Chào các bạn! Vì nhiều lý do từ nay Truyen2U chính thức đổi tên là Truyen247.Pro. Mong các bạn tiếp tục ủng hộ truy cập tên miền mới này nhé! Mãi yêu... ♥

𝙈𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙮 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙄𝙄

Johnny couldn't believe his eyes.

Kreese, the man who had shaped his life for better and worse, stood in front of him like a ghost from his past. For years, Johnny had thought Kreese was dead. Until Michael admitted the truth.

Maybe a part of him had hoped it was true.

"You know," Johnny growled, narrowing his eyes at the older man, "I thought you were dead."

Kreese's face broke into a grin, calm and collected as ever. "You ain't the only one, kid. It's good to see you."

Without warning, Johnny launched himself at Kreese, fists flying in a storm of rage. He swung a hard right, but Kreese sidestepped effortlessly, countering with a swift elbow that struck Johnny's ribs. They scuffled, crashing into the shelves of the dojo.

"Still got that hot temper, huh?" Kreese taunted, a smirk curling his lips. "But I like that. I like that."

Johnny shoved Kreese back, panting. "Shut up."

Kreese chuckled, circling around Johnny. "I bet that's why your student is the champion now. They fight like you did. Like I trained you. And my grandson."

At the mention of Zeke, Johnny's blood boiled. He swung again, but Kreese caught his wrist, twisting it painfully before Johnny broke free with a hard elbow to Kreese's face.

"You forgot," Kreese said, barely fazed by the blow, his voice dripping with arrogance. "I taught you everything you know."

Johnny wiped the sweat from his brow, glaring. "Not everything."

Kreese nodded, impressed. "Not bad, Mr. Lawrence. Not bad. But look, I don't want to fight."

"Yeah?" Johnny spat, his fists still clenched. "About what? How you taught me to fight dirty? How you broke my second-place trophy? How you tried to kill me?"

Kreese gave a small laugh and shook his head. "I never tried to kill you, Johnny."

Fueled by years of pent-up rage, Johnny lunged at Kreese again, locking him in a tight headlock. But in the process, the cigar Kreese had been smoking earlier slipped from his grip and fell into a nearby trash can, the embers igniting the paper inside.

"Go to hell, you son of a..." Johnny hissed, tightening the hold, rage blinding him.

But suddenly, he hesitated. All the memories came rushing back—the fear, the pain, the twisted loyalty he'd once felt toward this man. He froze, his grip loosening just for a second.

Kreese sensed Johnny's momentary weakness and capitalized on it. "Showing mercy to an old man, huh? That's very honorable."

And with a sudden, brutal motion, Kreese broke free, twisting out of the headlock before sweeping Johnny's leg, sending him crashing to the floor. "And stupid."

As Johnny hit the ground, a crackling sound grew louder—the fire from the trash can had spread. Flames danced up the wall, licking the edges of the Cobra Kai posters. The dojo was quickly filling with smoke. The smoke alarm blared, and water began to spray from the ceiling.

🐍

At a local restaurant, the Cobra Kai gang was celebrating Miguel's All Valley Championship victory. The energy was high, laughter echoing through the place, as Aisha, Hawk, Moon, and Demetri gathered at one table. But at a separate booth in the back, Zeke sat with Miguel, trying to lift his friend's spirits.

Miguel, however, was staring blankly at his phone. "She blocked me, man," he muttered, scrolling through his messages.

Zeke leaned back in his chair, trying to seem nonchalant. "Who cares? She's probably out with that guy." He didn't bother sugarcoating it—and it was time Miguel accepted it.

Miguel's eyes flickered with frustration. "Do you have to keep bringing that up?"

Zeke shrugged. "I'm just telling it how it is. You need to move on, man. You're the champ now—there's plenty of other girls out there."

At the other table, Aisha was holding up her phone, recording a video of their small celebration. She pointed the camera at Hawk, Moon, and Demetri, all of whom were munching on nachos.

"So you might be wondering what a team does after they win the championship," Aisha said to the camera, grinning. "The answer? Victory nachos!"

"It was supposed to be drinks, but the waitress wasn't feeling Hawk's fake ID."

Hawk shot a glare at Aisha. "Hey, don't talk about that! My parents follow you on Instagram."

Aisha smirked. "Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Moskowitz. Anyway, until next time—no mercy, bitches."

Demetri, feeling bold, leaned in. "I gotta say, it's nice to be at a victory party for once."

