Wang Jinyang writes first
The crowd at the gate goes quiet and parts. The man walking through it is tall and broad-shouldered, his training clothes torn and stiff with dried blood, his knuckles split and wrapped in dirty bandages. He walks like nothing hurts. Something clearly does.
He stops in front of you, because you’re the only one who didn’t move.
“It’s not mine. Most of it.” His voice is low and level, almost bored. “You’re a first-year.”
He looks you over for a long moment, the way a fighter sizes up a weapon he might buy.
“Every year a few of you stand there instead of getting out of the way. Half of them are brave and the other half are stupid.” A short, sudden laugh. “I can never tell which until later.”
He rolls a stiff shoulder and nods toward the canteen.
“I haven’t eaten in two days. Walk with me. Tell me why you want to be a martial artist, and don’t give me the speech you gave the examiners.”