Max decided to start with the martial arts studio that was farthest away from where he lived. He figured that the way the universe worked, if he was going to find any success, it would be with the farthest, least convenient location. When he got into his car and started it up, he stared at the dash for a while, trying to fight a sudden wave of depression. He thought he'd had a half tank of gas, but it was actually only a quarter full. Gas and food prices just kept going up, which meant the amount of money he could put on his student loans was decreasing.

Shit.

Recentering himself, he murmured, "Future Sight, Future Focused. Don't spend too much time on the past." This had been his mantra for the last ten years, basically after accepting his past life and moving on with the present. Saying it out loud actually made him feel better. And he rolled his car out of his apartment parking lot with a newly-confirmed sense of purpose.

Driving gave him extra time to put energy into thinking more positively. He'd been called the hero, the savior of Albion, and had faced down demons whose mere presence could break the minds of lesser warriors. It couldn't be that hard to get a part-time job, could it?

The decision had already been made.

He wasn't too proud to get another regular job, maybe something close by with low hourly wages, but he was really hoping to do something that would at least stimulate his brain a bit or maybe help him meet new people. It’d be nice to know more local people.

Over the last few years he'd tried joining clubs, taking classes, and even working at an ice cream parlor. But none of them had resulted in anything more than friendly acquaintances. College hadn’t been great for meeting people, at least not for Max. All of the actual friends he'd made in high school had moved away. Being broke was bad enough, but being broke and lonely was even worse.

He was way too busy for a girlfriend, at least if he wanted to treat her right. And Max was too wise now to try half-assing a relationship.

As he drove, Max admitted this to himself for the first time and hoped that in the next few weeks he could kill at least two birds with one stone. Now that he'd identified the problem, it was time to solve it. After all, after admitting there was a problem, not solving it was a form of acceptance. He refused to wallow in his own bad luck.

In fact, despite being born into poverty twice in two lifetimes, this time around he’d definitely been much better off. At least he’d had a real family.

The first martial arts studio was a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu place, and the big man up front was pleasant but a little distant. After Max introduced himself and described what he was there for, the man's veneer of interest crumbled quickly. "I'm sorry," he said, "but we already have instructors at this facility."

Max frowned and in his best persuasive tone of voice said, "There's no way I can change your mind? I mean, I'd even be willing to work on the basis of the house gets a certain percentage of what I make and I just use the facilities while nobody else is here. Like…it doesn't seem like anybody else is here right now." He pointed to the empty space behind the man in the gi, which was conspicuously empty.

The worn mats were clean and didn't even seem to have any dimples in them that might speak to recent use. Now that Max thought about it, the dojo itself was in a rather poor part of town in a shopping mall with two vacant stores. Maybe this place wasn't doing so well lately and they just weren't willing to take on any risk or deal with anybody new.

As the man at the counter began giving another series of polite refusals, Max interrupted, "Look, this place looks like it could use some more patrons and I'm pretty sure I could bring some in. So if there's any extra time, it wouldn't cost your dojo anything. Are you the owner?"

The man cautiously held out his hand and said, "My name is Ethan. I'm the owner's brother, and one of the head instructors here."

"Okay, Ethan. Again, I'm Max. How about this? How about you think about it, talk to your brother, and I'll come back or give you a call. And I'm telling you, there's no risk to you. I'll bring my own clients." He thought quickly, "And I will even give you a demonstration of the martial arts I know."

"We actually never did discuss that," said Ethan. "I had just assumed that you were a Jiu-Jitsu practitioner since this is a Jiu-Jitsu dojo. Did you want to teach something else?"

"Well, I do know some of that," said Max. "But to be honest, my focus is on weapons."

"What kind of weapons?" asked Ethan.

"Swords, spears, staves, that sort of thing." He thought quickly and remembered the research he did online. "What I do is pretty much mostly WMA, Western Martial Arts, like stuff based on European medieval martial arts but also mixed martial arts from Korea, Japan, etc. The actual art I practice is Albion Western Wind Style."

Ethan gave Max a highly skeptical look. "Okay," he said slowly. "Alright, let us think about it."

"Fair enough," said Max. "Can I take a business card?"

"Sure, go ahead.”