Hawk didn't miss a beat. "Yeah, except you had nothing to do with the victory."

Demetri blinked, taken aback. "Well, then I consider it a belated party for the coding competition we won at computer camp. Remember?"

Hawk shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Cool it with the nerd shit, huh?"

Aisha glanced over at the table in the back. "Hey, where's Miguel? His wings are getting cold."

Zeke and Miguel were still sitting, Miguel lost in thought. His phone felt heavier than ever, the weight of Sam's silence settling on him.

"She blocked me," Miguel repeated.

"Who cares?" Zeke responded, his voice firm. "You don't need her, man."

Miguel didn't answer, but the pain was clear on his face.

Hawk, having overheard the conversation, walked over. "There you are. This is how you celebrate a first-place trophy?"

Miguel looked up, frustration edging his voice. "She blocked me."

Hawk rolled his eyes. "So what? You get blocked, you counter-punch."

Miguel shook his head. "It's no use, man. I blew any shot I had with her."

Aisha, now standing beside them, offered a kinder approach. "Just give Sam some time. She'll come around."

Zeke, on the other hand, wasn't having it. "Or she won't. Look, you're the champ now, Miguel. You can get any chick in the Valley you want."

Hawk grinned. "Yeah, man, you're like Drake. Enjoy it."

Miguel sighed, the joke doing little to lift his spirits. "I'm not sure I wanna be Drake."

Aisha chuckled. "Don't worry—you're not."

Zeke chimed in, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I've always been more of a Kendrick fan, anyway."

The tension lightened slightly, with even Miguel managing a small smile. But then, out of the corner of his eye, Zeke spotted something—or rather, someone. His eyes widened.

"Shit," Zeke muttered.

Miguel followed his gaze. "What?"

Zeke nodded toward a blonde waitress standing behind the bar. "That's my ex. The blonde. Cassidy."

Hawk turned to look, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Over there? Damn, dude, she's hot! How'd you mess that up?"

Zeke grimaced. "I didn't mess up anything. It's a long story."

Cassidy finished taking a family's order and caught sight of Zeke. Her expression shifted slightly, but she sauntered over to the group with a confident smirk.

"Well, well," she said, her tone teasing as she stopped at Zeke's table. "If it isn't Zeke Kreese. Didn't expect to see you here."

Zeke leaned back, keeping his cool. "Cassidy, meet my friends. This is Miguel—and Hawk."

Cassidy turned her attention to Miguel, flashing him a charming smile. "Hey, champ. Nice work out there. I saw you in the semis."

Miguel gave a modest nod. "Thanks. It was a tough fight."

Zeke turned back to Cassidy. "Well, you look good."

Cassidy smirked. "You look better."

She laughed lightly, but then her tone became more serious as she critiqued his performance at the tournament. "You could've been quicker on that last round. And your stance? You were leaving your right side wide open."

Hawk, impressed by her knowledge, raised an eyebrow. "Who are you?"

Cassidy crossed her arms, looking pleased with herself. "I took a few classes at Topanga. Had to drop out after I kicked some kid's tooth out. He had it coming, though."

Hawk's eyes widened in admiration. "Badass."

But before the conversation could continue, Cassidy's boss called out from behind the counter, his tone impatient. Cassidy rolled her eyes. "I gotta get back to work. See you around, Zeke?"

Zeke smirked. "Yeah, probably. See you, Cass."

With a final nod, Cassidy headed back to the bar. As she left, Hawk leaned over to Zeke, grinning. "Dude, she should totally join Cobra Kai."

🐍

Johnny stepped into Smitty's Diner, the scent of greasy food and coffee hitting him the moment he walked through the door. The place was nearly empty, save for a few old-timers nursing cups of coffee in the corner. His eyes landed on Michael Kreese, seated at a booth in the back, sipping on a coffee, calm and collected as ever. The sight of him immediately put Johnny on edge. This was a man whose father had caused him no small amount of grief, and he wasn't in the mood for whatever game Michael was about to play.

Michael looked up with a grin when Johnny approached. "Johnny, thanks for coming," he said smoothly, gesturing for him to sit down.

Johnny didn't sit. He stood across from Michael, arms crossed, his expression hard. "Let's make this fast," he said, his voice gruff. "How the hell did you get my number, and why was your Dad at my dojo?"

