The next morning, Steve resigned from his factory job and officially moved into the dojo to begin his new life as an apprentice.
What no one noticed, however, was a small headline buried in that day's newspapers:
"Brooklyn Mafia Boss 'Mad Dog' Johnny and Over a Dozen of His Men Found Dead at Their Headquarters."
Chen Mo didn't teach Steve directly at first. Instead, he had him train under Huang Quan and the others, focusing on the fundamentals—stances, balance, breathing, endurance.
Chen Mo's own fighting style was born from power and instinct. His techniques—fast, fierce, and brutally efficient—relied on strength and reflexes far beyond normal human limits. But his raw abilities had come from bursts of potential, not structured training.
The old masters, on the other hand, had all built their skills the hard way, climbing from weakness to mastery. Their deep understanding of body mechanics and internal conditioning made them the perfect teachers for Steve.
So Steve started from zero. Every day, he practiced the simplest drills—horse stances, push-ups, slow breathing forms. His body screamed in pain; his muscles trembled; yet he refused to stop. No matter how exhausted he became, he always finished his training.
These fundamentals weren't just about brute strength. They were a system refined over generations, designed to strengthen the entire body, even the heart and lungs. Step by step, they rebuilt the weak from the inside out.
Unlike many modern fighting systems that chased instant results through punishing, high-intensity drills, these methods cultivated balance and endurance—forging strength that lasted.
Months passed. Steve's physique began to change.
He was still short and thin compared to most men, but his once fragile frame had gained tone and definition. He could now run long distances without gasping for breath, and faint outlines of muscle appeared beneath his shirt.
"Master Chen," Steve said one day, eyes bright with admiration, "when will you start teaching me real fighting?"
He had just watched Chen Mo effortlessly defeat four instructors at once, his movements smooth and terrifyingly fast.
Since the night "Mad Dog" Johnny's crew had been humiliated, word of the mysterious Chinese dojo had spread through Brooklyn's underworld. Soon after, Johnny and his men were found dead in their own headquarters.
Those who had been spying on the dojo—rivals from the other two Mafia families—quickly connected the dots. They had watched that night as a dark figure leapt silently from the dojo's rooftop, vanishing across the skyline.
Even the most hardened gangsters felt their blood run cold.
It was a warning.
Within days, both Mafia families abandoned their plans to target the dojo. The "Chinese master" who lived there was no longer prey—but predator.
As the dojo's fame grew, people began coming to learn. After testing the instructors' skills, many gladly paid tuition. Soon, Steve had a few new "junior brothers."
But while they practiced punches and kicks, Steve was still stuck holding stances in the corner. His impatience showed.
Chen Mo couldn't help but smile every time he heard the earnest American calling him "Master"—or rather, "Shifu", though the pronunciation came out hilariously wrong.
"Why are you so eager to learn to fight?" Chen Mo asked, adopting the tone of a patient teacher.
"To get stronger," Steve answered firmly. "So I can enlist."
His eyes shone with hope. It was his dream—to serve his country. But his frail body had kept him from passing the army's medical exams again and again.
"To fight the Nazis?" Chen Mo asked, watching his expression.
"No," Steve shook his head. "I don't want to kill anyone. I just… want to protect my home."
"And if your home," Chen Mo asked quietly, "went to war with mine?"
"If it were a war of invasion, I wouldn't go," Steve said without hesitation.
"And if your government ordered you to?"
"I…"
He faltered. Chen Mo patted his shoulder.
"I only mean this—don't let politicians use you. Don't confine your vision to one country. You should have a greater dream."
"What's your dream, Master?" Steve asked curiously.
Chen Mo smiled faintly.
"World peace."
The words hung in the air.
Steve looked at him with wide, thoughtful eyes—half awed, half uncertain. Chen Mo chuckled softly and returned to his seat, waiting for Eddie to bring him another cup of coffee.
The next day, Steve officially began his combat training under Chen Mo's guidance.
And the results were astonishing.
He learned fast—almost unnaturally so. Though still weaker than his peers, his control, timing, and precision improved by the day. In sparring, he often beat opponents far stronger than himself.
It wasn't just skill. It was spirit—that relentless will to stand, to fight, to rise again no matter how many times he fell. Even when knocked flat, he'd be back on his feet within seconds, pressing forward until he won.
Soon, no one wanted to spar with him. The instructors had to step in—and though Steve was thoroughly beaten every time, he never lost that determined grin.
Underneath the bruises, he was growing stronger at an astonishing pace.
By April 1943, a full year had passed since Chen Mo arrived in this world.
Spring sunlight filtered through the windows of the dojo. Chen Mo lounged on the sofa in a light sweater, coffee cup in hand, gazing out at the still-chilly Brooklyn street.
"Where's Steve off to? Praise the kid once and he vanishes on me," he joked.
"He's feeling down," Eddie said kindly. "You still won't let him enlist, and one of Huang Quan's students—Jack—just passed his army exam today. Steve went to see a movie to clear his head."
Eddie's gentle tone carried a hint of fondness; he had grown to like the pure-hearted young man.
"I'm doing it for his own good," Chen Mo said with a faint smile, leaning back in his chair. "The time's not right yet."
He looked out the window again, eyes narrowing slightly.
"But soon… it will be."