Max nodded and grabbed a business card off the counter from its utilitarian holder, then did an about-face before walking out the door, shoulders square. He was about ninety-nine percent sure that conversation had gone nowhere. Okay, let's try the next place, he thought.

He sighed.

Max was young-looking for his age to begin with and had even graduated college at twenty-one years old. He knew that his age and looks weren't going to help in his martial arts instructor quest. Even introducing himself as a college graduate probably wouldn’t help. Martial artists were taken more seriously if they were grizzled and older. In this space, nobody gave a crap about anyone’s formal education outside of martial arts. His build might be working against him too.

Although he knew for a fact that he was objectively stronger than the average man on this world due to his tedious efforts with mana, the way he was building strength didn't add any bulk. Max hadn't been to a gym since high school. So, for somebody claiming to know martial arts well enough to teach, he didn't look old enough or fit enough to really look the part. It was going to be a tough sell for sure

The next two places he planned to visit were both generic MMA style dojos, the kind that cast a wide net, claiming to be a mash-up of all the best parts of like seven martial arts. Max thought that they both were more likely to actually accept somebody like him with no real certifications. Ed's Dojo was the name of the second location he went to. As soon as he stepped inside, he knew it was probably going to be a bust. "Oh, it's one of these places," he thought.

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Inside, there were no racks of weapons and groups of hopeful noobs or aggressive, muscular-looking people one might imagine. Instead there was just a line of kids in white gi’s in brightly colored belts awkwardly doing basic punches at the air. Suburban, beaming parents sat in chairs, making comments about little Tyler or Jeffrey being so focused lately.

This is a belt mill, thought Max. No, this is a parent's 4-H show for their six-to-ten-year-old. Focus, Max, focus, he thought. Can't be too proud to teach at a place like this.

But even though he said this to himself, he was also revising the things that he would teach. After all, quite a bit of what Max knew was not appropriate to be teaching eight-year-olds. Self-defense was all fine and good, but teaching a child how to kill didn't sit right with him unless times were different. And despite how difficult it was to have a good life on this world called Earth, where he lived, it largely was fairly peaceful. That line of thought made him wonder if a contingency plan might be teaching some rich people's son or daughter serious martial arts, like as a tutor. But that didn't sit right with him either, for several reasons.

He walked up to the counter, began his spiel, and got shot down in no time flat. This time, Max didn't even bother upping the ante or giving a new sales pitch. This was not a place where people actually learned martial arts; it was for parents who thought their kids looked cute in a gi. Max respected any parents who truly wanted to help their children learn self defense, but this was not that sort of place. It was a photo op with monthly payments. He left and didn't feel particularly disappointed about how this lead had turned out.

Before he got in his car, he went to the nearby grocery store and checked the very back where they would sometimes put discount food. Usually, deals like this would be offered right before an item was supposed to expire or sometimes even the day after.

"Score," said Max. Today there were some pastries out that were marked fifty percent off.

Even though he had struck out at the first two martial arts schools he had visited, finding discount food like this barely made the trip worth the gas. He picked up one box of pastries to eat and cleared out the rest of them to take home, too. After all, even though he wasn't going to eat them right away, throwing a pastry in the freezer meant that it would last for months. Of course, after visiting some of his friends, he knew that it wasn't really viable for normal people who actually had things in their freezer. Max on the other hand had plenty of room, empty shelves, even. Discount pastries were a go.

He got in his car, the best sensible, bang-for-his-buck used car he had been able to afford in his second year of college, and drove to the last potential new workplace on his list. It was in kind of a weird place in the city. The first two places had been right between the city and the suburbs, which was where most martial arts dojos usually seemed to exist in the United States. But this last place was downtown, in a relatively unmarked building. Max had to drive around the block a few times looking for a place to park and eventually sighed in resignation before using a parking garage.

According to the sign, if he parked for less than an hour, it wouldn't be too bad. But it still galled him that he would have to basically pay the price for a gallon of gas just to park for a few minutes. It already put him in a bad mood.

He recentered himself with a reminder that it could be worse. After all, at least he didn’t have to pay to park just to work every day like some of the poor bastards in this area.