Michael leaned back in his seat, chuckling softly as if Johnny's questions were an amusing inconvenience. "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny," he said, shaking his head. "You just got here, man. Why don't you grab a coffee, get some caffeine, and unwind a bit?"

"I don't need to unwind," Johnny growled. "What the hell do you want?"

Michael sighed, setting his cup down with a soft clink. "Johnny, I wanted to talk to you about... joining forces. You and me. Coming back to Cobra Kai, together."

Johnny stared at him, taken aback by the suggestion. "What?"

Michael's eyes lit up as he leaned forward, his voice taking on a persuasive, almost nostalgic tone. "Johnny, think about it. Our society? It's gone soft. Kids today are coddled. They get trophies just for showing up. No competition, no fire." He paused for a moment, as if letting the weight of his words sink in.

"Don't you miss it?" Michael continued, his voice growing more impassioned. "The competition? The thrill? Us, back in the day—me, you, the boys. We'd ride our bikes around, chanting 'Cobra Kai' like we owned the world. You remember that feeling, right? The adrenaline, the power? I miss it, Johnny. I want to feel that again. And I want to help you make Cobra Kai what it's meant to be."

Johnny narrowed his eyes, his arms still crossed over his chest. "That's a nice little speech," he said, unimpressed. "But you're a lawyer. What the hell do you need Cobra Kai for?"

Michael grinned, as if he'd been waiting for that question. "Who's to say I can't multitask? Being a lawyer's just one part of it. But Cobra Kai? That's in my blood. Just like it's in yours." He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Look, Johnny, I think we can help you. Just like you've helped my son."

Johnny's jaw clenched at the mention of Zeke. "Yeah, your son dislocated some kid's shoulder and acted like an asshole. I didn't teach him that."

Michael's smirk deepened. "You mean Robby Keene, your son?" he asked, his tone casual but cutting.

Johnny's face darkened instantly. "How the hell do you know that?" he snapped.

Michael chuckled, raising his hands as if to ease the tension. "I'm a lawyer, Johnny. I know these things." His eyes glinted with amusement. "What's up with that, anyway? Your son training with Daniel LaRusso? Has hell frozen over or something?"

Johnny's anger flared, but he tried to push it down. "Robby doesn't want to speak to me. It doesn't matter."

Michael leaned back in his seat, his expression shifting into something almost sympathetic. "Johnny, we just want to help," he said, his voice softer now, more calculated. "We know what you're dealing with. You're building something special with Cobra Kai, but there are some things you can't do on your own."

Johnny glared at him, sensing the manipulation in Michael's tone. "You keep saying 'we,'" he said. "Why's that?"

Michael's expression remained calm, but his next words dropped like a bomb. "Because my father wants to help too. We both do."

Johnny's stomach churned at the mention of Kreese. His mind instantly flashed back to the dojo earlier that evening—Kreese, standing there, looking like he'd crawled out of some hellhole, spouting off about Cobra Kai being back on top.

"No," Johnny said flatly, shaking his head. "Hell no."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Why not? Think about it. The founder of Cobra Kai teaming up with the current sensei? That's the kind of power no one can touch. Your dojo would be unstoppable."

Johnny slammed his hand down on the table, startling the few patrons nearby. "The same man who tried to *kill* me?" Johnny's voice was rising, his anger bubbling up with every word. "The same man who made your life hell? You think I'd let him anywhere near my dojo?"

Michael's voice remained calm, almost soothing. "That was a long time ago, Johnny. People change. It's like I told you before, he's harmless."

"Not Kreese," Johnny shot back, his voice dripping with venom. "He doesn't change. I'm not letting your dad anywhere near my kids. I already have one Kreese in my dojo, and I'm not having any more."

Michael's calm facade started to crack, a hint of frustration flickering across his face. "Johnny, you don't understand. You can't do this alone."

Johnny leaned in, his eyes blazing with fury. "I don't need your help. I sure as hell don't need *his* help."

Michael, sensing he was losing control of the conversation, tried one last time. "You might not think you do, but your students... they need the guidance. The world needs Cobra Kai."

Johnny cut him off, his voice deadly quiet now. "Tell your dad to stay away from my students. You understand? He already ruined my life. There's only one sensei in Cobra Kai now. Me. And that's how it's gonna stay."

Michael opened his mouth to argue, but Johnny was already turning on his heel, storming out of the diner without another word. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Michael alone in the booth, his fingers drumming thoughtfully on the table.

