Chapter 3: Teachings of a Monk

“Public usage of the dojo’s ground won’t be open until noon.” The disciple informed. “Please wait until then if you wish to spar here.”

“Then… tonight! Near midnight!” Reccu grinned. “You’ve got until then to learn whatever skills and spells they’ll teach you.”

Eagerness curved the corners of her lips upwards. Those sparkling eyes had an annoying confidence to them, the same ones predetermined winners would have. To slap away any post-fight excuses she remained adamant of the match’s time.

“I’m being generous here, so take this fight seriously. Got it?” Reccu leaned closer to my ear. “And I mean really, really seriously.”

A portentous and solemn tone whispered into my ears, suppressed of any sense of familiarity or companionship; like a devil wishing ‘Good night’ before closing the coffin, permanently. Before leaving the room she notified that her time spent until then would be use gathering information that could be of use in our agenda. After instructing me to remain here and train, she left the dojo without looking back.

Listening to our conversation captivated the disciple’s attention. He turned to me and said, “The body is the first gate to be at peace. A mind that cannot control the body will not be able to walk past the first gate. Shall we begin, brother?”

“Yes, brother.” I bowed and clasped my hand.

The disciple left through the door, and I followed behind.

‘CHA’ and ‘HAH’ roared throughout the halls of the dojo. Hundreds of students in their respective bodok were eye-candy to what body dedication can be capable of. I’ve never witnessed such cohesion before. The teacher punched, and they punched as well. He kicked, and they kicked as well. With a formidable display of balance, the teacher flipped into the air and landed on one foot, then flipped into the air again and landed on the other foot. Even if I expected it, the fact that all of the students attempted his final moves still had me in awe. Some fell onto their toes as they descended, and others didn’t carry enough momentum in their flip; but they’ve all performed with humility.

The disciple walked on, indifferently, into a hall that extended to the courtyard’s door inside the dojo. Portraits of a bald-headed monk in different Dobok colors lined throughout the hallway. First was white, then green, blue, yellow, purple, brown, red, and finally, black. It was the portrait of a monk with a fierce and hungry power expression at the beginning. As each portrait progressed, his very nature became softer and calmer. Rage, resentment, and bitterness transitioned to courageous, determination, serenity, and tranquility. Then… the last portrait had him in a black Dobok, meditating, cross-legged.

Tranquility and serenity…

The portraits didn’t contain a plaque, or anything containing words; they were voiceless. Yet, even without an explicit word, all I could think of when I looked at the last picture was… harmony. That monk found himself in tune with nature.

“This is the First Sabonim, one of very few to know harmony.” The disciple informed as he neared the doorway to the backyard.

Opening the door of the courtyard revealed a massive pond encircled by eight large stones. White, green, blue, yellow, purple, brown, red, and black colors uniquely marked each stone. Not only were there practitioners inside the dojo, but they could also be seen here. Many of them were in groups of threes or fours, sparring and lecturing. Vociferous roars from inside the dojo didn’t seem to bother them; their spars or lectures progressed smoothly onwards.

Waiting besides a white circle-marked stone, he clasped his hand behind his back and awaited my elevation. “Please stand on here. Keep your eyes closed at all times, and let my voice guide you, brother. First, we will learn Bhuail Tusail”

As per his instruction I stood with both feet extended, wide apart, and closed my eyes. Afterwards, I clenched my hand with my palm facing the sky, and resting it at the side of my hips. Being told to imagine a ghost-like figure in front of me was easy; all I had to do was think of Tickie and his big, dumb head. That perfect-sized forehead of his had ‘HIT ME’ written all over it.

“HAH!” Fully extending my right arm made an uneasy sound, one of which you’d expect I’d be running to the doctors for. In the short time span that my arm reached its maximum length, a slight disconnection of my elbow sunk my heart deep down into the pit of my stomach. Incorporeal Tickie laughed at my pitiful sight.

The disciple immediately reprimanded my bad posture, ordering me to do it again. Resuming a horse stance, I lowered my body to mid-height and struck again. Bad luck seemed to be following me around -- my left elbow rung a distinctly similar sound like before. Mercilessly, he shouted for me to do it again. I fired my right fist as instructed, but this time I didn’t lock my elbow to prevent injury.

The disciple’s merciless tone shifted to one of acceptance. “Good! Do not fully extend your arms; you’ll only injure yourself and leave an opening.”

However, in just a quick second, he was back to being overbearing. Firing strike-after-strike made his voice louder, albeit every succession required more strikes than the previous. Mindlessly following the brother’s instruction seemed to work; the punches I threw had a slight whistle to them.

