On the third floor of the small building, deep on the left side, hung a sign reading "Principal's Office." Inside, the air was thick with steam, and a man in his fifties with jet-black hair was beginning his day with a tea ceremony.

Opposite him sat a slouching old man, seventy or eighty years old, dressed in a worn white undershirt. His hair was completely white, but his face bore few wrinkles.

The old man sat with his eyes half-closed, nostrils flaring as if savoring the drifting aroma of tea:

"Ah, ah, ah-choo!"

A loud sneeze shook the entire office, making the black-haired, suit-clad man’s hand tremble so much he nearly flung the purple clay teapot.

"Can’t you be quiet for five minutes?" the suited man said irritably.

The white-haired old man rubbed his nose. "If you were pouring wine instead of making tea, I’d be as quiet as your old dog at home."

"Alright, alright. If you can lead the Martial Arts Club to the national tournament, you can pick any bottle from my wine cabinet or cellar. If you make it to the top eight, pick three bottles. If you win the championship, I’ll let you in to drink for a whole night!" The suited man waved his hand as if giving a speech. "As the principal, and as a martial arts enthusiast, this is probably my last chance to see Song University’s Martial Arts Club rise again!"

Gulp. The old man in the white undershirt swallowed, gave a dry laugh, and said:

"It’s a deal! Actually, we’ve been brothers all our lives. Even if you didn’t say anything, I’d have to help, wouldn’t I?"

"Just wait for my good news!"

After watching the seventy- or eighty-year-old man leave the office, the principal waited a full five minutes before picking up the phone and dialing a number:

"Hello, Luna? Your dad hasn’t changed his mind."

"Don’t worry, I guarantee he’ll have something to do, something to care about, and he won’t just waste away at home anymore."

"No need to thank me. Your dad and I have been friends since we were in split-crotch pants!"

……

By the lakeside grove, the old man gazed at the rippling water, his ears twitching slightly. He took a sip from his metal flask, sighed, and broke into a smile.

……

Inside the Martial Arts Club gym, since it was the first martial arts class, there were quite a few members present—even Peter Parker from Eric Dawson’s dorm showed up.

Lifting his head and looking around, Eric Dawson searched for Grace Bennett, ignoring Brian Carter beside him, which made Brian Carter mutter under his breath, "You care more about girls than your bros!"

As he looked around, Eric Dawson spotted a familiar figure—Grace Bennett was walking out of the women’s locker room.

Her black hair was tied up, and she wore a plain white martial arts uniform, with a dragon-and-tiger emblem swirling on her chest—another version of the "Dragon Tiger Club" uniform.

Their eyes met, and both noticed what the other was wearing, sharing a knowing smile.

Just as Eric Dawson was about to go over and say hello, the burly, broad-shouldered Martial Arts Club president David Brooks, with eyebrows like flying insects, and the tall, clean-cut Ethan Dawson came out of the men’s locker room one after the other. Both had their lips pressed tightly together, and the atmosphere between them was tense.

"Everyone, line up where you are. The new instructor will be here soon," David Brooks stood at the front of the group and called out in a strong voice.

Thanks to military training, everyone quickly lined up. Ethan Dawson casually took a spot at the front of Eric Dawson’s row. David Brooks shot him an angry glare, but he didn’t react.

At that moment, a shadow appeared at the entrance of the gym, and then an elderly man walked in. He wore a worn white undershirt, his hair completely white, but his skin was in decent shape, with fewer wrinkles than expected.

"Mr. Shaw." David Brooks went up to greet him.

Old Shaw nodded slightly, motioned for him to join the line, then stood at the front of the group and coughed twice:

"My surname is Shi, as in ‘to give’ (施). Starting today, I’ll be your martial arts coach, you little rascals. You can call me Coach Shaw, or Old Shaw. I’m not one for putting on airs—easygoing and approachable, respect the old and care for the young."

Respect the old and care for the young… Respect the old? Hard to find anyone older than you, right? Eric Dawson glanced at Brian Carter, silently mocking in his mind. Little Mark clearly had the same thought.

Old Shaw continued with a smile:

"In November, the regional rounds of the ‘National University Martial Arts Tournament’ will begin. The principal hopes we can surpass last year’s results. So, just three martial arts classes a week obviously isn’t enough. I plan to gather those of you with the potential to be main fighters for special training—one session every day, from 8 a.m. to noon. Don’t worry, the principal has already agreed: for everyone in special training, your morning classes will be rescheduled to the same courses at other times, like in the evening."

At these words, everyone was taken aback and immediately began whispering among themselves.

"Training every morning, no holidays… heh, where’s the time for games, for dating, for relaxing?" Brian Carter muttered under his breath.

Freshman courses weren’t too heavy, but with every morning devoted to martial arts, and the rest of the time taken up by classes and sleep, there was precious little free time left.

Eric Dawson listened to the discussions around him, falling into a strange silence, only responding to Brian Carter with a couple of "mm-hm"s.

Taking the opportunity, Old Shaw pulled out a roster and called out in a hoarse voice: