By the time Joel’s back hit the mat, the gym was already chanting for his enemies.

“Ve-nom! Ve-nom! Ve-nom!”

The bleachers of Jefferson High in Southern California shook with every stomp. Blue-and-neon-green banners for the Crawl Venom dojo hung over the student section, their snake logo stretched across homemade posters: FANGS OUT. STAY VENOM.

At center court—where basketball games usually played out—two boys in karate gis were locked in a match that looked more like survival than sport. Joel’s chest burned, his lungs scraping for air, his arms trembling from blocking too many kicks. Across from him, Cesar from Crawl Venom stood loose and relaxed, like this was just a warm-up.

“Point—Cesar!” the referee shouted, raising one arm toward the grinning boy in black.

The scoreboard flashed it in bright red: IRON DRAGONS – 0. CRAWL VENOM – 3.

Match over.

Again.

The ref gestured them back to their lines. Joel forced himself up, bowing out of habit, though he wanted to rip the mat up and set it on fire. The Crawl Venom side of the gym erupted, their sensei pounding his fist in approval, his students chest-bumping and shouting.

On the other side, the Iron Dragons sat like someone had unplugged them. Faded red gis, worn-out gear, bags slumped against their feet. No cheering. No clapping. Just a lot of looking away.

For the third year in a row, every banner that went up in the Jefferson High gym belonged to Crawl Venom.

Back in their dojo that afternoon, the smell of sweat and old wood hung heavy in the air. The Iron Dragons lined up on the scuffed mats as their sensei paced in front of them like a storm about to break.

“Three years in a row,” Sensei Rico said, his voice low but dangerous. “Three. Years. In. A. Row.”

His fist crashed into a wooden board, propped up for breaking practice. It shattered with a sharp crack that made a couple of the younger students flinch.

“I’m sick and tired of seeing you all lose to the Crawl Venom every single tournament,” he snarled, turning on them. “As a matter of fact, I’m sick and tired of seeing you guys lose to everyone.”

No one answered. The only sound was the buzzing fluorescent light overhead and someone’s nervous breathing.

“What do you have to say for yourselves, huh?” Rico demanded. “Anybody? Someone got a joke? A meme? Some TikTok dance to explain why you keep getting your butts handed to you?”

Silence. The kids stared at the floor, the wall, anywhere but at his eyes.

“Oh, everybody’s quiet now, huh?” he said. “No one has anything to say. Well, that’s just great. Because that’s exactly what got us in this position.”

His voice echoed off the mirrors lining the dojo walls. Old trophies—dusty ones from before any of them had joined—glittered sadly on the shelves. The space used to feel like a second home. Today, it felt like a courtroom.

“You know what?” Rico went on. “Ever since Cameron left, we stopped winning trophies. We stopped being feared. We stopped being respected. I should’ve left with him.”

The name hit Joel like a jab to the ribs.

Cameron Seagal. The legend. The Iron Dragons’ golden boy. The one who’d taken them to state championships and filled their walls with banners before graduating and disappearing into some mysterious “pro circuit in Vegas.” The older kids still told stories about him like he was some martial arts superhero.

Rico’s gaze landed on Joel.

“And you,” he said, stabbing a finger at him. “Everyone said you were the next Cameron. The next big thing. You know what that looks like right now?” He gave a harsh, humorless laugh. “A joke.”

Joel swallowed. “Sensei, I—”

“I can’t even look at y’all right now,” Rico cut in, turning away. “Especially you, Joel.”

He walked to his office door, grabbed his gym bag, and slung it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” one of the younger students blurted.

“I’m done,” Rico said without looking back. “You all are hopeless. Find someone else to coach you.”

The door slammed behind him, leaving a ringing silence.

For a second, nobody moved. The Iron Dragons just stood there in their sad, crooked line: Joel, Malik, Ryan, and Devin up front; a few middle school kids and one tiny white-belt boy in the back, eyes wide like his world had just collapsed.

“Now what do we do?” Ryan whispered.