Cobra Kai didn't need Kreese. It never had. And it never would again.

Or at least that's what he thought.

🐍

Zeke Kreese pulled a bright red jacket off the hanger in his closet, admiring the old Cobra Kai logo emblazoned on the back. It was an original design, one his dad had given him. The jacket was a piece of history, a remnant of the days when Cobra Kai was feared across the Valley. Zeke ran his fingers over the patch, feeling a swell of pride before throwing the jacket on and grabbing his sunglasses. He smirked at his reflection in the mirror. It wasn't just about karate for him. It was about power—about proving he was better, stronger, tougher than anyone else.

He threw on his shades and headed out to the garage, where his dirt bike stood waiting. It had been a gift from his dad a few months back, but Zeke hadn't found the time to ride it until now. He revved the engine, feeling the raw energy beneath him as the bike roared to life. The thrill of it made his blood pump faster, excitement rushing through him. He tore out of the driveway and headed for the dojo, the wind whipping against his face as he raced through the streets.

When Zeke pulled up to Cobra Kai, he saw Hawk and Miguel walking toward the dojo. They turned at the sound of his bike, their eyes widening.

"Nice ride," Hawk said, his voice filled with admiration.

"Yeah," Zeke replied, smirking beneath his shades. "It's a gift from my old man. You guys should think about getting some bikes."

Hawk grinned. "Well, I get my license next week."

"Uh-huh," Miguel said, nodding.

"My mom's gonna give me her Sentra," Hawk continued, his tone excited. "But I'm thinking about putting a blue racing stripe down the middle. Hood to tail."

Zeke chuckled. "Subtle. I like it."

As they walked toward the dojo, they noticed a couple of kids standing awkwardly by the door, staring at the building like they were contemplating stepping into a lion's den.

"Looks like we've got some new meat," Zeke said, his voice low with amusement.

"Fresh fish," Hawk added with a sly grin.

The two kids, Chris and Mitch, noticed them approaching and straightened up nervously.

"It's the champs!" Chris exclaimed, clearly impressed. Mitch's eyes were wide as he pointed at Zeke.

"That's the guy who broke that one dude's shoulder," Mitch said in awe.

Hawk smirked and puffed out his chest. "Check this out," he said, taking a step toward them, but Miguel grabbed his arm.

"Don't," Miguel warned.

Zeke wasn't about to let the opportunity slip away. He leaned toward the new recruits, his voice low and intimidating. "So you guys wanna be Cobra Kais, huh?"

Mitch and Chris exchanged nervous glances. "Y-Yeah," Chris stammered.

"You got a long road ahead of you," Hawk added, stepping forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Zeke, their presence casting a shadow over the two younger kids.

The three boys entered the dojo, but the moment they stepped inside, they froze. The place was a mess. Burn marks scorched the walls, broken glass littered the floor, and the air smelled faintly of smoke.

"What the hell happened here?" Zeke asked, his eyes scanning the room in disbelief.

Aisha, already inside, crossed her arms as she surveyed the damage. "Looks like Sensei threw a party," she said with a shrug.

"Must've been pretty sick if fire got involved," Hawk muttered, kicking aside some of the broken glass.

Zeke's brow furrowed. "Look how much glass there is."

"I wonder why he didn't invite us," Hawk joked.

Before they could speculate further, Johnny appeared from his office, his face twisted in anger. "Quiet!" he barked, his voice sharp. The students snapped to attention.

"The dojo's closed to new students today," Johnny said, his tone cold.

Mitch and Chris, eager to impress, stammered out an explanation. "We just wanted to sign up after we saw the tournament."

Johnny's eyes blazed with irritation. "Do I need to say it again? Get out."

Mitch and Chris nodded frantically. "Yes, sir. Sensei."

Johnny waved them off. "Come on, let's go. Move it. Come back tomorrow—and bring your checkbooks."

Once the younger kids were gone, Johnny's gaze swept over his remaining students. "Everyone, fall in."

The Cobra Kai students hurried to form a line, but Johnny's eyes were locked on Hawk, Zeke, and Miguel. He stormed toward them, his face filled with disappointment.

"Must've been a rager, Sensei," Hawk said with a nervous chuckle.

"Yeah, were you celebrating all weekend?" Aisha added.

"Celebrating what?" Johnny snapped. "My students are a bunch of pussies." He pointed at the trio. "Diaz, Hawk, Kreese—up front!"

The boys exchanged uneasy glances before stepping forward.

