Chapter 4: The Dojo of Dust and Dumplings
The next day at school was like walking through a dream. Everything looked the same—the same scuffed hallways, the same noisy students, the same bored-looking teachers—but it all felt different. I felt different. I had a secret. A huge, terrifying, and unbelievably exciting secret.
I saw Kaito and his friends by the lockers. The moment Kaito saw me, he instinctively touched his still-bruised nose and quickly looked away, muttering something to his friends before they shuffled off in the other direction. A small, unfamiliar spark of confidence flickered in my chest.
My biggest test came during third period. I was walking down the corridor when I saw him coming the other way: Akai-sensei. He was just another teacher in a sea of them, his expression neutral as he scanned a list on a clipboard. My heart did a little flip-flop. This was him. My future master. But here, he was just my teacher. I remembered his rule: At school, I am Akai-sensei. Nothing more.
I gave him a simple, respectful nod as we passed, just like I would any other teacher. "Good morning, Akai-sensei," I said, my voice impressively steady.
He glanced up from his clipboard, his sharp eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second. There was no secret acknowledgment, no knowing smile. Just a polite, professional nod in return. "Po," he said, and continued on his way.
It was perfect. The strict separation made the secret feel even more real, more sacred. It was a world that belonged only to us.
After the final bell, I felt a nervous energy buzzing under my fur. I found him waiting for me by the school gates, just as he said he would be. He gave me that same simple nod, and I followed him. We didn't talk. The silence was heavy, but not awkward. We walked away from the bustling city center, leaving behind the sleek hero agencies with their giant, holographic logos and the towering screens that showed heroes endorsing the latest brand of sports drink.
Our path took us into the older, industrial part of town. The air here smelled of cold metal and rust. The buildings were squat and functional, made of brick and corrugated steel. We passed warehouses with boarded-up windows and forgotten factories whose smokestacks stood like lonely gravestones against the evening sky. This was a part of the city that heroes didn't patrol with flashy poses. This was a place forgotten by the bright, modern world.
Finally, he stopped in front of a huge, derelict brick building. A faded sign above the massive, sliding steel door once read "Musutafu Steelworks." It looked like it hadn't been opened in fifty years.
"This is it?" I asked, my voice barely a squeak.
"A dojo is not the walls that surround it," he said, pulling a large, old-fashioned key from his pocket. "It is the spirit within."
The door groaned open with a sound like a waking giant, a deep, shuddering scrape of metal on concrete. He led me inside, and the world outside vanished.
The interior was cavernous, bigger than the school gymnasium. Sunlight streamed through grime-covered skylights high above, cutting through the gloom and illuminating swirling universes of dust motes. The place was a beautiful, organized chaos. In the center was a large, open space with worn wooden floors, scuffed and scarred from decades of use. Surrounding it were strange contraptions I'd only ever seen in museums or old movies: tall wooden poles of varying heights, thick ropes hanging from the rafters, heavy-looking stone bowls, and several wooden training dummies, their arms frozen in silent combat. It smelled of old wood, oiled metal, and something else… something ancient and peaceful, like old paper and dried tea leaves.
He slid the giant door shut, plunging us into a reverent silence broken only by the sound of our own breathing. The city was gone. The world was gone. There was only this place.
He turned to me, and the weary posture of a schoolteacher was gone. He stood taller, his presence seeming to fill the vast space. He was no longer Akai-sensei.
"Welcome to my dojo, Po," he said, and his voice carried a new weight, a new authority.
My own voice was a nervous squeak. I swallowed hard, remembering the title I was supposed to use. The name that belonged to this world. "Thank you for having me... Shifu."
Saying the name felt strange, but powerful. A small, almost imperceptible nod of approval was his only reply. "Your training begins with the foundation upon which all of Kung Fu is built," he declared. "Balance."
He led me to a low wooden beam, no wider than my foot, that was suspended a few inches off the floor. It looked simple enough.
It was not.
The moment I put my weight on it, it wobbled. I threw my arms out, flailing like a bird that had forgotten how to fly. I managed two shaky steps before I lost it completely and tumbled onto the floor with a loud thump that sent a puff of dust into the air.
"My Quirk is 'Panda Body,' Shifu, not 'Tightrope Walker'!" I grumbled, dusting myself off.
"Your body has a natural, perfect center of gravity," Master Shifu said patiently, as if explaining something to a very small child. "You have simply never been asked to find it. Again."
I tried again. And again. And again. For the better part of an hour, the dojo was filled with the sounds of my wobbling, my grunting, and my frequent, undignified thuds. Frustration began to bubble up inside me. This was impossible. How was balancing on a stupid piece of wood supposed to turn me into a hero? I was getting splinters in places I didn't know I could get splinters.
Master Shifu watched me, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighed, a soft puff of air. "It seems your spirit requires a… different kind of motivation." He disappeared into a small room in the corner. I plopped down onto the floor, defeated and ready to give up. Then, a new smell drifted through the dusty air. It was a smell from the heavens. Savory, warm, with hints of ginger and garlic that made my mouth water instantly.
He returned holding a bamboo steamer. He walked to the far end of the balance beam and placed it down. Lifting the lid, he released a cloud of fragrant steam, revealing a perfect pyramid of glistening, freshly made pork dumplings.
My stomach let out a roar that echoed through the entire warehouse.
"The Dumpling Challenge," Shifu said, his face perfectly serious. "If you can walk the beam and retrieve a dumpling without falling, you may eat it. You may continue until the basket is empty."
Everything changed. The frustration vanished. The dusty dojo, the impossible task, the splinters—it all faded away. My world shrank to the narrow path of wood and the glorious, steaming prize at the end of it. I got back up on the beam. I wobbled, but this time, I didn't fall. My eyes were locked on the dumplings. My body, guided by a force more powerful than gravity itself—my appetite—began to adjust. My paws found their footing. My tail acted as a rudder. My big, clumsy body found its center.
I took one step. Then another. I reached the end, my hand trembling slightly as I plucked a plump dumpling from the steamer. I popped it into my mouth. It was pure, unadulterated bliss.
I made my way back, retrieved another, and then another. By the time the basket was empty, I was practically dancing back and forth across the beam without even thinking about it. I sat on the floor, my belly full of dumplings and my heart full of pride.
Master Shifu knelt beside me in the quiet dojo. "You see, Po? Your focus was scattered by frustration and self-doubt. The dumplings did not teach you balance. They simply gave your mind a single, worthy goal." He smiled, a rare and genuine expression. "Your body knew what to do all along. You just had to give it a reason."
He stood up and looked down at me. "Find that focus in everything you do. That is your first lesson in Kung Fu."
As I sat there, savoring the taste of my victory, I realized he was right. For the first time, I hadn't been thinking about what I couldn't do. I was only thinking about what I wanted. And it felt amazing. My journey had truly begun.