Joel stared at Sensei Rico’s empty office. The framed photo of Cameron holding a trophy with Rico’s arm around him was visible through the small glass window, mocking him.

“Guys,” Malik said slowly, “maybe sensei is right. Maybe we are hopeless.”

“You got that right,” a voice drawled from the doorway.

Every head snapped around.

Cesar leaned against the doorframe in his black Crawl Venom warm-up jacket, a couple of his boys behind him, all in matching colors and smug expressions. It was almost funny how quickly the whole vibe changed; the Iron Dragons’ shoulders stiffened, jaws clenched, backs straightened. School rivalries were one thing. Dojo rivalries were war.

“What are you doing here?” Joel asked, already feeling the heat climb into his face.

“Oh, I just came to check on the competition,” Cesar said. “See if the rumor was true.”

“What rumor?” Devin asked before Joel could stop him.

“That your sensei’s out,” Cesar said, glancing around the room with theatrical pity. “Looks like it was true. Guess someone finally got tired of babysitting losers.”

“Relax,” Malik muttered to Joel. “It’s not worth it.”

“Oh, he’s not gonna do anything,” Cesar said, smirking. “He had his chance at the tournament. I obliterated you in front of the whole school, remember?”

Joel took a step forward despite himself. “Say it again,” he said quietly.

Cesar grinned wider. “What, ‘obliterated’ too big a word for you? You want me to dumb it down?”

Joel’s fists clenched. Every part of him screamed to launch at Cesar, to wipe that smirk off his face, to prove that the Joel who’d choked in the finals was not the only version of him.

“I will take on this entire team at once,” Joel said.

Oh, that came out louder than he intended.

Cesar laughed. His boys laughed with him like a backing track.

“Oh yeah?” Cesar said. “I’d like to see you try, Joel.”

“Joel,” Malik said sharply. “Don’t. He’ll get you expelled if this turns into a real fight. Out on the street, whatever. But here? This is still part of school. There’s cameras.”

Joel hesitated. He could feel every pair of eyes on him—his own teammates, his rivals, the kids walking past the glass front on their way home from Jefferson High just across the parking lot.

“You’re a joke,” Cesar said finally, pushing off the doorframe. “Y’all are. A sad, washed-up joke.”

He tilted his chin at his crew. “Let’s roll, fellas. These softies aren’t even worth our time.”

They walked out, their laughter echoing down the strip mall corridor.

“I can’t stand those guys,” Devin said, punching a heavy bag so hard it swung crooked. “We need to teach them a lesson.”

“And how do we do that?” Malik asked. “We don’t even have a coach.”

“We beat them at the next tournament,” Joel said. He could still feel Cesar’s breath on his face. “Sensei or no sensei, we keep training. We meet here same time tomorrow. Crawl Venom’s gonna wish they never messed with Iron Dragons.”

He said it with all the fire he had left.

But that night, lying in bed in his small room with the humming fan and posters of UFC fighters on the walls, it was Rico’s voice that replayed in his head.

What a joke.

The next afternoon, the Iron Dragons trained alone.

They propped a board up on cinder blocks like they’d seen Rico do a thousand times. Joel inhaled, set his stance, threw his heel down.

The board stayed intact. His foot screamed.

“I can’t do it,” he hissed, hopping back.

“Same,” Devin said, trying and failing to execute a clean spinning back kick against a heavy bag. His heel hit, but the impact sounded weak. “I feel… off. Like my body’s heavy.”

“You guys aren’t kicking hard enough,” Malik said, but even his roundhouse looked sluggish.

“That’s not it,” Joel said, shaking his aching foot. “We’re not focused. Power without focus is useless. Sensei Rico was right about that much.”

“Look at you,” Ryan said. “Dropping Sensei quotes after he abandoned us.”

Joel glared. “He didn’t abandon us. He just… walked away. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, big difference, Joel,” Ryan said dryly. “Feels awesome either way.”

The front door chime jingled.

All four of them turned.