"Kreese," Johnny growled, his eyes boring into Zeke. "Did you attack your opponent when his back was turned?"

Zeke met Johnny's gaze without flinching. "Yes, Sensei."

Johnny shifted his attention to Miguel. "Diaz, did you purposely attack your opponent's injury?"

Miguel nodded, his voice low. "Yes, Sensei."

Finally, Johnny turned to Hawk. "Hawk, did you move in on your friend's girl and act like a big man when you did it?"

Hawk opened his mouth to respond, but Zeke cut him off. "We're past that, Sensei."

Johnny's face darkened. "You think that makes you badass?" he asked, his voice dangerous. "What's the matter, too tough a question?"

The room was tense, silent. Johnny looked around at his students, then called Aisha forward. "Ms. Robinson."

"Yes, Sensei," Aisha replied, stepping up confidently.

Johnny paced back and forth, his hands clenched into fists. "Two cobras in the jungle," he began, his voice low. "One kills the strongest lion. The other kills a crippled monkey. Which cobra do you want to be?"

"The one that kills the lion, Sensei," Aisha answered without hesitation.

Johnny nodded. "And why is that?"

Aisha straightened her posture. "Because it killed a stronger animal."

"Correct," Johnny said, his voice rising. "Cobra Kai is about being badass. And the baddest badass is the one who beats his opponent when he's at his strongest—not when his back is turned, not when he's injured, and not when he's at his lowest. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sensei," the students echoed.

"That means no more cheating," Johnny declared, his voice stern. "No more fighting dirty. From here on out, those are pussy moves, and you don't want to be pussies, do you?"

"No, Sensei," the students chanted back.

Johnny's eyes landed back on Zeke, Miguel, and Hawk. "Good. That's why I had you wear white belts today—we're starting over."

Zeke's eyes widened in disbelief. "What the fuck?" he muttered under his breath.

"Quiet!" Johnny snapped. "Kreese, Diaz, Hawk—50 push-ups on your knuckles."

The boys hesitated for a moment, but Johnny's glare left no room for argument. "Ms. Robinson, warm them up."

"Yes, Sensei," Aisha said, taking her place in front of the class.

As Zeke got down to start his push-ups, Miguel nudged him and gestured toward Johnny's office. The two of them quickly stood up and made their way to the back, leaving Hawk to continue the punishment alone.

"Sensei," Miguel began, his voice calm but frustrated. "Can we talk to you about something?"

Johnny didn't look up from the papers on his desk. "What do you want?"

Zeke stepped forward, his frustration evident. "What was that out there? You're punishing us for winning the tournament?"

Johnny leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "I'm teaching you a lesson."

Zeke wasn't having it. "Yeah, well, what about 'no mercy'? Winning at all costs? We did what we were supposed to do, and now we're getting punished for it?"

Miguel jumped in, his tone calmer but just as firm. "Sensei, we don't understand. You didn't have a problem with us attacking anyone else before. What's changed?"

Johnny sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah... well, maybe I'm still learning a bit too."

Zeke was livid. "We didn't do anything wrong, Sensei. All we did was win the tournament. Who cares if a few people got hurt?"

Johnny's eyes flashed with anger. "You think that makes you cool? Almost dislocating someone's shoulder? Winning at any cost? That's what you think this is about?"

Zeke folded his arms. "Why take pity on Robby Keene? He's just a kid."

Johnny stiffened at the mention of his son, but kept his voice steady. "Look, I wasn't taught the difference between mercy and honor, and I paid the price for it. If I'm hard on you, it's because you have the potential to be better than I ever was," he said, turning his gaze to Miguel. "You want that, don't you?"

Miguel nodded slowly. "Yes, Sensei."

Johnny leaned forward. "Then stop whining like a little bitch, get back out there, and finish your drills."

Miguel  nodded and left the room, but as Zeke turned to follow him, Johnny stopped him.

"Kreese," Johnny said, his voice heavy with the weight of what he was about to say. "You think you're big shit because you broke someone's shoulder? You think that makes you tough? You beat up Hawk in the tournament and you think that's enough?"

Zeke stayed silent, unsure where this was going.

Johnny stood up, his voice firm. "Listen, I've had my share of heartbreaks."

Zeke raised an eyebrow, his tone sarcastic. "Clearly."

Johnny ignored the jab and continued. "But that's not the way to handle your shit. I don't know what shot your grandpa put through your head, but what he taught me—this win-at-all-costs bullshit—it messed me up for life. Is that what you want?"

