A soft breeze rustled through Apollo's hair, the wind chilly and oppressive. A white mist escaped his lips with every exhale. Sweat pooled beneath him in buckets. His lean body stood in front of an old tree, shirtless—his solid abs exposed to the cold, a small shiver trailing down his back.
It was six in the morning. The sun's rays barely pierced the dense jungle, most of the light swallowed by thick foliage. Only scattered beams managed to trickle through.
One ray landed directly on Apollo's figure, casting him in a golden glow that brought a hint of comfort to the morning chill. Yet the man at the center of it all had his mind churning in a completely different direction.
He landed another kick against the tree bark, his leg moving in tight synchronization. His face grimaced.
"Just how am I supposed to combine every kick with Jichang's technique?"
His thoughts drifted back—two days ago, to the same dojo where his sensei had answered a question that had gnawed at him for weeks.
How do I become stronger?
Hansu's answer had been direct. "Your first priority," he had said, pointing at Apollo, "should be working on your technique."
He paced around the dojo, arms resting on his hips. "You have the copy talent. As outrageous as it sounds, you do. Yet when you use others' moves, it's like you're just borrowing them—piecemeal attacks, not a flowing style."
He stopped in front of Apollo. In one swift motion, he was close—eye to eye.
"I want you to create your own fighting style. The only reason your copying works so well is because of your talent—immense talent." He raised a finger. "But once you tailor every technique to your body, your rhythm... that's when you'll be a true genius, Apollo."
Apollo had lifted his head, the words igniting something in his chest.
Combine styles... to make my own?
The thought warmed him from the inside out.
This... this—I'm really living in a fighting manhwa.
His heart thumped in excitement.
Thump-thump-thump.
His fists clenched by his sides as endless possibilities unfolded in his mind. His lips curled into a wide grin.
"You're right, sensei."
. . .
Now, back in the jungle two days later.
Apollo launched into another kick, his leg bursting with vitality. The impact nearly shattered the bark.
A loud crunch echoed through the clearing. He nearly tore his hair out in frustration, fists clenching and unclenching in rhythm. He hunched forward and let out a guttural shout, drenched in sweat and grime.
"I've been at this for over two fucking days! Why can't I do it right?!"
He paused, taking in a deep breath.
Huff... calm down, Apollo. Shouting won't fix anything.
He narrowed his eyes at the battered tree like it was his personal nemesis.
Think about James Lee. Yeah—that's it. The tree is James Lee... now kick it.
Hyping himself up, he shifted into a relaxed yet controlled stance.
Feet spread wide, crushing the grass beneath. His left hand—muscular and firm—formed a tight guard at his jaw. His right hung loosely near his waist.
Not Taekwondo. Not boxing. But something that can use both without wasting motion.
This stance—still unnamed—was the first thing he'd created on his own. If he wanted to integrate everything, he needed something fluid. Something that fit.
He remembered shouting at the sky days earlier, calling himself a True genius... That was, until he tried blending Taekwondo with Jichang's brutal precision.
It wasn't like before, where he slipped Jichang's moves in as surprise attacks. No—his new goal was different.
"To flow like Taekwondo... but strike unpredictably, like a slithering serpent," he muttered.
Then he moved.
In a blink, his figure blurred—a simple roundhouse kick launched fast and sharp.
I've done this a thousand times... he thought. The real test is what comes next.
As the kick landed cleanly, he twisted into a back kick. Sweat trickled from his temples as he fought to execute each move flawlessly.
Back kick with his technique...
His leg snapped out like an extension of his will. As his torso twisted, the angle shifted—redirected mid-air.
The left side... if the kick lands there, that means I've got it.
His leg slithered through the air as if friction no longer applied. Apollo's eyes widened. After two days of agony and repetition, the kick landed exactly where he intended.
I did it.
His eyes sharpened.
Again. Twist. Front kick.
And again, he moved—like a storm tearing through the clearing.
Like a relentless tornado.
He flowed through every Taekwondo kick in his arsenal, mixing and matching without pause.
The poor tree was on the verge of collapse, its trunk cratered with shoe marks and bark torn away.
Apollo dropped onto the grass laughing, his bare back hitting the cool earth with a soft thud. Muscles relaxed. Breath evened out.
"I did it..." he whispered, grinning. "I actually did it."
Doubt had never truly held him down, but that didn't mean it hadn't crept in.
Just focus on the action... not the thought, he reminded himself again.
He beamed, practically giddy.
"Time to move on to the defensive," he said, pushing himself up.
But—
"Mhmm?" he muttered, confused. His brows furrowed. "What the hell...?"
As he tried to stand, his legs trembled beneath him. It was like someone had turned his firm, reliable legs into a crumbling Jenga tower.
My muscles aren't the problem... it's my ligaments.
Realization hit him like a truck. Pain surged. His body gave in completely—he collapsed face-first into the grass with a thud.
"FUCK YOU, JICHANG!!!" he screamed to the heavens.
........
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