To prepare for his job search quest, he had dressed in some fairly athletic clothing: a t-shirt, gym pants, and comfortable shoes. So as he walked to the front of the building, which ended up being much larger than he had originally assumed, he fit right in with two other guys that were entering at the same time.

They all cordially nodded to each other, a slight uplift of the chin, universal guy language. That was one thing, thankfully, that Max hadn't had to learn or relearn from his past life. It seemed that subtle non-verbal communication between men might be the same on every world and every universe, at least among humans.

Once inside the building, Max's eyebrows raised. He couldn't see most of the facilities, but what he saw made him vastly recalibrate his expectations. This place has money, he thought, serious money. Not only was this location a martial arts facility, it seemed to also have a full modern gym. The interior was either granite or faux granite. Max could have figured it out if he cared, but he didn't. Either option was far ritzier than any other martial arts dojo he had ever seen.

The person behind the counter, a big burly man with no neck, wore a uniform. His shirt said “Tom.” Another uniformed employee was inside the gym cleaning a piece of equipment. Jake couldn't see into the dojo area; there were double-sided mirrors blocking his sight. He waited for the customers who came in with him to check in and go their own way before approaching the counter. Then the uniformed man, Tom, looked up, cocked an eyebrow at him, and said nothing.

Without missing a beat, Max gave his spiel for the third time that day. Tom, if that was his real name, listened impassively, never blinking. He didn't say anything for another few seconds after Jake was done talking, but then he smiled. Max took that as a good sign. Everybody else had frowned at him today.

"So your name is Max, huh?" said Tom.

"That's right, and I'm assuming your name is Tom, right?" said Max. He pointed at the other man's shirt.

"Yep," Tom said. "Wait here a minute. Let me go talk to my manager and we'll see if we can figure something out."

“Okay, great!" said Max. He was surprised but wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. After all, this was progressing far faster than he could have imagined, and he felt a momentary sense of elation. If he could go home today knowing that he had another income stream, he would feel so much better.

He had to wait for almost ten minutes before Tom came back. In the meantime, another employee, this one's name was “Subin,” covered down on the front desk and gave Jake a polite but disinterested nod. When Tom finally came back, he said, "Okay Max, here's the deal. In order to teach here, you have to prove that you have what it takes."

"You mean show you my martial arts?" asked Max.

"Yeah. So we don't usually let non-members into the dojo area, but we're going to make an exception. But I'm sure you understand the legalities and insurance and whatnot. So I need you to fill this out." He handed over a clipboard with what looked like a book worth of paper on top.

"What is this?" asked Max.

"Oh, just waivers, liability forms, stuff like that. Saying that if you slip and fall, we're not going to have to pay your medical bills, that sort of thing." Tom smiled. But this time, Max was getting a prickly feeling in the back of his neck. Even without the premonitions, a few things hadn't quite added up, but he still mentally shrugged and started going through the paperwork.

Tom was trying to hide it, but gave telltale signs of being annoyed when Max actually read the forms before signing them. It all really was what Tom had said, if a bit heavy-handed. Basically, the forms stated that if Max got hurt on the facilities, it was nobody's fault but his own, and Imperial MMA, the name of the dojo, would not be held responsible. What was also interesting was a portion that outlined how all spars basically had the same overall rules that Max was signing off on. In fact, the lack of accountability went for all parties in any spar. Before Max saw that, he was thinking about not signing and walking out, but then decided it worked in his favor after all.

When he finished signing everything, Tom looked it over before nodding. He turned as if to lead Max away, but Max held out a hand and apologetically said, "Excuse me, could I get a copy of that after you sign it?"

"I don't usually need to give out a copy," said Tom with a hint of annoyance.

"Yeah, but I'd like one anyway. If you can’t sign, I’d like a fully executed copy after whoever can sign, does.”

The man barely caught himself from rolling his eyes.

The cracks are starting to show, huh? Max thought. But he waited patiently while Tom signed everything on his end, threw the sheet of papers into the copy machine behind the desk, and rattled off a copy for Max. When he handed it over, Max muttered his thanks, folded it up, and shoved the paperwork down the back of his pants.

"Okay, this way,” said Tom, and headed toward the mirrored doors.