"Guns?" Chen Mo's lips curved faintly. "I've got some too."
Before anyone could blink, two pistols appeared in his hands.
The next second—BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!—a rapid volley of shots filled the room, crisp and controlled.
When the echoes faded, every man on Johnny's side was frozen where he stood, clutching bleeding arms. Their guns clattered helplessly to the floor.
In the span of a heartbeat, the balance had reversed again.
Setting both smoking pistols casually on the coffee table, Chen Mo glanced at Mad Dog Johnny, who was drenched in cold sweat and trembling.
"Looks like I'm the one in charge here," Chen Mo said evenly. "Wouldn't you agree?"
"Y-yes… yes, sir!"
Johnny's voice cracked. His back was soaked through. What the hell? he thought. He's supposed to be some kung fu guy—how the hell is his shooting that fast?
Before he could process what had happened, Chen Mo waved lazily.
"You can go now. I won't see you out."
For a second Johnny just stared, dumbstruck that he was being let go so easily. Then instinct kicked in—he scrambled to his feet, motioning for his men to retreat. They fled the dojo like rats from a burning ship.
"Master, you're just letting them walk?" Huang Quan asked quietly. His voice was steady, but sweat still clung to his temples.
Chen Mo could read what he was thinking—fear of revenge.
"It's not time yet," he replied calmly, taking a sip of the coffee Eddie had poured for him.
The old butler was the picture of composure. Aside from that single moment when he'd tried to step forward and shield Chen Mo from the gun, Eddie had stood silently behind him, steady as stone.
Outside the dojo, Steve Rogers had seen the gangsters charge in. His gut clenched with worry for the people inside; he was reaching for the nearest payphone to call the police when a burst of scuffling erupted—then silence.
Moments later, gunfire—short, sharp, and close.
Steve's face went pale. They're shooting!
But soon, the door burst open, and the same gangsters stumbled out—injured, panicked, fleeing into the night.
Heart pounding, Steve ran toward the building. The dojo door was ajar. He hesitated only a moment before pushing it open.
Inside—no corpses. No bloodbath. Just a few calm figures gathered around a sofa, talking quietly. They all turned toward him as the door creaked.
Steve froze. For a long moment, nobody spoke.
His eyes flicked to the faint bloodstains near the doorway. Realization hit him. They didn't escape a massacre—they were the ones who got beaten.
His face flushed.
"Uh… I—I saw the door was open…" he stammered.
There was no way to explain barging into a stranger's home. What was he supposed to say—I thought you were all dead?
Chen Mo watched him with mild amusement. Despite the awkwardness, the young man's concern had been genuine—and brave.
"You saw them come in, heard gunfire, and thought we might be in trouble, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir," Steve admitted, exhaling in relief.
"Come in and sit. Eddie, bring him a cup."
Still embarrassed, Steve stepped inside. It was his first real look at the mysterious dojo he'd passed so many times.
Thick mats lined the training floor. A small sparring ring stood in one corner. Along the wall, weapon racks gleamed with blades and staves—most he didn't even recognize. Near the window sat a simple sofa set and a low table.
The hall wasn't luxurious, but clean, spacious, and precise—like its owner.
He finally sat down. The white-haired butler poured him a cup of coffee, then quietly withdrew with the instructors to tidy up the mess the mafia had left.
"Chen Mo, from Huaxia," Chen Mo said, raising his cup slightly. "Master of this dojo."
"Steve Rogers," the young man replied, drawing a breath. "From Brooklyn. Just… an ordinary worker."
There was no self-pity in his tone now. Calm, polite, honest—the faint spark of something noble already shone in him.
Chen Mo smiled.
"You don't strike me as an ordinary worker."
"I'm just… not smart enough to be scared," Steve said, half-joking, half-ashamed of his frail frame.
"Where I come from, we have a saying," Chen Mo said gently. "When two paths meet, the brave one wins."
He set his cup down, his voice steady.
"Strength is common. Courage is rare. That's what truly makes a person strong."
"Those men you saw outside—do you think they were strong?"
"They were big," Steve answered honestly. "Strong, and there were a lot of them."
"And yet they ran. The moment they met someone stronger, they had no courage left. Power without resolve is nothing. You, on the other hand, had the heart to act. That makes you stronger than any of them."
Steve blinked. The words struck something deep inside him.
"But my body…" he began softly.
Chen Mo waved a hand.
"The body can be trained. What matters is the will—to fight when outmatched, to stand firm in the face of death, to never surrender."
Steve's eyes lit up. It was as if someone had put his unspoken beliefs into words.
For the first time, he felt seen.
"Then… can I learn from you?" he asked, hesitant but determined.
Chen Mo nodded.
"Of course. You have the heart for it."
"But I don't have money," Steve said quickly, embarrassed again.
"I could use an apprentice," Chen Mo replied with a small smile. "You'll learn martial arts, help with cleaning and chores. Fifty dollars a month. Not much—but enough."
Steve's jaw dropped. That was more than he earned at the factory—and here, he could finally grow stronger.
"Really? Thank you, sir! I'll work hard, I promise!"
As he left that night, Steve Rogers felt his life beginning anew. For the first time, he had purpose, a teacher, and hope.
When the door closed behind him, Chen Mo finished the last sip of his coffee and stood.
"Eddie, I'll be going out for a bit."