather than judging weakness.
After a moment, Ryo spoke.
"Andrew, we've been training like this for a month now."
Andrew lifted his head, blinking as the words settled in. A month. It felt both impossibly fast and painfully long. Every bruise, every stumble, every moment of burning lungs rushed through his mind at once.
"You told me you started self-defense training last summer," Ryo continued. "That foundation is the reason you're improving as quickly as you are."
Andrew stared at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly as if confirming they were still his.
"I was weak," he said quietly. "And I didn't want to stay that way."
Ryo nodded once.
"That mindset matters more than you realize," he said. "Skill can be taught. Strength can be built. But the will to stand up—especially after being knocked down—that's rare."
He crossed his arms, posture firm but calm.
"If you keep moving forward like this," Ryo went on, "you won't just become skilled. In time, you'll become a complete fighter."
Andrew's eyes widened slightly.
"A… perfect fighter?" he asked.
Ryo shook his head.
"Not flawless," he corrected. "Balanced."
He stepped closer, his expression serious.
"Remember this," Ryo added. "Power grows fast. Control grows slow. Many confuse the two—and pay for it."
Andrew nodded deeply, the words carving themselves into his thoughts.
"I won't," he said.
Ryo turned his gaze toward the wooden box resting quietly in the corner of the dojo—the one that held the ancient scroll.
"The Phoenix Style isn't about winning fights," he said softly. "It's about surviving them. About enduring loss, pain, and failure… and still finding the strength to rise again."
Andrew closed his eyes, breathing steadily as the familiar warmth settled in his chest. The fire was there—no longer wild, no longer frightening. It waited, patient and steady.
One month down.
A lifetime to go.
And for the first time, Andrew felt ready to walk it.