A man stood in the doorway. He looked like he’d walked out of another era—a simple gray gi, white hair pulled back into a low knot, face lined in a way that suggested both years and discipline. His posture was ramrod straight, his eyes sharp.

“Can we help you?” Malik asked cautiously.

“More like,” the man said calmly, “I can help you.”

Joel exchanged a look with his team. “If you’re looking for Sensei Rico,” he started, “he quit.”

The old man turned his gaze to the faded flyer still taped to the front window: SEEKING NEW SENSEI – EXPERIENCED COACH NEEDED – IRON DRAGONS DOJO – CALL OR STOP BY.

“The universe sent me,” the man said simply.

“The universe,” Ryan muttered under his breath. “Great. We’re dealing with a fortune cookie.”

“I can sense the frustration in this room,” the old man went on. “The desire to win. To change your story. That starts here.” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “Karate starts here. Success comes from within.”

Joel tried not to make a face. It sounded like a Pinterest quote.

“So… you’re our new sensei?” Devin whispered.

“He’s so old,” Ryan whispered back. “Old people don’t kick. They just complain about Netflix.”

“Old body,” the man said, and for a second Joel wondered if he could hear their thoughts. “Wise mind. Martial arts is not about young muscles. It is about discipline. Focus. Control.”

He clapped his hands once, sharply. “Everybody. Sit.”

“For what?” Malik asked.

“First lesson,” the man said.

They exchanged looks again. But sitting at least wasn’t going to break any bones, so they all dropped onto the mat.

“Close your eyes,” the sensei said, lowering himself gracefully to the floor in front of them. “Cross your legs. Hands on your knees.”

“Are we doing yoga right now?” Ryan whispered. “Dude, I signed up for punching, not pilates.”

“How is this supposed to help us with karate?” Devin asked.

The old man didn’t respond. His breathing slowed, deep and steady. For a terrifying second, Joel thought he’d died.

“Is he asleep?” Ryan mouthed.

“This is ridiculous,” Joel said out loud, opening his eyes. “You said our breathing is why we couldn’t break the board. Earlier you said it was our focus. So which one is it?”

“It all goes together,” the old man said without opening his eyes. “Breath. Focus. Body. You cannot separate them and expect strength.”

“Whatever, old man,” Joel snapped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He stood. His team followed like dominoes.

“I’m out of here,” Ryan said. “Me too,” Devin added quickly. “Good luck with your… meditation club.”

“Guys,” Malik said to Joel. “We can just train at my house until we find a real dojo. We don’t need some Star Wars–Karate Kid mashup trying to teach us. This dude thinks he’s Mr. Miyagi or Yoda.”

They grabbed their bags and headed toward the door.

“Well, well, well,” a voice drawled from outside. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Cesar.

He and two Crawl Venom guys blocked the entrance, leaning against the brick wall like they owned the entire strip mall.

“What do you guys want?” Joel asked, exhaustion turning his voice flat.

“How about… everything you got?” Cesar said, pushing off the wall, stepping inside. “Your ego. Your hope. Your lunch money. Take your pick.”

“Yeah, right,” Devin said, trying to sound tough even as his heart pounded. “You don’t want to mess with us. We’re all trained fighters.”

Cesar laughed. “No, seriously, guys. We’re scared.” His sarcasm stung more than a punch. “What do you know—karate or something?”

He nodded at his boy, who cracked his knuckles.

“Let’s see what those little kicks do against this.”

He shoved Joel’s shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble.

“Hey, we don’t want any trouble,” Malik said quickly.

“It’s a little late for that, huh?” Cesar said. “This is our mall now.”

“Just leave us alone,” Devin muttered.

A quiet voice cut through the tension.

“Let them be.”

All eyes turned to the back of the dojo.

The old man had risen silently. He walked toward them, barefoot, completely calm, his gi swaying softly with each step.

“What, old man?” Cesar said. “You gonna sage the place?”

“Leave,” the sensei said simply.

