I stand in the rain outside the cotton mill, my hands still warm from the last strike. The Japanese are coming. I can hear the boots on the wet pavement, the sharp commands in a language I refuse to honor. My wife clutches our son, her eyes wide with fear. I told her to run, to go to Hong Kong, but she stayed. For me. For us.

This isn’t about pride anymore. It’s about survival. Lin is gone. Yuan is broken. The arena has taken too many. I didn’t want this fight. But they took my home, my peace, my silence.

Now they’ve taken my students.

Chow told me to hide. Li warned me not to come. But if I don’t stand now, there will be nothing left to pass on. Wing Chun isn’t just a style—it’s a legacy. And I will not let it die in the shadow of a foreign flag.

The door bursts open. Sato steps through, pistol in hand, Miura behind him. The general bows—mockingly.

‘Ip Man,’ he says. ‘We meet at last.’

I don’t bow back.

‘You want a demonstration?’ I say. ‘Let’s give them one.’