Except… the motion was odd and awkward. These strikes made my body agitated and stiff. It was uncomfortable with the restricted motions of my movement. Hollering at me to repeat the attack, I complied and launched several similar attacks -- on his cue -- that only made the distress worse. Stiffen muscles inhibited my ideal punch, making it sway and miss my target. I may anger my instructor, but my tolerance was at its limit.

“Strike!” The disciple ordered.

Twisting my hips and leaning with my shoulder I aimed at Tickie’s big forehead. It went three inches passed his forehead. Probably would’ve been enough to cause a concussion if there was real matter.

“Yes!” The disciple cheered. “The mind and body must work together as one. Listen to the body, and listen closely. Feel it. Hear it. Think what it needs and what you can do to help it.”

Now, his instructions became the very one I just performed. Repeating the strikes and following his advice made my body accustomed to the movement and motion of the swings. Swinging at the tempo of his voice felt similar to that of a dance; there was a distinctive action to every beat, passive and active. The level of my understanding of the attack continued to grow, but not at a booming rate as before.

Knees lightly quivering and arms begging to slouch, my fists could no longer find its target. I punched once more in the same fashion as before. Nerves ran wild, messaging my brain to loosen all muscles and rest. There was this irritating tick that I couldn’t mend -- a consistent nagging tugged at every fiber of muscles in my body. Imprecise swings began to show signs of enervation. Holding on for just a few more seconds, I reversed the motion of the punch and launched the other arm.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

One more time!

Similar to before, a near popping experience of my elbow made me light-hearted. Careless overextension of my arm launched all the momentum in my body over the stone, and toppling me to the ground. Grasses and dirt smooched my white Dobok, leaving behind a seemingly day-gone-wrong. Tasting the strands of grass and dirt wasn’t pleasant, nor did it bode well. Acidic juices laid dormant within my stomach, threatening to jump out if I so much as move a muscle.

“Brother, magnificent performance.” My instructor congratulated with a broad smile. “You have understand the basis for Bhuail Tusail. There are many variants of this attack that produces different result, but they all start here.”

I rolled over like the lazy log that I am, and raised the lids to my eyes upon hearing his voice. Dusk greeted me with its elegant and warm smile. Just as I tried to wave at the settling sun, a strong urge to puke commanded my mouth to close the gate, tightly. My cheeks ballooned as acidic juices swarmed across my throat and poured into my mouth. I gulped hard, and aired the sour smell from my mouth. Never would I thought a game could, and would, replicate reality this much.

The disciple laughed warmingly, and walked off to a nearby vending machine.

It seemed that my mentality isn’t used to such activities, regardless of the lean body I’m in. Years have passed since I even entertained the thought of physical activity. All that awaited me were strenuous muscles, and minutes of playing dead on the ground. The intolerable heat in my neighborhood didn’t basked the idea in an appetizing light, either. Days of standing still at the cashier, physically exhausted, made physical activity even less of a desire.

But… with this refreshing air and manageable temperature… I remembered the satisfaction that can only be achieved by putting in a hundred-and-ten-percent effort.

I was tired -- beyond tired -- but I couldn’t stop my face from carrying this proud smile.

It felt wonderful.

Tilting my head sideways revealed the other practitioners in the dojo giving their all. Their shouts gradually grew on me; it wasn’t a bother or a distraction anymore. They held a methodic and rhythmic feel to their choreography. One action flowed to another, smoothly and unhindered, like their mind and body were one of the same.

I didn’t dare blink at their enchanted play.

There was this mysterious attraction to the naturalness of their movement: if one limb extended, the rest of the body will accommodate in a push-and-pull manner; and the transitions of their center-of-gravity was so seamless. Relaxation began with their posture, when they assumed their stance. Tension was the highest at the end, with the release of their energy into an impact. Breathing was so in-sync with their body that it played an integral role.

Through observations of my glued eyes I saw what I could only describe as a ghosting effect. They all moved in unison as hundreds of people could, while holding a plethora of different outlooks. Anger, sorrow, contempt, confidence -- eyes of different properties stared at something completely invisible and individual to each person. Their teacher was in front of them, teaching them and cueing them when to strike, but none even glanced at him. All of their eyes were stuck on something incorporeal, something not of this world -- but it was there -- they can see it.

Breathing, focus, rhythm, relaxation, tension, timing, balance, posture, center-of-gravity, motion… and imagery.

My instructor walked around with an armful of water bottles. Handing them out to those in need rewarded him with gratitude and heartfelt expressions. High-fiving and building each other up, they resumed their training with an even stronger spark of life.

Handing the last water bottle to me, he asked, “Would you like to stop here for today?”