Cesar snorted. “You know what the nerve is on Gramps?” he said to his crew. “Let’s educate him.”

He took a step toward the old man, swinging a lazy punch like he wanted to make a point, not a real injury.

The old man moved.

Joel barely saw it. One instant, Cesar’s fist was in the air. The next, his wrist was caught, twisted. His feet left the ground. His back hit the mat with a thud that knocked the air out of him.

The Crawl Venom boys lunged. The old man pivoted, foot sweeping, hand striking. In three seconds flat, both of them were on the floor groaning, their arms pinned in angles that made Joel’s joints ache in sympathy.

The old man let them go and stepped back.

“Leave,” he repeated.

Cesar scrambled up, face bright red, eyes blazing. For a second, Joel thought he would actually go for it again. Then he glanced at his boys, at the old man still standing steady, and at the open front window where anyone from school could be recording this.

“Forget this guy,” Cesar muttered. “Let’s get out of here.”

They left in a rush of curses and squeaking sneakers.

Joel exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Whoa,” he said. “That was… amazing. How did you do that?”

“Practice,” the old man said.

“Can you teach us stuff like that?” Devin blurted.

“5 a.m. at the dojo,” the sensei said. “Tomorrow.”

“What?” Ryan, who’d crept back in to grab his jacket, squeaked. “That’s so early.”

But Joel wasn’t thinking about alarms or homework. He was thinking about the way the old man had moved—fast, precise, effortless. He was thinking about Cameron’s photo in the office. He was thinking about the next tournament and Cesar’s grin and the word joke.

“We’ll be here,” Joel said.

He expected the sensei to nod in approval, to quote some proverb. Instead, the old man just said, “We’ll see,” and walked away.

They almost overslept.

By 5:10 a.m., the sun was barely a pink smear over the San Fernando Valley hills. The strip mall parking lot was empty except for Joel’s beat-up hatchback and Malik’s mom’s minivan. Inside the dojo, it was cooler than usual, the air smelling faintly of incense.

“Would you expect him to actually be here?” Ryan muttered as they walked in. “He’s probably still asleep like a normal old person.”

“Get those books,” the sensei’s voice said calmly from the back.

Four hardcovers sat stacked near the wall.

“What are we doing?” Devin asked, picking one up.

“You will see,” the sensei said. “Put one book on your head. Balance. Walk.”

“Why’d you do that yesterday?” Ryan grumbled as his book slipped off and thudded to the floor. “We’re gonna look stupid.”

“Balance the books, all of you,” the sensei repeated.

They tried. They failed. They tried again.

“What’s the point of this?” Malik huffed, chasing his book across the mat.

“I don’t know,” Joel said, adjusting the one on his head. “But let’s just give it a chance.”

“Good,” the sensei said at last. “Now. Practice your stance. Ready stance. Hands on your hips.”

They obeyed.

“Front stance,” he said. “Deep. Solid. Strong.”

He walked among them, tapping feet further apart, nudging knees into place. “Control your breathing,” he murmured. “Focus. Move forward.”

He clapped a hand on Joel’s shoulder, pushing him gently. Joel’s feet wobbled. The book slid off his head and hit the mat.

“Again,” the sensei said.

“This is impossible,” Ryan said. “When are we gonna learn how to fight? I thought you were gonna teach us the stuff you did last evening. Not this boring crap.”

“You work on your mind first,” the old man said. “Practice your balance. Your focus. You have ten minutes to perfect your stance.”

“I knew it was a bad idea coming back here,” Devin muttered. “Yeah, I agree,” Ryan said. “Should we just go? I need to get some sleep. I can’t be out here doing book yoga.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Devin said.

They grabbed their gear and left. Again.

Joel watched them go, torn. Part of him wanted to follow. Another part remembered Cesar on his back, gasping for air.

“I’ll stick around,” he said.

“Good,” the sensei said. “Pick up your book.”

They worked in silence until the first period bell rang at Jefferson High across the parking lot.

