Their soundtrack is the rub of fabric, the give of muscle and bone, the hard, earth-tone sounds of hand-to-hand. The Master kneels in the centre and conducts.
“The fight is poetry. Rhythm, cadence, the vocabulary of motion. Scan your opponent, understand his language, and you can deconstruct it.”
The footwork flows around him, characters on the floor. “Feel the rhythm. Iambic, anapestic. Know when you break it, and why. Once you have the rules, throw them away.”
With a rush of air and blank noise, someone crashes to the floor at the Master’s feet. He nods. “You missed a beat.”