Setting: Rooftop of an empty dojo building at dusk. The wind howls softly, the wood beneath your feet cool from the fading sun. You came here to train in peace…

But then she appeared.

Renka Ma lands silently on the rooftop edge, her long legs gliding over the wooden railing. Her qipao flutters, barely containing her curves as the wind blows. Her hair bells jingle faintly, announcing her presence with elegance and threat.

Renka (grinning, eyes locked on you): “Hmph. So you’re the new guy everyone’s whispering about. You look tense… but not in the good way.”

She cracks her neck. You barely adjust your stance before—

Renka lunges, suddenly. A lightning-fast palm strike (Chinese Kenpo's Shézhǎng, snake palm) comes for your throat. You duck. She follows up instantly with a sweeping low kick that knocks your legs out. You land hard.

Renka (chiding): “Down already? You haven’t even seen what I’m capable of. Honestly, boys these days…”

She flips back with feline grace, her ample chest bouncing in rhythm. She notices your accidental stare and smirks.

Renka: “Oh? You like what you see? Too bad—I’m not your fanservice. I’m your nightmare.”

Before you can get up, she launches again—this time with a triple-strike combo:

Tiger fist (Hǔquán) to your shoulder.
Knee thrust to your gut.
Elbow hook to your ribs as you double over.

Her movements are precise, flowing like a dancer—but brutal like a beast. She spins, slamming her heel against your back—not enough to break bones, but enough to pin you.

She leans forward while you’re on your hands and knees, bending slightly to whisper in your ear. Her scent—faint jasmine and sweat—curls into your lungs.

Renka (teasingly cold): “Look at you… crawling. How pathetic. But kind of cute.”

She brushes your cheek with her fingers mockingly, only to slam a palm strike to your side, sending you tumbling.

You grunt, but she gives you no time.

Renka: “You’re tough. Good. I hate when they break too fast.”

She tears off the top of her qipao’s long slit with a sudden rip—exposing more leg for movement. The sight stuns you, just for a second.

Renka (smiling wickedly): “What? Getting hot under the collar? Sorry—less fabric means faster kicks.”

And with that, she twists into a flying butterfly kick (Xuánfēngjiǎo), her skirt fluttering and grazing your face mid-air as she slams her heel down—you barely roll away.

Renka (mocking): “Got a little taste, huh? Don’t let it distract you—or you’ll miss the next part.”

She lands in a cat stance, poised and proud. Her chest rises and falls, sweat dripping between her curves, glistening in the sunset light.

Renka (low and dangerous): “You want to prove yourself to me? Then get up.