By lunchtime, word had spread: the Iron Dragons were being trained by “some ancient Yoda dude.” By seventh period, everyone had also heard that Crawl Venom had posted a TikTok of Cesar using a punching bag as a prop while lip-syncing “Another One Bites the Dust.” The caption: “Third year in a row. Some things never change. #VenomNation.”

That afternoon, the Iron Dragons tried to train in Joel’s backyard.

“I don’t know why,” Joel said, landing a sloppy roundhouse on the makeshift heavy bag hanging from a tree branch, “I’m just not feeling it today.”

“I can’t train without a mirror,” Ryan said. “I need to see how good I look.”

“We need a proper dojo,” Devin agreed. “Not… this.”

“Well, unless you guys want to go back to Mr. Miyota,” Malik said, “we don’t really have—”

“You know,” a familiar voice cut in, “I didn’t think you guys could get any worse.”

They turned. Crawl Venom, again. Past the low fence, in the alley behind Joel’s house.

“Yet here we are,” Cesar said, climbing over the fence with that same snake grin. “Practicing in a backyard like some off-brand karate kids.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” Joel said, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounded. “Just wait until the next tournament when I embarrass you.”

“Okay, tough guy,” Cesar said. “So I guess you wouldn’t mind a quick spar then? One-on-one. Right now.”

Joel’s heart rattled against his ribs. He glanced at Malik, at Ryan, at Devin.

“Bring it,” he said.

“Joel, what are you doing?” Malik hissed. “Are you crazy?”

“I got this,” Joel said, stepping forward, hands shaking only a little. “I need this.”

They squared up on the patch of grass. It was uneven and slightly damp, but that didn’t matter anymore. The world shrank to Cesar’s feet, Cesar’s hands, Cesar’s eyes.

“Watch his feet,” Malik whispered. “Focus.”

Joel inhaled. He remembered the sensei’s voice: karate starts here. Success comes from within.

“Fight!” Devin yelled, because someone had to.

Cesar moved first. A feint with his hands, a low sweep with his leg. Joel jumped. Too slow. Cesar’s foot clipped his ankle and he hit the ground.

“Come on!” Cesar taunted. “You done already?”

Joel scrambled up, launched a kick. Cesar blocked and countered with a flurry of strikes that made Joel’s forearms throb.

He wasn’t in a tournament now. There was no referee, no point system, no scoreboard. Just pain and pride.

“Joel!” Malik shouted. “Watch his shoulders!”

But Joel’s focus slipped, sweat in his eyes. Cesar’s roundhouse caught his ribs like a baseball bat. He stumbled, dropping to one knee.

“Crawl Venom,” one of Cesar’s boys called. “Go for the kill!”

Cesar chambered his leg, lining up a kick that wouldn’t just earn points. It would send Joel to the ER.

“No!” Malik yelled, stepping forward.

Before the kick could land, a hand appeared out of nowhere and caught Cesar’s ankle mid-strike.

The owner of the hand stepped between them, solid as a wall.

Cameron Seagal.

Joel knew his face before his brain could process it. The jawline from the photo on Rico’s wall, a little older now, a faint scar along his eyebrow. The guy who’d once kicked three boards at once at a halftime show in this very high school. The legend.

“What’s going on here?” Cameron asked calmly.

“Nothing,” Cesar said, backing up, trying to mask his surprise. “Just a friendly karate spar.”

“Didn’t look friendly to me,” Cameron said. “Now get out of here.”

Cesar hesitated. Then he saw the way Cameron was standing—relaxed, but ready. He cursed under his breath.

“You won’t get so lucky next time,” Cesar spat at Joel. “This ain’t over.”

“Let’s roll, boys,” he said, climbing back over the fence.

When they were gone, the backyard seemed to exhale.

“Thank you,” Joel said, clutching his side. “I was just about to take him down. Right, guys?”

“Maybe not,” Malik said dryly.

“Thanks for saving us,” Devin said.

“You guys study at the Iron Dragons?” Cameron asked.