“No.” I shook my head and hopped to my feet. I managed the best invigorated smile I could, in hopes of convincing him. “Please, let us continue. She’s going to give it her all, and I would like to do the same.”

“If that’s the case… Please observe as you rest.” Muscles in his legs extended and contracted, and the same was done to his arms. Stretching the lower body was heavily emphasized as he told me to pay close attention. “The next move is about the balance of the body, and the precision of your mind. Power comes second in favor of reach. This is called Breab.”

Standing upright, he raised his right knee to his waist, bent, with his thigh paralleled to the ground. The supporting foot faced outwards. “HAH!” A quick snap extended his knee, releasing a whip to the air, and then unsnapped to bring it back in form. Quickness and fluidity in his form made the kick seemed so effortless. Subtle shift of his center-of-gravity held him upright and perfectly balance as he placed both feet onto the ground.

“This is called Breab.” He said once more. “Do it once, and then let’s move onto the last technique I have to show you.”

My abs contracted with the upward placement of my knee. Foot faced to the side for balance. Inhaling a huge breath of air into my diaphragm, I extended my leg and exhaled all at once. The sudden force exerted by my kick had me wobbling and struggling all over the place. Smacking my butt onto the ground shot a brief stinging sensation.

“That works.” Nodding satisfactorily, he stood in front of me with both arms at his side. “The last and final technique takes a long time to master. It is called Scapail. However strong your opponent may be, their swings are an extension of their body. Within their body is a force you must use to your advantage.”

He gestured me to hit him. Both arms were at his side with nothing in front to protect him; an intentional drop of his guard. Assuming the stance ingrained through repetitions, I launched an attack directly at his chest. He stepped to the side, and my punch went through a formless, immaterial him -- one composed of an earthly light -- a shadowy figure of his former self. Before I could even react to it, the real him was at my side with his hand formed into a knife at my throat. Through all the repetitions and experience today, I discovered a sense of how my punch should work -- how my punch felt -- but this time was different. Not only did my arm felt sluggish during its extension, but there was also this outer force preventing me from retracting it any earlier than I wanted. Everything slowed down, for a sliver of a moment, when he dodged my attack.

“Scapail is a defensive technique. It is useful in opening defenses and counterattacking.” He instructed. “To do this requires absolute confidence in your mind to read the opponent’s attack, and your body to react fast enough. From the start of your Path your feet should’ve felt the beating of nature’s heart. Scapail can only be perform if you entrust your entirety to your mind, and nature’s energy. Come. I won’t hold back on my next attack.”

I held both arms at my side, and nodded to the indication of his next attack. The beating of nature’s heart, as he called it, felt like it was on its last few seconds of life. Faint vibrations tickled my feet -- impossible to tell without the help of his guidance. Once he saw my readiness he started a countdown from five.

“Five… four… three…”

Sharp eyes stared at my right shoulder. Strong arms locked in-place with a ton of potential energy. Our actions drew curious eyes all around us.

“Two… One…”

I was prepared. The attack should be coming towards my right shoulder. All I did was watch his fist resting at his side… and then… it moved. It shot faster, way faster than I expected. ‘One’ literally just parted from his lips, yet his fist has already flown a third-way through the air to my right shoulder.

Unbelivabl--

Eyes wide and heart working faster than ever, I took a step back and turned to dodge his attack. Staring at this unfathomable speed made the crowd’s gasped all the more distorted. It wasn’t only the sound of their voice that seemed to have slowed down, but my body as well. As much as I wanted to move faster, my body was already doing its utmost. An earthly and yellow energy enshrouded my feet when the attack was two-thirds of the way to its destination. Unable to spare it anymore attention, I mentally commanded my body to focus on incoming death.

Then… the attack connected.

Shivery spiders crawled its way up my spine to remind me that I’m still alive. Sweat beads quickly formed as I stared at his forearm, and entered a state of queasiness. I didn’t dare look... but I must. An excruciating pain throbbed from my right shoulder. A pain like no other; like there was a cavity in my shoulder that expanded until obliteration.

Slowly turning my head had my mind inexplicably at a loss, and unhinged. My shoulder, my arm, my hand, and my fingers… were still intact. When I came to terms with reality, only then did agony released its grip.

“Scapail is a defensive technique, but at an extreme mental toll.” My instructor retracted his fist and bowed to me. “What your mind and body just felt is a mental construct of the pain you would have endured, if you were hit. Be mindful of what attack you choose to avoid, and what you choose to block. A successful scapail could lead to your death, if your mind is not ready.”

I clasped my fidgety hands together -- that only amplified an uncontrollable relief -- and bowed. “Thank you… brother.”