He pointed toward the mat.
“One minute.”
Jerome stared at him.
“No.”
Derek walked closer.
“You don't even have to win.”
“No.”
“Just stand up.”
“No.”
Derek's voice became louder.
“What's wrong with you?”
Jerome looked around the room.
Then he said quietly:
“Nothing.”
Derek's frustration boiled over.
“You're scared.”
Jerome sighed.
“I've told you no.”
Derek grabbed the mop.
This time he didn't throw it.
He held it out.
“Fight me.”
Jerome looked at the mop.
Then at Derek.
Finally, he placed the spray bottle on the cart.
He walked onto the edge of the training floor.
The students raised their phones.
Derek smiled.
“Finally.”
Jerome took off his work shoes.
He stepped onto the mat.
Derek's smile grew.
But something about Jerome's posture bothered him.
The shoulders were relaxed.
The chin was slightly lowered.
The feet were positioned naturally.
No wasted movement.
No nervousness.
No hesitation.
Derek had seen that posture before.
He just couldn't remember where.
“Ready?” Derek asked.
Jerome nodded.
Derek raised his fists.
Jerome did not.
Derek laughed.
“You're not even going to guard?”
Jerome said quietly:
“I don't need to.”
The room went silent.
Derek attacked.
The Lesson Nobody Expected
Derek moved quickly.
His first punch was a straight right.
Jerome stepped aside.
That was all.
Derek's fist passed through empty air.
He turned.
Threw a left hook.
Jerome moved again.
One step.
Nothing more.
The students began murmuring.
Derek attacked faster.
Right.
Left.
Front kick.
Low kick.
Another punch.
Jerome avoided everything.
He didn't counter.
He didn't strike.
He simply moved.
Derek became frustrated.
“Stop running!”
Jerome answered calmly.
“You asked me to fight.”
Derek charged.
Jerome stepped forward.
That was the first mistake Derek made.
He thought Jerome was moving into range.
Instead, Jerome entered the space beneath Derek's attack.
One hand touched Derek's elbow.
The other touched his shoulder.
Jerome turned.
Derek's balance disappeared.
He hit the mat.
Hard.
The room gasped.
Jerome immediately stepped back.
Derek jumped up.
His face was burning.
“You got lucky.”
Jerome said nothing.
Derek attacked again.
This time Jerome caught his wrist.
A short turn.
A shift of the hips.
Derek's arm was pinned behind him.
He dropped to one knee.
Jerome released him.
Derek stood.
Nobody laughed now.
He attacked a third time.
And a fourth.
Every time, Jerome redirected him.
Never striking.
Never hurting him.
Never showing anger.
Within forty seconds, Derek was breathing heavily.
Jerome wasn't.
That was what frightened the students.
Jerome wasn't even breathing hard.
He looked like a man waiting for a bus.
Derek finally stopped.
“Who taught you?”
Jerome didn't answer.
Derek's eyes narrowed.
“You've trained before.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
Jerome looked toward the wall clock.
“Long enough.”
Derek stepped forward.
“You're hiding something.”
“No.”
“You think you're better than me.”
“No.”
“Then fight me.”
Jerome looked at him.
“You're still not listening.”
Before Derek could respond, the academy's front doors opened.
Everyone turned.
Walter Griffin walked inside.
The sixty-one-year-old owner was carrying a duffel bag.
His gray hair was damp from the rain.
He stopped immediately.
His eyes moved across the room.
Derek stood in the center.
Jerome stood opposite him.
Several students held phones.
The mop was lying beside the wall.
Walter's face became completely still.
“Jerome?”
Jerome turned.
“Yes, sir.”
Walter slowly walked onto the mat.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
Walter looked at Derek.
“Are you?”
Derek nodded.
“Yeah.”
Walter's eyes moved toward the scattered equipment.
“What happened?”
Nobody answered.
Finally, one student said:
“Derek challenged Jerome.”
Walter looked at Jerome.
Jerome lowered his head.
“I told him no.”
Walter nodded.
“How many times?”
“Several.”
Walter's jaw tightened.
Then he looked at Derek.
“You ignored him?”
Derek crossed his arms.
“It was a joke.”
Walter stared at him.
“No.”
Derek frowned.
“What?”
“It wasn't.”
Walter walked toward Jerome.
Then something happened that nobody expected.
Walter Griffin stopped directly in front of Jerome.
He bowed.
Not casually.
Not symbolically.
He bowed deeply.
The entire training hall went silent.
Derek stared.
One of the students lowered his phone.
Another whispered:
“What the hell?”
Walter straightened.
Then he said:
“Fifth Dan.”
Derek blinked.
Walter looked at the students.
“Jerome Fisher is a fifth-degree black belt in Shotokan karate.”
Silence.
Derek looked at Jerome.
“No.”
Walter nodded.
“Yes.”
He walked toward the framed photographs on the wall.
“You see this?”
He pointed.
The students followed.
Walter took down an old photograph.
He wiped dust from the frame.
“This was taken fourteen years ago.”
He held it up.
Several young martial artists stood together.
Walter pointed toward one man.
“That's Jerome.”
Derek stared.
The photograph showed Jerome at twenty-eight.
His black belt was visible.
Walter continued.
“He was one of the best technicians I ever trained with.”