The repetitive thumping didn’t bother Meng anymore.He got used to the constant murmuring sounds after a while. He’d been living in his apartment under the Manhattan bridge for over thirty years. Even though his place vibrated occasionally, he was oblivious to the repetitive noise from the vehicles above. Meng couldn’t be picky. He had gotten a deal on the place from the landlord due to a favor from back in the day.

People didn’t know for sure, but they always thought there was something different or odd about him. He was supposed to work in the dry cleaners downstairs, but it was frequently closed. How could someone afford to keep a business operating when they’re only open twice a week?

People talked. They said that Meng ran a special kind of dry cleaners. A place where people came if they needed special assistance. People who needed protection. They went here when they were tired of extortion. When they could not turn to the police. At first, the people only came from within Chinatown in Manhattan, but after a while, they came from Flushing and Sunset Park. People talked. Soon, others came to see the man who supposedly worked in dry cleaners that was never really open.

People thought Meng was weird. You could spot his silhouette during midnight or twilight hours, at a nearby schoolyard practicing what looked like kung fu. There were others who said that he often walked in train tunnels, writing on walls and that was the reason why he always had stained hands. Then, there were other evenings, when he could be seen stumbling through the streets, yelling at the sky, drinking a bottle of something.

On this evening, there was no paint on Meng’s hands, only the scent of onions as he washes a few dishes in the sink. Meng was not imposing. He was not a tall man. There was noticeable strength in his arms. He had cut his hair off years ago, not due to any fad. His spectacles, goatee and delicate mustache would cause you to believe he did some type of technical work. But if you got closer, if you studied his face, you could see the scars on his lip, neck, eyelids, and hands.

Meng stops washing. He looks towards his living room window and his attention rests on a blinking sign that illuminated his apartment in the evenings. He thinks on his pupil. He had put this day off for some time. He couldn’t prolong the assignment any longer.

The knock at the door was familiar. “Perfect timing,” Meng thought to himself. Arious has a key, but he rarely uses it. The door was usually unlocked and he often made uninvited visits to Meng’s apartment. Meng looks towards the door as Arious makes his way to the kitchen and flicks on a light. The two greet each other with a dap. Meng returns his attention towards his dishes.

“There was a disturbance this afternoon. Many police officers” says Meng.

Arious smiles and takes a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Your confidence is growing. This is good. But keep in mind, your confidence may cause you trouble. Remember, move in silence. How do you think things went this afternoon?”

“Okay, I guess. Trust, those motherfuckers didn’t see me coming. I was everywhere. I smothered the shit out of them”

Meng turns toward Masternever while drying his hands.

“Oh really. Your performance overall?”

“If I had to grade myself, I’d say, an ‘A’ minus.”

Meng smiles. He looks Masternever up and down. He leans close and sees a hole in his pants, with trickles of dried blood.

“You were shot.”

Meng leans back and shakes his head.

“I think you barely passed the test.”

“There were like eleven guys. All of them had guns!”

“When a Neverending Master utilizes the Wind of the Rain technique correctly, he — should — not — be — touched,” says Meng, pointing a finger in the air.

Masternever leans back against the wall and shakes his head.

“Okay then, a ‘B+’” says Masternever.

Meng smiles and tosses his towel into the sink. He reaches for a bottle of water on counter and drinks.

“How long did it take you?”

“Couldn’t have been more than one minute.”

Meng nodded in approval. “Did you use any other styles?”

“Fist of the Wind! And then I used the Bronze Mirror Technique briefly. You should have seen this guy, I know that guy broke his arm trying to hit me.”

“What else? Any other styles?”

Arious sighed, hunching his shoulder.

“I can get so much done with Fist of the Wind.”

Meng gave him an inquisitive glare and places his bottle on the counter. He takes a plate off the counter and motions for Arious to follow him.

“We eating? What did you make?”

“Come with me,” says Meng.

Meng’s living room is simple. There’s a reupholstered couch, a small television mounted on a table, and near the window, a wooden altar of our beloved master, Guan Yu. Meng places his plate on the coffee table and proceeds to sit in front of the altar. Arious joins him, kneeling near the statue. The fluorescent red light illuminates Meng’s face, which bears regret. He reveals a long wooden box, which had been aged. Arious’s eyes light up. He recognizes the carvings, on the box — he realizes that he was looking at The Scroll of The Masters.

In the past, the two had many discussion about the great scroll, listing the masters and their styles. It was the first time that Arious had actually seen it. Meng unravels and places it on the floor gently. Although Arious had learned basic forms of Forgotten Hand, he still could not the document in its entirety. It was written in the mystical style known as Forgotten Hand. Arious traces the writing with his fingertips. He recognizes the section of writing that indicates Meng’s style Wind of the Rain.

All of the masters who have carried on the tradition of the Neverending Masters are listed here” explains Meng “Each master is listed along with the fighting style they have mastered. Each master, including myself, has made a contribution to this legacy. You have yet to contribute. It is time for you to contribute your style to the scroll.”

“My style? I haven’t given it much thought. You mentioned this in the past, but I thought this was years away. I don’t even think that I’m ready. I don’t even have anything to add.”

“That is where you are wrong my friend. You, like every other Neverending Master, has something to pass onto the next. When it was my time, I was unsure of myself to a degree.”

Arious looks intently at the scroll. “Will you teach me how to read this?”

“If you need help deciphering the Scroll of the Masters, you should find the creator!”

“You didn’t write this?” asks Arious.

“The creator of the Scroll of the Masters is the one who helped me develop my style and helped all of the masters before me. He is known as the Style Master. His name is Majid.”

“Majid. Majid…”

Arious repeats the name several more time and conjures images of visiting distant land to find me. Meng stands and Arious does the same. “So, I have to go to China to find him?”

“No.”

Meng walks towards the window and he thinks on the night when he received a similar task years ago. “It is your job to find Majid. He is here in New York City.”

Arious’s eyes widen and he steps towards Meng.

“Majid will help you read and write the scroll text. He will also work with you to develop your style. For this has already been written. You will find him as I did, years ago. My master gave me a similar task. This is a journey that you will make alone. Without my guidance. I say this to you as a friend and teacher — know that this journey, to add your style to the great scroll, it will not be easy. It will be one filled with difficulties, disappointments, and heartaches. However, it is a necessary journey. One that every Neverending Master must make.”

“Where do I find Majid?

Meng smirks, walks towards the coffee table and removes the lid from his plate. He gazes at Arious briefly and then sits on his couch. He says nothing for over a minute, while he sits and eats.Arious starts to ask a question, but Meng responds by turning on the television. Arious looks down at the scroll and holds it in his hands. He feels a sudden surge of energy well within him. Arious walks towards the door and looks back at Meng once more. He turns off the kitchen light and exits.

Meng sighs and turns off the television. He sits thinking in the intermittent darkness. He’s hopeful, just as his master was hopeful for him, years ago.