The scene opens inside a Bao Quan training hall, mid-evaluation.

The air is tense but controlled. This is no casual sparring—this is a final test. Several advanced practitioners stand in a loose circle around Bruske, the white tiger, each of them experienced, disciplined, confident.

Bruske stands at the center.

Calm.
Silent.
Grounded.

A circle has been drawn on the sand beneath his feet—a handicap. He is not meant to step outside it even once.

The signal is given.

One opponent advances.

Bruske moves.

His entry is clean. Precise. Explosive. A short step, a sharp pivot of the hips, a controlled strike that drops the man instantly.

A breath.

—

The same movement.

A harsh spotlight blinds his vision.
The ground beneath him is no longer sand but cracked concrete.
Voices scream from all sides.

His strike lands again—this time with a wet sound.

Blood sprays across the floor.

A roar erupts.

—

The hall snaps back.

Another opponent attacks from the side.

Bruske pivots smoothly, redirects the force, counters with brutal efficiency. No wasted motion. No hesitation. His discipline is absolute.

A breath.

—
The same pivot.

This time his foot crushes down harder than necessary.
The man doesn’t just fall—he collapses.

Someone yells his name.

Bruske doesn’t hear it.

—

The next opponent rushes him.

In the hall, Bruske meets him head-on. A sharp exchange. A clean takedown. The body hits the ground and does not rise.

Silence spreads.

—
The same rush.

A feral grin cuts across Bruske’s face.

His fist drives forward again.

And again.

And again.

The crowd is screaming now.

—

The final opponent hesitates.

In the hall, Bruske does not pursue. He waits. Balanced. Contained. The test ends there.

—
The same hesitation.

Bruske leans forward.

Hungry.

—

Everything stops.

The training hall is whole again.

The opponents lie defeated around him. Blood stains the sand—controlled, minimal, unsettling nonetheless.

The instructors murmur among themselves.

Prodigy.
Natural talent.
Rare discipline.

And yet—

Bruske lowers his gaze to his hands.

They are steady.

Unshaken.

A thought crosses his mind, quiet but heavy:

Nothing yet.

This moment triggers a brief memory…

Flashback – Home

A younger Bruske trains under his master—the man who found him, raised him, named him Deng Gang, and taught him Shaolin kung fu from within the walls of their temple, their home. The training was harsh but sincere. Bruske excels early. His talent is undeniable. His style, however, is always the same: direct, aggressive, instinctive.

Others criticize it, and that’s how he came to be called Bruske—a nickname he bears with a quiet pride from that moment onward. It reflects his nature perfectly.

His master does not criticize, yet concern slowly grows.

One day, after Bruske reaches the highest rank available to him, his master speaks plainly: his strength alone is no longer enough. Whatever Bruske lacks cannot be taught at home.

And that is how he ended up traveling, trying to find what he is missing.

Return to the Present – Bao Quan Hall

The memory fades.

Bruske gathers his belongings and prepares to leave. He has stayed here for months, trained relentlessly, earned respect effortlessly—and yet the feeling remains unchanged.

As he walks toward the exit, his attention briefly catches on a strange sight: among a group of students stands a young female fox, doing the exact opposite of what everyone else is doing. While her instructor explains a technique, she lies casually on the floor, poorly positioned, unfocused, clearly uninterested. She doesn’t look weak—just... different.

The impression doesn’t find a shape he understands, so the young feline lets it go.

He steps outside.

Moments later, footsteps follow.

The vixen approaches him and asks for help—directly, casually, without much explanation. Bruske listens. She points back toward the training hall. There is a target that must be shattered with a single precise, explosive strike. She lacks the skill to do it.

Without questioning her reasons, Bruske agrees to help.

Inside the hall, the girl places the target in front of him. Bruske adjusts his stance, breathes once, and strikes. The object is destroyed instantly—clean, effortless. Her eyes flicker to his hands—and to the target, slightly marked by red. Something about it catches her attention, but ultimately lights up with excitement and runs to call her sifu.

The reaction is immediate—and harsh: “Again?” the sifu snaps. He doesn’t even raise his voice.

“Again you chose the easy way.”

He turns away from her, disappointed, and speaks of discipline, of effort, of responsibility—words she clearly isn’t listening to anymore, her gaze keeps drifting back to Bruske, now fully curious and engaged.

The sermon seems to be going on for a while, so Bruske decides to continue on his way.

The path ahead

The scene moves to the road.

Bruske walks alone… until he senses someone behind him.

He stops, exhales, and turns.

The vixen from before stands there.

“Why are you following me?” the young feline exclaims with a slightly annoyed expression.

“Sifu got real mad at me, you know? Said something about traveling and finding what I’m missing… Honestly? I didn’t even want to be there. Too much work, too little reward. Never cared about that stuff anyway.”

She shrugs with an unconcerned smile.

“You really don't know shame and honor, do you?”

The vixen only keeps her unashamed smile drawn on her face.

Bruske exhales, a trace of irritation slipping through his calm. He then turns away, still pondering her carefree attitude, while the girl tilts her head, smirking faintly, and falls into step behind him anyway, her curiosity obvious in the way her gaze follows his every movement.

The path stretches ahead. Bruske looks forward—focused, distant. He has trained hard, traveled far, learned much—and yet he still feels no closer to the answer his master spoke of.

Suddenly, the vixen glances at his hands.
“Is keeping the blood of your opponents in your knuckles some kind of ritual?”

Bruske freezes. “What?”

Instinctively, he looks down. The crimson stain glints on his knuckles. He hadn’t even realized blood was still there.

He stares at his hands, the quiet rhythm of her footsteps still matching his own. For a brief moment, everything feels… off.