Zeke hesitated. "What are you saying?"

Johnny's voice dropped, filled with authority. "What I'm saying is, you're a kid. Right now, you're on probation. You screw up once more, and you're done. I don't give a damn if you're related to John Kreese. This is *my* dojo. Not his. Not your dad's. Do you understand?"

Zeke clenched his fists but realized this wasn't the time to argue. "Yes, Sensei."

Johnny nodded, his face softening just a bit. "Good. Now go do your push-ups."

Zeke turned and left the office, the weight of Johnny's words settling in his chest as he headed back to the dojo floor.

🐍

2015

It was a hot afternoon in late August, the kind of day that made the air feel heavy with the promise of something to come. Inside the Kreese household, however, there was no stillness. Downstairs in the basement—converted into a makeshift dojo—John stood with his arms crossed, watching his grandson, bounce on his toes, fists clenched, eyes burning with youthful energy. At just fourteen, Zeke had the same sharp features and piercing gaze that made Kreese feel like he was looking into a mirror from decades past.

"You're starting high school soon," Kreese said, his voice low and commanding. "You know what that means, don't you?"

Zeke nodded, his jaw set. "Yeah, I know."

Kreese took a step closer, looming over his grandson like a shadow. "You *think* you know, but you have no idea what's waiting for you. It's not just school, Zeke—it's war. You'll have older kids, bigger kids, stronger kids. You think they're gonna let you walk in there and act like you own the place? No. They'll test you. They'll push you around, take what's yours, and you know what happens to the weak?"

"They get crushed," Zeke said, his voice steady, echoing lessons drilled into him since he could walk.

Kreese grinned, a dangerous look in his eyes. "Exactly. That's why you've got to be ready. You stand your ground. You don't let anyone take anything from you. If they try? You make them regret it."

Zeke's heart raced with excitement. This wasn't just another lecture. He could feel it. His grandfather was about to teach him something he'd remember for the rest of his life.

Upstairs, Michael Kreese stood near the balcony, silently watching through the railing. He could see his father pacing around Zeke, that same intensity, that same dark energy that he had once felt as a boy himself. He should say something, Michael thought, his stomach tight with unease. But he didn't. He knew better. He remembered too well what it was like to stand in Zeke's shoes, and while he had never embraced that killer instinct his father so desperately wanted him to have, he couldn't bring himself to intervene.

Not when his father was like this.

Not when John Kreese was trying to create a weapon.

"Let's make this real," Kreese growled, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on a heavy punching bag in the corner. He motioned toward it. "You think you're ready for high school? Show me."

Zeke moved toward the bag, dropping into a fighting stance like he'd been taught, his fists raised. Kreese watched, his expression unreadable, waiting for Zeke to strike. For a moment, Zeke hesitated, unsure if this was just another drill, but Kreese's eyes bore into him with silent command.

Zeke let loose a series of punches, the sound of his fists hitting the leather echoing through the basement. Each strike was harder than the last, his body moving with purpose, with aggression. He imagined the faces of every bully who might try to test him, every kid who might think they could push him around.

"You think that's enough?" Kreese's voice snapped through the air like a whip. "You think hitting a bag makes you tough? There's no one here to hit back. No one here to take your lunch, or to make you look weak in front of your friends. High school isn't about throwing a few punches—it's about taking what's yours, about fear. Fear keeps them in line. Fear makes you the top dog."

Zeke stopped, panting, his arms aching from the force of his strikes, but his grandfather wasn't finished. Kreese grabbed Zeke by the shoulder and pulled him toward a stack of cinder blocks in the corner of the room.

"Break it," Kreese demanded.

Zeke looked at the cinder block, then back at his grandfather. "What?"

"Break it," Kreese repeated, his voice cold. "You think someone's gonna go easy on you because you're just a kid? You think they'll stop just because you're hurt, or tired? You want them to fear you? You do this. You break this block, and you prove you're not weak."

Zeke stared at the cinder block, feeling the weight of his grandfather's expectations crushing down on him. He'd done bag work, sparring, even some light breaking drills, but nothing like this. His knuckles were already sore from the punching bag, but he couldn't back down now.

Kreese stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes like steel. "Do it, Zeke. No mercy. Show me what you've got."

