stretch of mat with a disinfectant towel—something she did voluntarily every
night. Kaelen sat down on a heavy bag, his joints popping loudly. "You know,
you’re bad for business," he said gruffly. Elara paused, looking up with mild
curiosity. "I paid my dues, Coach." Kaelen chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "That
you did. But my guys are getting an existential crisis. They spend ten years
learning how to hit hard, and you show them that hitting hard means nothing
if you can't hit the target."
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Where did you learn Daito-ryu
Aiki-jujutsu? And don't tell me you read it in a book." Elara’s expression
remained placid, but a flicker of surprise crossed her eyes. Very few people
recognized the art. "My grandfather," she said simply. "He was a student of
the old ways. He taught me before he passed." Kaelen nodded slowly. "It’s a
killing art, originally. Designed for samurai who lost their swords. It’s not
meant for a cage."
Elara resumed wiping the mat. "I have no interest in cages. I came here
because my grandfather told me that true peace is only found in the center of
chaos. I needed to see if my center would hold." Kaelen rubbed his bearded
chin. "Well, you certainly found the chaos. But you've also embarrassed my
top earner. Jax was our ticket to the regional championships next month. Now
he's sulking in his basement, talking about quitting."
"Ego is a fragile construct," Elara replied, standing up and folding the
towel. "If a single fall broke him, he was never going to survive the regionals
anyway." Kaelen sighed, knowing she was right, but hating the reality of it.
"Maybe. But we have a rival gym, Black Fang MMA, breathing down our