Strip Club Ecstasy and Dojo Rivalry
The strip club was a fucking enlightening experience. There aren't many moments in my life that top it. The light touches were a bit of a letdown since that was all they amounted to, but the seductive performances hit me right in the feels. Every sultry move from those strip girls had my dick standing at full attention.
"If you shower them with enough extra cash, you can head to the VIP room for some real fun. Cash only, though."
"How much are we talking?"
"Top tier starts at a minimum of $800. There are some girls who do after-parties too, but looks like none tonight. Shame."
"You still partake, old timer?"
"Kehkeh! Graduated from that scene ten years back. These days, things down there are just too damn wilted."
His gesture toward his crotch as he answered made me pity the poor guy. This old man's masculinity had clearly checked out—he was just a sad sheep now.
Still, the fact that he kept coming to places like this probably meant his wild youth had turned into an unbreakable habit. I made a mental note not to end up a pathetic mess like that when I got old.
"How was it?"
The old man asked as we left the club. How was it?
"Fucking amazing. Thanks, old timer."
"Good. Us young folks need to know how to party like that. My successor back home's a total bookworm—worries me sometimes."
"Haha. What line of work you in?"
"Just running a little business. Time to part ways. Have a fun trip."
"You too, old timer. Oh shit, my bad—I never even asked your name. What's yours?"
"Tsk tsk. We're just passing ships. Names are for strangers who stick."
"You never know when paths cross again. You believe in karma but not fate?"
"Tsk tsk. Fair point. Name's John Doe. What's yours, kid?"
"John Doe? What a fucking weird name. I'm Baek Jaesung. Dungeon hunter from Korea."
"Figures. Take care, Jaesung."
"You too—get home safe."
And with that, we parted. What a fulfilling day.
Return time was creeping up. Couldn't leave the party house empty for too long, so I booked a flight for tomorrow.
"Everett not coming with?"
"Sorry, darling. Got a bit more paperwork to wrap up... I'll be there soon! Won't take a month."
"Can't be helped if work's holding you back."
I'd have preferred flying back with Everett, but she still had loose ends. Sounded like she was prepping for full-on immigration.
"Dungeon hunters get welcomed with open arms anywhere, but their home countries fight tooth and nail against it. The admin hurdles are insane."
Everett said it with real regret in her voice. Hunters like her were national assets—no country wants that talent bleeding out. I'd gotten recruitment pitches from the American Hunter Association myself when I visited.
"So, where to today? LA's a massive city—tons of shit to see."
"Any interest in a dojang?"
She meant a martial arts dojo. Come to think of it, the US was crawling with them. Melting pot of races meant dojos for damn near every martial art worldwide. KHC spots included, naturally.
"I know a guy running an AHC dojo—American Hunter Combat. Wanna widen your horizons and meet him?"
Murray's connections were endless.
AHC was the American Hunter Association's official martial art. Optimized for mana-wielding hunters like KHC, with comparable polish.
Some survey said it was the most-used style among hunters globally. Korea skewed heavy on KHC, but AHC dojos were plentiful there too.
"Sounds fun. As Kim Minyoung's disciple, I can't pass up checking out AHC."
"Ah! Right, darling—you're under Master Kim Minyoung. She'd love that."
Everett smiled. Murray looked a tad awkward.
"Might rub her the wrong way, actually. She's got a real grudge against KHC."
AHC and KHC were rivals of sorts. Not outright hostile, but a weird tension simmered among practitioners. Masters amped up the competitive fire, apparently.
"Grudge blew up after KHC bombed three straight World Martial Arts Tournaments. Her prized disciple lost to a KHC guy last time too. Would be nice if they'd just adopt the good stuff."
"World Martial Arts Tournament!? That thing every four years?"
Jisu perked up cutely, head tilting.
The World Martial Arts Tournament was the global martial world's festival—ranked with the World Cup, Olympics, and F1 as the big four sports events.
It split into hunter and non-hunter divisions, but non-hunters got about as much buzz as women's soccer.
Hunter side pitted mana and martial skills. Categories: sword arts, spear arts, staff arts, bare-hand combat, and open-weight with no weapon limits—the main event.
KHC dominated bare-hand. From what I knew, they'd won six of the last ten. AHC chased in their dust.
"I wanna compete there someday too!"
Jisu was a swordswoman. She'd go sword arts. Her ability was the technique-type Sword Mastery. Perfect martial fit.
For reference, only sub-5-rank dungeon hunters could enter. Korea capped at sub-6-rank to scout rising stars. 6-rank wasn't exactly "newbie," but whatever.
"He's grinding hard for next year's tourney. Your visit could light a fire under him."
Murray said coolly.
"Let's check it out."
Last sightseeing stop: the AHC dojo.
The AHC dojo sat smack in central LA. Looked straight out of a kung fu flick—single-story, Eastern-styled building. Spacious, with trainees' kiais echoing from the entrance. Looked up: sign reading AHC.
Word was AHC drew heavy from Chinese, Japanese, Thai martial arts—Eastern influences galore. Mixed with US military forms and hunter innovations.
Unlike KHC's single-lineage roots, AHC's origins were murky. If you had to pin it, the American Hunter Association was the source.
Inside: about forty trainees spaced out, punching in unison. Straight manga scene.
Fist art drills? The instructor—bald Black guy in his 50s or 60s—called cadence. Fresh vibe.
"One! Two! One! Two!"
""""One! Two! One! Two!""""
Their synchronized punches were kinda fun to watch. Scanning the crowd, they didn't scream "hunters." Open to civilians? Self-defense appeal, probably.
The instructor spotted Murray and softened his stern face.
"Oh! Murray! Long time. Finally signing up?"
"Master Smith. Nah—brought a friend I wanna introduce."
"Hm? Who? Hunter?"
"Yep."
"Oho! Hunters always welcome!"
Smith—arms wide—approached us.
"This the guy? Korean?"
Spot-on. Foreigners usually couldn't tell East Asian faces apart, same as me with Black folks.
He chuckled, reading my mind.
"Studied in Korea five years. Mastered spotting Asian faces. You speak English?"
"Yeah, fluently."
"Smooth. I did five years and my Korean accent's still trash. Anyway, welcome to LA AHC! Sign-up's over there."
"Not signing up. Just here to check out AHC."
His face shifted—not annoyed, intrigued. He stared me down.
"You practice KHC?"
I thumbed myself confidently.
"Guess who my master is—you'd flip. Kim Minyoung."
"Hm... That Master Kim I know?"
Everett jumped in.
"Yep. Her disciple. Impressive, right?"
"What!? Damn! That woman's taking disciples now? Unbelievable."
Suddenly, Smith's eyes turned sharp, scanning me top to bottom. Hostile glare.
"Truth be told, I don't like KHC. And I'm one who believes AHC's superior."
"Talk's cheap without proof."
My teasing jab made him clench his fists.
"This time's different! My top disciple's prepping special for next year's tourney!"
Confidence dripped from his voice. What made him so cocky? Suddenly, the World Martial Arts Tournament piqued my interest.
Maybe I should enter?
About a year left. Korean entrants hovered around 6-rank usually—I'd need to match that.
Piece of cake for me. Could tag-team with Jisu.
As I mulled it, Smith whipped around, booming:
"Training ends here today! Review those moves at home—down to the last detail!"
""""Yes, Master!""""
He dismissed the trainees, then fixed his fighting-spirit gaze on me. Battle lust burned bright.
"VIP from KHC? Gotta give a proper welcome. Let me introduce my prized disciple."