The "Judo Dojo" wasn't a generic term here—it was the actual name of this place.

Logically, who'd dare name their dojo like that? It was practically spitting on fellow dojos!

But this dojo dared, for one reason alone: its master ranked 68th on the global martial arts leaderboard—the King of Judo! That alone justified the name.

Yet today, the dojo suddenly received a strange guest...

Disciples trained as usual inside. In truth, they were all renowned experts—only they earned the privilege of learning from the King.

The King sat on a chair at the back. Just his presence radiated overwhelming pressure.

He always did this, yet effortlessly spotted flaws in all thirty-plus disciples.

Just as afternoon training began, the main door was shoved open!

Yes, shoved open. During sessions, it was barred with a wooden plank to avoid disturbances—though just an ordinary dojo door. Forcing it open meant this person either had urgent business or came to challenge the dojo!

Sensing trouble, all disciples turned to the door. Only the King remained unfazed.

The dojo fell silent. Then, a small figure stepped in.

It was a child, seemingly just started elementary school. Fiery red hair framed a face with big, crimson eyes.

The kid entered but spotted the broken door bar. Suddenly, their expression shifted—anyone could see pure panic.

Sure enough, the child blurted, "Sorry! I didn't know your dojo's door was defective like my master's!"

Bowing at a 90-degree angle, they added, "Had I known, I'd have knocked. I thought it wasn't barred. Anyway, sorry! For compensation, ask my master."

The voice was standard childlike—adorably cute, enough to heal hearts if it were a little loli. But right now, every disciple felt deeply unsettled.

What? This was a smash-and-grab, no doubt—a blatant provocation!

They instantly recalled how even they couldn't snap that sturdy door plank. How could a child? Ah, must be the master's doing—the kid was psychological warfare. With that thought, they calmed.

So the master must be hostile. To test the waters, a disciple near the kid started questioning.

"Little one, what's your name? How old? Why here? Lost from family?"

He reeked of creepy uncle vibes—yep, fishing for info, ready to use tricks or lollipops.

Just as the disciple admired his cleverness, the kid spoke: "Oh, I'm Yan Yi, 8 years old. My master sent me to challenge this dojo."

Oh, so the master really came to challenge... Wait—did this brat mean...

Creepy uncle tried again: "Yan Yi, is your master here to challenge? Where is he?"

Yan Yi tilted his head, seemingly confused: "Uncle, he went to buy wine. Said to finish fast or I'd miss dinner. So, can we hurry?"

Yan Yi said this naturally, as if truly here to challenge.

"Hahaha!..." Disciples burst out laughing. Seriously, a kid this small challenging the King of Judo's dojo? No wonder it was hilarious.

But they all forgot—the door, the vanguard, had already...

Yan Yi looked at these weirdly laughing uncles, suddenly remembering something. He clapped: "Master told me how to handle this—like this—"

In an instant, Yan Yi appeared before the creepy uncle. The disciple flew off mid-laugh—yes, flew! The judo expert was thrown straight through the roof, leaving a huge hole. And that was it.

Laughter died instantly. Many froze with smiles still on their faces. Over thirty pairs of eyes stared at the hole.

Oh my god! The dojo was ten meters high! An 8-year-old threw a grown man over ten meters up!

"Oh, I remember what to say next—" At this, everyone turned to Yan Yi. He looked up, thumb pointing down: "Frankly, all of you here are trash."

Disciples instantly raged. Pride as experts made them forget their thrown-out teammate.

"Brat, what did you say!" A hot-tempered disciple yelled. But then he blacked out—he'd already been thrown by Yan Yi.

Yan Yi smiled slightly. It was the joy of battle, natural excitement bubbling up.

"Wha—" Continuous strikes followed. Yan Yi moved like a ghost, appearing and vanishing before disciples. One by one, they flew—smashing roofs, piercing walls. In under a minute, all thirty-plus were out of commission!

Yan Yi threw the last conscious disciple straight toward the King of Judo!

The King's calm face didn't change. He extended one hand and caught the disciple mid-air.

The disciple, flying at high speed, seemed to lose all momentum when caught—as if gently resting on the King's palm.

As the King of Judo, his force control was masterful. He effortlessly neutralized the opponent's power.

The King glanced at Yan Yi. He wouldn't underestimate him for his size—he knew some kids made that leaderboard. Monsters, even he might not beat them.

The King slowly stood up. Clearly, with all disciples down, he'd take matters into his own hands.

"Huh? Under Wudang Shan?" Yan Yi's confused remark nearly made the King slip.

*I don't practice that grandpa-style tai chi! And you're not even an elementary student? Can't read the plaque?* the King thought bitterly, keeping his calm facade.

"Brat, who's your master?" The King's steady voice confirmed he was a true powerhouse.

"Oh, my master? Just a grumpy old man," Yan Yi thought. "And a big drunk."

The King couldn't guess who. After all, many martial artists shared these traits—was the martial world beyond saving?

"Oh, right! Master also said—" Yan Yi clapped again. "If you can't beat my disciple, what right do you have to know my name! You Zaku!"