The next morning, the set was surprisingly quiet.

  Usually, there was shouting. There were PAs running for coffee. There was the Director explaining why they needed more "lens flare."

  But today, when Wei stepped onto the mat, the silence was absolute.

  The new "Disciples" (the filtered 40 who had survived the night, plus a very stiff Jax) were lined up in neat rows. They weren't actors anymore. Once you've seen a man defeat an MMA champion by sitting him down like a toddler, you stop acting and starting listening.

  Director Marcus signaled for the cameras to roll. He was expecting another "You Court Death" moment. He wanted a montage of wei yelling at people for holding their teacups wrong.

  Wei did not yell.

  He walked to the center of the room. He looked at the disciples. Then, he turned and looked directly into the main camera lens.

  It wasn't a "TV look". He didn't smile. He didn't wink. He looked *through* the lens, as if he could see every single person sitting on their couch, scrolling on their phone, or hiding in a bathroom stall at work.

  He raised a hand.

  "I am sure you are all enjoying the entertainment," Wei spoke. His voice was level, carrying that strange acoustic quality that made microphones redundant. "You enjoy the memes. You enjoy the spectacle of gravity being defied."

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  In the control booth, Marcus panicked. "Is he breaking the fourth wall? Cut! Cut!"

  Sarah, standing next to him, grabbed his arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong (she had been practicing her Admin Dao).

  "Let him cook," Sarah ordered.

  Wei continued.

  "But starting from now on, every day, for one hour, I will have a 'real' class."

  He adjusted his sleeves.

  "I will teach... everyone that is willing to watch. It will not be the same as being here. The Qi will be thin. The transmission will be pixelated. But if you are willing to listen, willing to learn... I will guide you."

  He lowered his hand. He took a stance. It wasn't a combat stance. It was the "Origin Stance"—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, spine acting as a conduit between heaven and earth.

  "Put down your phone," Wei commanded the world. "Or prop it up. Stand up. Clear a space in your living room. Push aside your coffee table."

  Millions of miles away, in dorm rooms, offices, and gyms, people hesitated. Then, slowly, they stood up.

  "Breathing is the first step," Wei said. "You have forgotten how to breathe. You breathe with your chest, like a panicked rabbit. Today, we breathe with the Dan Tian."

  He placed a hand on his lower abdomen.

  "Inhale," Wei instructed. "Visualize the air not as gas, but as light. Pull it down. Past the lungs. Into the furnace."

  In the studio, Jax inhaled so deeply his ribs creaked.

  In the control booth, Marcus found himself inadvertently straightening his posture.

  On the internet, the comment sections—usually a cesspool of toxicity—went oddly silent.

  Wei held the breath.

  "Hold," he said. "Feel the burn. That is not lack of oxygen. That is the engine starting."

  "Exhale," Wei released it. "Let us begin."