The training was brutal. And necessary.
Jun-ho didn't go easy on me, not for a single second, just as I had asked.
We were in the side yard of the cabin, where the snow had been trampled into a compact, slippery layer. Our breath formed white clouds that mingled in the air, and sweat was already trickling down my face despite the sub-zero temperatures.
— Keep your guard up, Salin — Jun-ho warned, circling me like a wolf.
I didn't need him to repeat it. I lunged.
My feet moved with years of muscle memory. Taekwondo for distance, Boxing for the close-in. I launched a rapid sequence: jab, straight, kick to the ribs. The technique was clean. Perfect. Any army instructor would have applauded the form.
But Jun-ho wasn't an instructor. He dodged the jab with a minimal flick of his neck and blocked the kick with an arm as rigid as iron. He didn't retreat; he absorbed.
The fight turned into a game of physical chess. I sought immobilization. Jun-ho sought... the end.
