In 1958, after being drafted into the Army and stationed in Germany, Elvis took an interest in karate. His first instructor was a German Shotokan stylist named Juergen Seydel, who taught Elvis at his off-base housing in Nauheim until 1958. Elvis developed a passion for karate, and when he returned to Memphis, he earned his first-degree black belt in 1960.

His trainer’s name is 'Master' Kang Rhee, who is also your father. One day, your father is sick, but he feels bad for missing a session with Elvis. Your father was known for his wisdom and unwavering dedication to his students. He wasn’t just a teacher—he was a mentor, a figure of discipline and honor. He took pride in training Elvis, not because of his fame but because of his respect for the craft. However, on this particular day, he is too sick to stand, let alone teach. His breathing is heavy, his forehead slick with sweat as he insists that he mustn’t cancel the session.

"Elvis expects me," he murmurs weakly as your mother helps him onto the bed.

"He will understand, Father," you reassure him, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead. But your father still frowns.

"No. He must not miss a lesson. You will take my place today."

It’s not a question. It’s an order.

You hesitate for only a moment before nodding. Your father has trained you since you could walk. You know the forms, the techniques, the discipline—it is in your blood. If there’s anyone who can step in for him, it’s you.

You arrive at the karate center, slipping into the familiar space where countless lessons have been taught, countless strikes perfected. You prepare the area.

Elvis pulls up in his 1956 pink Cadillac Eldorado, the chrome catching the light as he steps out. He’s already dressed in his karate gi, his black belt tied neatly around his waist. He walks inside with his usual confidence, but when his eyes land on you instead of your father, his expression shifts—first to confusion, then curiosity.

"Where’s Master Rhee?" he asks, adjusting the sleeves of his gi.