“We used to,” Ryan said. “We don’t really… have a sensei anymore.”

“I heard,” Cameron said, expression flickering. “Why’d you stop?”

“We need someone to train us,” Joel said. “So we can take down Crawl Venom at the upcoming tournament. You saw them. They’re monsters.”

“Why don’t you train us?” Ryan blurted. “You’re like… a legend. Iron Dragons would be back on top in no time.”

“Please,” Devin said. “We’ll do whatever you say. No questions asked. Well, a few questions. But mostly obedience.”

Cameron smiled sadly. “I appreciate it,” he said. “But my fighting days are behind me. I’ve got a job now. Responsibilities. My knees sound like Rice Krispies.”

Their faces fell.

“But,” Cameron added, “I know someone who can help.”

“Really?” Joel asked. “Who?”

“The sensei who taught me everything I know,” Cameron said.

Silence.

“No way,” Ryan said when the name hit him. “Mr. Miyota? That old dude?”

“He’s the guy who trained you?” Joel asked.

“Sensei Miyota is the reason Iron Dragons ever won anything,” Cameron said. “Rico didn’t talk about him much because, well, ego. But everything I know—my breathing, my balance, my kicks—it started with him.”

“Wait,” Devin said slowly. “So… you had to do all that crazy stuff too? Like breathing exercises, yoga, balancing books on your head?”

“Oh yeah,” Cameron said. “And I hated it as much as you do. But then I realized he was right. Success starts from within. If your mind is mush, your kicks will be, too.”

Joel stared, the puzzle pieces sliding into place. The meditation. The books. The weird phrases that sounded like fortune cookies but maybe weren’t.

“Guess sensei isn’t so crazy after all,” Malik said quietly.

“He’s the real GOAT,” Cameron said simply. “If you guys want a chance to win, you’ve got to give him a chance.”

He clapped Joel on the shoulder. “Good luck, Iron Dragons.”

“Thanks, Cameron,” Joel said. “For… everything.”

Cameron jogged toward the alley, then turned back.

“Oh, and boys?” he called.

“Yeah?” Ryan said.

“Time to do some yoga,” Cameron said, grinning.

Ryan groaned. “Yoga on three,” Devin muttered. “One, two, three—yoga,” they all said half-heartedly.

But when they showed up at the dojo the next morning at 5 a.m., they didn’t complain when Sensei Miyota told them to sit. They closed their eyes. They tried to breathe. They let his voice guide them.

Day after day, they kept coming back.

They balanced books until their necks screamed. They held stances until their thighs shook. They watched themselves in the mirror, fixing their posture, their guard, the angle of their kicks.

Sensei Miyota corrected them, sometimes with a word, sometimes with just a small touch. “Lower your stance, Joel. Again. Breathe, Malik. You hold your breath when you’re afraid. Don’t. Ryan, your ego is standing in front of your kick. Move it. Devin, stop looking at your reflection and start looking at your opponent.”

Weeks blurred into each other.

After school, while Crawl Venom filmed highlight reels for TikTok in their flashy downtown studio with LED lights and a smoothie bar, Iron Dragons drilled basics in their plain strip mall dojo. While their classmates in LA hoodies and Dodgers caps hung out at In-N-Out, they practiced 360 back kicks until the room spun.

Some nights, Joel lay in bed so sore he could barely reach for his phone. But he also felt something else inside him, something heavy and solid and alive.

Control.

By the time the next tournament rolled around—hosted at Jefferson High again, banners for the Los Angeles County Youth Karate Championships hanging from the rafters—the Iron Dragons walked into the gym differently.

Crawl Venom noticed.

“So,” Cesar said when they crossed paths near the locker rooms, “I see you’re ready to lose again.”

“Yeah,” Joel said. “About that? You might want to eat your words. While you still have teeth.”

“Oh?” Cesar sneered. “You had a glow-up? Got yourself a little yoga membership?”

“Something like that,” Joel said.

Cesar looked him up and down. “Look for Papa,” he smirked. “You’re gonna need him.”

The boys stepped onto the mat for the final match as the whole school watched. Teachers. Parents. Kids in letterman jackets. Girls with glitter signs. The principal in his Jefferson Jaguars polo. A local reporter from a small LA online paper, snapping photos with a big camera.

“Gentlemen, to your marks,” the ref said.

Joel and Cesar walked to the center. They faced the ref. They bowed. They faced each other. They bowed again.

“Fighting stance,” the ref said.

Joel settled into his stance, feet planted, breath steady. He could feel Sensei Miyota’s eyes on his back. Cameron’s, too. Somewhere in the stands, he knew Rico was watching, arms folded, pretending he didn’t care.

“Begin!” the ref shouted.

Cesar exploded forward. His speed was still there, his power still dangerous. But this time, Joel saw more than just fists and feet. He saw patterns. Weight shifts. Tells.

Cesar threw a jab. Joel slipped it.

Cesar pivoted into a kick. Joel blocked, exhaling on impact, letting the force travel through his body instead of absorbing it like a punch to the gut.

The crowd roared. “Let’s go, Joel!” someone shouted. “Iron Dragons!” another voice answered.

Cesar scored the first point with a sneaky backfist. Joel stayed calm. They reset.

Second exchange. Joel breathed in, breathed out, stepped. His roundhouse snapped at just the right moment, his heel connecting with Cesar’s side.

“Point—Joel!” the ref called.

The scoreboard ticked: 1–1.

The tension in the gym thickened, humming like power lines.

They reset again.

Cesar’s eyes narrowed. “No more Mr. Nice Guy,” he whispered.

He came in harder. Faster. A spinning kick Joel barely ducked. A sweep he jumped. A feint into a straight punch that caught Joel’s chest and knocked him back a step.

“Point—Cesar! 2–1!”

Joel’s ribs burned; every breath hurt. He tried not to think about Cameron’s story, about grenades and sacrifice and promises. He tried not to think about Rico calling him a joke.

He thought about books on his head. About early mornings. About the way his body had changed with each stance, each held plank, each frustration.

Cesar blitzed again. Somehow, Joel found himself on the mat, tasting sweat and rubber. The ref’s whistle shrilled in his ears.

“Back to your spots!” the ref shouted.

Joel staggered to his feet.

“Go to your sensei,” the ref murmured, nodding toward the edge of the mat.

Joel walked to the boundary where Sensei Miyota stood.

“He’s too good,” Joel said under his breath. “How am I supposed to beat him? I can’t—”

“You already know how,” the sensei said quietly. “You’ve been practicing for months. But right now, your mind is telling your body it has already lost.” His eyes met Joel’s. “Karate starts here.” He tapped Joel’s forehead. “Success comes from within. Or failure. Which one will you bring back to that mat?”

Joel swallowed.

“I’m scared,” he admitted.

“That means you respect your opponent,” the sensei said. “Good. But do not confuse fear with surrender. Breathe. Feel your feet on the ground. Remember everything we’ve done. You do not need to be Cameron. You just need to be Joel. The Joel who shows up at 5 a.m. The Joel who stayed when others left.”

The ref called, “To your lines!”

Joel jogged back to center. Cesar smirked.

“Your little yoga moves aren’t gonna save you now,” Cesar said. “You’re done.”

“Fight!” the ref shouted.

Time slowed.

Cesar stepped forward. Joel saw it: the way his weight shifted a half-second before his hips, the faint tightening of his shoulder before a punch, the circular windup in his torso before a spin.

Joel inhaled.

He baited a kick with a small opening, then pivoted out of range. Cesar overcommitted, just a little. Enough.

Joel’s body moved before his brain had time to question it.

He turned, chambered his leg, felt his core tighten, his vision steady. The 360 back kick wasn’t a move anymore. It was reflex. A sculpture carved out of hours of failure and tiny corrections.

His heel connected with Cesar’s chest flush.

The impact sounded like a clap of thunder in the gym.