With a deep breath, Zeke steadied himself, raising his hand above the block. He brought it down with all the force he could muster, pain shooting through his arm as his fist collided with the cold, unforgiving surface. It didn't crack, but Zeke didn't cry out. He couldn't. Not in front of Kreese.

"Again," Kreese ordered, his voice cold and unyielding.

Upstairs, Michael clenched his fists. He remembered this moment—this exact scene from his own life, years ago in 1982. The basement was different then, but the lesson was the same. His father had stood over him, the same cruel glint in his eye, demanding that Michael break a block, demanding that he become something he wasn't. Michael had tried—God, he had tried—but no matter how hard he hit, he didn't have that edge, that cold-blooded instinct Kreese had tried to force into him.

And when Michael had failed? His father had made him do it again. And again.

"Don't hold back," Kreese had said, his voice harsh in Michael's ears. "You pull your punches because you're afraid to hurt someone, but that's the difference between winning and losing. There's no honor in losing, Michael. There's no mercy in the real world."

But Michael couldn't bring himself to hurt his friends. He'd never had the same raw aggression his father wanted, and it was a point of shame he'd carried with him ever since. He could hear his father's voice in his head, telling him over and over that he was weak, soft, too soft to survive. Too soft to be a Kreese.

That day in 1982, Michael had left that basement with bruised knuckles and a shattered sense of self, knowing he had disappointed his father yet again. And here he was now, watching his son go through the same thing.

Downstairs, Zeke's fist slammed into the block again, the pain now a constant throb. He gritted his teeth, the urge to scream bubbling up in his chest, but he fought it back. He wouldn't give his grandfather the satisfaction. He wouldn't be weak. Not like Michael.

"Come on!" Kreese barked. "You want to survive high school? You want to be top dog? This is where it starts! Pain is temporary, but power? Power is forever."

Zeke wound up again, his fist trembling with the effort. With one final scream of defiance, he brought his hand crashing down. This time, the block cracked. Not all the way, but enough.

Kreese smiled, that cold, cruel smile that had haunted Michael's childhood. "Good," Kreese said softly, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Now, you know what it feels like. Now, you're ready."

Zeke stood there, his hand aching, but a grin spreading across his face. He had done it. He had passed his grandfather's test.

Kreese clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm. "When you start school, you make sure they know who you are from day one. You make sure they know you're not to be messed with. If anyone tries to take from you, if anyone tries to push you around, you do what you did today. No mercy. Got it?"

"Got it," Zeke replied, the pride swelling in his chest.

Upstairs, Michael watched in silence, his heart heavy with conflicting emotions. He knew better than to question his father—he always had—but watching Zeke go through the same brutal lessons he had was almost too much to bear. He clenched his fists, knuckles white, as the memories of his own failures washed over him. Kreese had drilled it into him over and over again: no mercy, no weakness, no room for compassion.

But Michael didn't have the killer instinct. He never had. And despite Kreese's relentless efforts, he was always a disappointment. Now, watching Zeke embrace it so willingly, a part of him wondered if he had made the right choice by staying silent all these years. Maybe if he had been stronger, if he had fought back against his father's lessons, Zeke wouldn't be down there right now, on the verge of becoming the same cold, ruthless person Kreese had always wanted.

But another part of him knew that saying anything would only make things worse. This was how his father operated. This was how Kreese built warriors.

And warriors didn't need their fathers—or their mothers.

Michael's Mother had died a long time ago, so he didn't have a source of comfort. But if Diana had found out what Kreese was doing to her son?

Oh boy.

Michael turned away from the balcony, knowing that whatever doubts he had, it didn't matter. This was how it had to be. Kreese had always been in control.

🐍

Johnny stood in the dojo, broom in hand, sweeping up the last of the shattered glass that littered the floor. The remnants of the broken mirror reflected the light in jagged shards across the room, as if mirroring the fractured pieces of his past. The dojo, once pristine, was now a mess—a mess that reflected the chaos in Johnny's life.

Suddenly, the bell above the door chimed, snapping Johnny out of his thoughts. He looked up, and his heart sank as soon as he saw the figure standing in the doorway—Kreese.

Johnny's grip tightened on the broom handle. His jaw clenched. The rage, the memories, the betrayal—it all rushed back in a wave, but before he could even open his mouth to tell Kreese to get lost, the old man raised a hand.

"I just wanna say one thing," Kreese said calmly, stepping into the dojo, his voice rough but sincere. "And then I'll leave."

