"So you're saying you want us to formally become your disciples?"
Maya cut straight to the point.
"No, no—I'm just going to teach you a few things. Whatever you do, don't call me Shifu." Stick waved his hand in sharp refusal.
"Then you want us to do something for you?"
"Something like that—I might call in a small favor here and there, down the road. But don't read too much into it. I'm not hiring muscle." He paused. "You clearly know how to cook Chinese food, so you must know something about Chinese culture. I can see you two have the makings of something real, and I'd hate to watch your gifts go to waste. Of course, little girl—your abilities are already stronger than mine. Whether you want to learn from me is entirely your call."
Nine-tenths of what Stick said was true, and one-tenth was a lie. His original purpose had been Matt—he'd wanted to plant a chess piece in New York, someone to prepare for when Black Sky eventually arrived—and running into Maya had been pure chance. But now, somehow, she had become the main point of the conversation, with Matt reduced to an afterthought.
If Maya had been an ordinary girl who'd stumbled into her powers, she probably would have trusted this blind old man on the spot. But she wasn't. Setting aside what she knew from the original storyline, the information Stick had just let slip was enough: someone who'd been watching them for weeks—did he truly want absolutely nothing from them?
"You already know what I can do," Maya said, letting just a touch of arrogance color her voice. "So what could you possibly teach me? Chinese kung fu? Child's play."
Stick didn't take the bait. He smacked his lips a few times, almost cheerfully. "Hehe—little girl, sure, your abilities are impressive. But do you want to know why I'm not even slightly surprised by them?"
He didn't wait for an answer. "Because in my lifetime, I've seen too many strange powers. Many people have had abilities far beyond yours. This world is genuinely a mess—its capacity for weirdness is staggering. Magic, vital energy, superpowers, sorcery, dark arts, divine force—every bizarre ability you can imagine, and plenty you can't. But there's one ability that can only be passed down and accumulated through generations. You can't suddenly receive it. It can't be stripped away from you." He paused. "That's hand-to-hand killing arts. What do you say—want to try a round?"
Maya thought for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. But fair warning: my perception is sharp. You won't make a move I don't see coming."
She wanted to test what Stick was really capable of. Telling him her hand was worth the information she'd get back.
"Little girl—mind if I call you Maya?" His expression shifted, going grave. "I'm afraid I have some bad news: my perception is also quite sharp."
He set down his chopsticks, picked up his blind man's staff, and moved with deliberate stillness to one side of the pavilion.
Maya matched him—equally serious—stepping to the opposite side. Matt was left to sit in baffled silence next to the hotpot in the corner.
The rooftop pavilion was a square, eight meters to a side—64 square meters (roughly 690 square feet). They stood five meters (~16 feet) apart. Maya didn't bother worrying about whether Stick could see her; she clasped her hands in a formal martial greeting and said, "I'm coming."
Stick nodded.
Maya launched forward. Her right hand drove a Cannon Fist straight for Stick's chest.
Stick didn't dodge. His left palm rose as if he'd read the move before it was made, catching Maya's right elbow from beneath—and with that single deflection, her powerful, well-aimed punch slid harmlessly past his left shoulder. Before Maya could pull back her right arm, Stick's left palm transformed into a claw, locking onto her wrist like iron. Using their point of contact as an axis, he pivoted a half-turn to slip her next left punch—and drove his left elbow at her head.
Maya read it coming. She ducked.
Stick stopped the elbow dead.
The hand gripping Maya's wrist wrenched.
Thud.
She hit the floor flat. A perfect over-the-shoulder throw.
All of that sounds slow in the telling. In reality, the whole exchange took under two seconds—swift and done, over before Matt had even begun to process that something was happening—and he found Madam President already on the floor.
When he felt Maya stop struggling, Stick released her. "Honestly? Your reaction speed is excellent—faster than mine. But you're putting in ten out of ten with every single motion. Not in terms of force, but in terms of commitment. Your moves don't flow together. You patch each hole as it opens. I grab your right hand, you throw your left fist. I go for your head, you dodge your head. That's reactive fighting. Against an ordinary person, you're an unstoppable killer. Against a skilled fighter, you're easy prey."
He raised a hand to cut off her objection before it started. "I know you have other abilities. Right then, you could have snapped the rope at your hip and hit me, or taken control of my shadow. But what if I had powers too? What if I could drain your strength through touch? What if I had razor claws? What if my willpower was strong enough to resist your techniques?"
"The point is: every power has a weakness. Don't leave yourself obvious blind spots—because your enemies' abilities will be just as strange and varied as yours."
"Let's go back to what just happened. When I caught your right wrist—instead of throwing your left fist, you could have driven your right shoulder hard into my chest. That breaks my grip and forces me to shift position. And when I came at your head with my elbow—instead of ducking, drive your left knee into my left kidney. Either we both take damage, or I'm forced to pull back."
Maya's expression had gone thoughtful. Stick brought it home.
"Chinese kung fu may look like empty showmanship—but that's exactly what its true masters use to defeat ten thousand opponents. Because kung fu's essence was never about the movements. It's about the mind. Ten thousand techniques, a thousand theories—they all live in the heart."
Maya and Matt exchanged a look.
Two pairs of eyes, equally blank—identical question marks might as well have been floating above both their heads.
"Aiya—foreigners are really something. Say anything remotely profound and they glaze over." Stick muttered in Mandarin.
Maya's face went flat. "Well, Shifu," she replied, in equally clear Mandarin, "your Mandarin isn't even as standard as mine—so who's doing the posturing here?"
"—Huh. You actually speak Chinese?"
An awkward beat.
Then Stick's expression changed entirely. "Wait—hold on. What did you just call me? I said, I'm not taking disciples. I only want to—"
"See that we have exceptional gifts," Maya cut in smoothly, "and so you've decided to take us on. Right, Shifu? No need to deny it—you already ate our discipleship feast tonight. Don't go back on your word now."
Stick: I was just planning to spend a little effort, maneuver these two promising kids into my orbit—plant a pair of chess pieces in New York for possible future use. So why does it feel like I'm the one who just got played?
Before Stick could recover, Maya had already grabbed Matt by the sleeve and whispered two words: "Do as I do."
Then, without giving Stick another second to react, she dropped to her knees—bang, bang, bang—three full, resounding kowtows to the floor. Matt, who trusted Maya completely without knowing why, followed suit: three solid bows in quick succession, forehead to ground.
By the time Stick figured out what was happening, it was too late to stop it. He stood in silence for a long moment, then muttered helplessly to himself: "...This little girl is too sharp. Fine. I've had enough time to read their characters—I think K'un-Lun would find this acceptable. Probably."
He sensed both pairs of eyes watching him from the floor and straightened up. When he spoke again, his voice carried a new gravity.
"Since you've both chosen to take me as your master—there are things that need to be made clear."