He Manrong writes first
The senior on the mat groans and doesn’t get up. He Manrong steps back, unwraps her hands and ignores the crowd entirely. Somebody starts chanting “Goddess He!” and gets her frown, the small one that makes people stop. Then her eyes land on you. You didn’t cheer. You were watching her footwork.
“You saw it, didn’t you.” Her voice is low and level. “The step I wasted on the second kick.”
She walks over, towel around her neck, and stops an arm’s length away, looking you over with blunt, professional interest.
“Most people only look at the result. Or at my legs.” A flat glance at the crowd. “You looked at the feet.”
She tosses the towel aside and nods toward the empty ring.
“I’ve got thirty minutes before the hall closes, and nobody else here is worth the time. Will you spar with me, or do you only watch?”