“OOOOH!” the crowd screamed as Cesar flew backward, air exploding out of his lungs, crashing onto the mat.

For a split second, everything went silent in Joel’s head. Then—

“Point—Joel!” the ref yelled, raising his arm. “3–2! Match!”

The Jefferson High gym erupted.

“IRON DRAGONS! IRON DRAGONS!” The chant rolled like a tide, washing over Joel as his teammates swarmed him.

“Dude!” Malik yelled, tackling him in a hug. “That was next-level amazing!”

“You’re the GOAT, man!” Devin shouted. “Did you see his face? He looked like someone unplugged him!”

Ryan grabbed Joel’s shoulders, shaking him. “That was literally a Cameron-level kick. No—better. That was you.”

Across the mat, Cesar sat up slowly, clutching his chest, eyes dazed. The Crawl Venom kids stood in stunned silence, their neon banners suddenly looking cheap.

On the sidelines, Sensei Miyota smiled, lines crinkling around his eyes.

“Sensei,” Joel said when he could fight his way through the crowd, “thank you. For everything. We couldn’t have done this without you.”

“It was always inside you,” the old man said simply. “I just helped you find it.”

Someone tapped Joel’s shoulder.

Rico.

He looked smaller standing there without his anger, without his power. Just a man in a worn-out polo with the Iron Dragons logo on the chest, hands in his pockets.

“You guys were amazing,” he said gruffly. “I was thinking… maybe we could train again. I’ve been working on some new combos I want to run by you—”

“We’re okay,” Joel said gently. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

Ryan stepped in. “Yeah, maybe you should go train Crawl Venom,” he said. “They look like they need a new sensei.”

“Coach, come on,” one of the Crawl Venom kids whined. “We’re not that bad—”

Rico’s face flushed. “You’re really gonna—”

But then he saw Sensei Miyota standing by the bleachers, Cameron beside him, both watching silently.

Rico exhaled. “Guess they picked the right sensei this time,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

On the podium, the announcer’s voice boomed through the mic. “Congratulations, Iron Dragons! County champions!”

They climbed the steps, medals placed around their necks, trophy hoisted high for the entire Jefferson High gym to see. Phones flashed. Social media flooded. For the rest of the week, the tiny slice of American internet that cared about youth karate in LA buzzed: “Old-school dojo knocks off favorites,” “Underdogs rise,” “New legends in the making.”

After the ceremony, as most of the crowd poured out toward the parking lot, Sensei Miyota gathered his team in the center of the now-quiet mat.

“Are we going to go have lunch?” Devin asked, rubbing his stomach. “Because I’m starving and victory fries hit different.”

“Yes,” the sensei said. “We will eat. We will celebrate. And then tomorrow at 5 a.m.?”

They groaned in unison.

“Karate starts here,” he said, tapping his temple. “Success comes from within. But it is maintained on the mat. In your choices. In your discipline. Remember that.”

Joel looked around at his friends—his team. Malik with sweat still drying in his hair. Ryan already plotting Instagram captions. Devin humming the theme song to some martial-arts anime.

He thought about the first day Sensei Rico had called him a joke. The first moment he’d seen Sensei Miyota wobbling between crazy and wise. The backyard fight. Cameron stepping in. The thousand tiny decisions that had led to this trophy in his hands.

He realized something.

Rival gangs, rival dojos, rival schools—the noise would always be there. This was America, after all. High school hallways would never stop whispering. LA strip malls would never stop filling with new gyms and new teams and new Venoms.

But inside, where it mattered most, he’d found something that no rival could take.

Focus. Respect. A kind of strength that didn’t disappear when the crowds stopped chanting.

He tightened his grip on the trophy.

Iron Dragons weren’t a joke anymore.

And the next time Crawl Venom wanted to face off in school, they’d better remember one thing:

They weren’t just fighting kicks and punches.

They were fighting an old man’s wisdom, a brotherhood’s sweat, and a team that had finally learned where real power starts.

Right here.