Johnny didn't say anything. He just stared, his eyes hard as stone, waiting for whatever excuse or lie was about to come out of Kreese's mouth.

"Yeah?" Johnny finally growled, his voice laced with contempt. "What is it?"

Kreese took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, his eyes not meeting Johnny's at first. There was a weight in his voice when he spoke again, something Johnny hadn't heard in a long time.

"I'm sorry."

Johnny blinked, caught off guard by the simple words. Kreese looked at him now, his expression unreadable but his voice steady.

"I realized that I was too hard on you. Hell, maybe even on all of you." He took a step closer, but there was no threat in his posture, only sincerity. "You were young, and I went overboard. You were my best student. You had so much potential."

Johnny's lips parted, the fury he felt moments ago still burning under the surface, but Kreese kept talking, his voice low, reflective.

"I just couldn't stand seeing you lose. I know I could be a tough son of a bitch," Kreese's voice cracked slightly, "but if you'd seen some of the things I've seen... well, that doesn't change what I did."

Johnny's eyes narrowed, his hands twitching with the urge to throw Kreese out of the dojo right there. But something held him back. There was something in Kreese's tone—a weight, an acknowledgment of something long buried.

"For years, I've regretted that night," Kreese continued, his eyes softening. "But when I heard you brought back Cobra Kai, I thought maybe this could be a shot for me to redeem myself. For you, me, and Michael to be together, just like the old days."

Johnny stiffened at the mention of Michael—Kreese's son, Johnny's old friend. It had been years since they'd all been together, back when Cobra Kai felt like something powerful, something invincible.

"'Cause believe me," Kreese said softly, "there ain't nothing I'd like more in this world than to have another chance."

He paused, taking a step back. "I understand if you never want to see me again. But just remember, I am the guy who always rooted for you."

Kreese reached into his bag, pulling something out with slow, deliberate care. Johnny's heart skipped a beat when he saw it—his old second-place trophy from 1984, the one Kreese had snapped in a fit of rage all those years ago.

"I fixed it for you," Kreese said, holding out the trophy. "It may say second place, but in my opinion, you were always the better fighter."

Johnny stared at the trophy in Kreese's hands, the same one that had symbolized his greatest failure and his deepest pain. He never expected to see it again, and certainly not in one piece.

"I like what you're doing with these kids," Kreese added, his voice softening again. "Especially my grandson. Thanks for that."

Johnny swallowed, a lump forming in his throat, the emotions swirling in him too complicated to pin down.

Kreese nodded, his eyes lingering on Johnny one last time. "See you, kid."

With that, Kreese turned and began walking toward the door. Johnny watched him go, feeling the weight of the past pressing down on him like a heavy, invisible force. The hate, the anger—it was all still there. But as much as Johnny despised what Kreese had done to him, what he had become, there was something about seeing that trophy, seeing Kreese's vulnerability, that hit him in a way he hadn't expected.

Kreese reached for the door, and before Johnny could stop himself, he spoke.

"Hold up."

Kreese smirked to himself before turning back around. He didn't say anything, just waited for Johnny to speak.

Johnny's eyes were hard, but there was something else there now—something conflicted. "I still don't trust you," he said, his voice firm. "But... maybe some people deserve a second chance."

🐍

Later that day, Johnny sat in his office, staring at the trophy Kreese had left behind. His thoughts drifted to the students, to the tournament, to everything Kreese had said. He didn't know if he could ever fully forgive Kreese, but maybe—just maybe—it was worth trying to see if people could change.

With a deep breath, Johnny picked up his phone and dialed a number he hadn't used in a while. It rang a few times before Michael picked up, his voice distant, as if he were in the middle of something.

"Johnny?" Michael said, his tone slightly surprised. "What's up?"

"I, uh, wanted to talk to you about something," Johnny said, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. "Your dad came by the dojo today."

Michael sighed on the other end of the line, the weariness in his voice clear. "What did he want?"

"He wants back in. Says he's changed." Johnny paused. "Hell, maybe I'm just as crazy for thinking it, but... I think I'm giving him a shot. And, well... maybe you should come by too. Everyone deserves a second chance, right?"

There was a brief silence on the other end before Michael chuckled softly. "You really think this is a good idea?"

"I don't know," Johnny admitted. "But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't move forward without facing your past. So, what do you say?"

Michael hesitated for only a moment before his voice came through, clear and decisive. "When can we get started?"

Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: Truyen247.Pro