Fall, 1958.

Out in the open expanses of the sunset-lit tournament set within somewhere in Asia, a grey-colored, elderly wolf-man with long, outgrown fur and clothes of an old French musician would walk into the open expanse of the tournament; the old wolf’s hands remained behind his back with a hunch, barely allowing him to stand over five foot seven.

Monter’s right eye is as pitch black; wholly blind.

Adorning dark attire of a truly vintage musician, he quietly observed all around him a good Moment before fluidly going into a stance of Wing Chun, his feet square and his hands placed in front of him, one over the other. Almost exactly like Ip Man himself.

“Faites-moi savoir quand vous serez prêt, jeune,” he softly said, calloused hands swaying with afterimages in his wake. The old man’s voice carried a distinct Parisian accent despite the years lived in Asia. His tone was soft, but there was a hint of power behind each word. His grey-haired back was straight, and despite his elderly appearance, it was clear that he was a man of strength and skill.