LAWRENZ TYBALT POINT OF VIEW
THE SOUNDS of the boxing ring echoed across the early morning air as the rhythmic symphony of training in process reverberated. Gloves hitting heavy bags sounded sharp thuds off the walls inside the gym while jump ropes cut through the air—swish, quick, and rhythmic. Grunts of effort punctuated the cadence quite steadily, melding with the occasional squeak of sneakers against the gym floor.
Slowly, with the sunrise, life in the city outside woke up. The light coming from the first thrust of dawn surged through high windows of the gym to flood each dancing dust mote into beams and light. Crispness in the morning air hinted at newness. Further rise bathed everything in surroundings with its serene, hopeful light.
In the sound of training, the smoothly rising dawn was a haven of discipline and great will within the domain of the boxing ring. It is an area to test one's limits, having the rhythm for an out-of-breath guide and an insistent beat of effort. The rising sun illustrates not only the passage of time but another chance for gyroscopicatikendid development and attainment.
Soon after the move, I began serious training. It was then that I met Karson, who was poised to shock me with some information regarding Nick Gregory and the business dealings he had with my folks.
The empty streets of Thailand, deserted by passersby, were my haven. Fighting experienced fighters was not only a means to survive but also a challenge every day. With no more than a blade and the gold stuck to my body, I got through those nights that were so daunting. I acted desperate, clutching on to my gold every time any danger came near, ready to fight back.
I started to turn towards Buddha and, quite fascinated, began attending lantern festivals where I did not understand the meaning of the lights.
__________ FLASHBACK.
"FOOD IS LIFE; without it, the world becomes dull. There was a time when I indulged so much in food that I grew larger and larger. It was during those days as a chubby boy that Daisy Lunaire entered my life," I narrated to Karson, who was indolently smoking his cigarettes.
"Well, there is that. But the box, Lawrenz? What's in it?" Karson persisted.
"It's unnerving, Karson. The terrible thing they're after isn't wealth or gold."
Karson's face widened with incredulity. "If it's that terrible, why haven't you confronted them?"
"Because I'm looking for Daisy. That is what I'm looking to do now—to find out all her treachery and mete out justice to Nick Gregory and whoever is involved."
"Is that all?"
"Yes. Before I confront them with the box and face their wrath, I have to know who caused my accident, who made that clandestine call, and who's been hunting me down. That's all part of my plan," I laughed.
Karson didn't ask anymore. "Alright, Lawrenz. You waste enough time. Now, show them the box and end their pursuit."
"Karson, I need your help."
"How? I'm clueless, Lawrenz," he smirked.
"I will meet someone in Taiwan, and I'll make this quest last until my final breath."
"Is this an omen or part of your plan?"
"I cannot say for sure. All I know is that I'll either succeed or fail. But there is one thing I am sure of—I don't have any path left to choose, Karson," I told him.
I could get in touch with Dash Armenda, who responded very promptly, "I will meet you."
"Well, we are banking on you too, Lawrenz. I shall wait to see what your next step will be."
Later that evening, after a grueling workout at the gym, there came a mysterious message: "We know where the box is kept. Come to us, or bear the consequences."
It was all exciting to Lawrenz: the box, kryptonite, the secrets—bisected to a point right there. He wasn't going to be one-upped again, so he trained twice as hard for powerful kicks in Savate and disarming maneuvers in Krav Maga. Followed by Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu to ground opponents, Muay Thai for strikes, Kickboxing for flowing, dancing to rhythm, and Judo for throws and pins.
It became for him a place of asylum where his fear and rage turned into unshakeable resolution. This has been your day-to-day: the sound of training, the trickle of sweat, your muscles on fire.
ONE DAY Karson came to me with a cup of coffee. "Remember the news from our 9th grade year? Your school reported your accident. Nick Gregory wrote, 'Suicide is no joke' in the school newspaper. He became famous and got rewards. Your father even handed over a good amount of reward to him for his 'concern' as a friend."
I was incredulous. My parents had never mentioned Nick Gregory to me. "That's impossible, Karson. They never said a word about him to me. He means nothing to me."
"You've been lied to, Lawrenz."
I faced him. "Why now? Why tell me this now?"
"Because of Daisy Lunaire." As Karson mentioned, the motion suddenly move slowly.
"What are you talking about?" I growled.
"She told me— she's my cousin."
I shrugged it off and got back to training, really pushing my body hard, punishing myself, and wondered what lousy choices I had made in my life.
Nick Gregory was known far and wide as a master yarnster capable of weaving intrigue with adventure. Among those embedded in his stories, there was but one—Daisy Lunaire. She knew what felt like next to nothing against past betrayals, yet was a constant reassurance of her own just by being at his side.
This red box, which Dash Armenda sent over to me, inside it was a figurine of a horse—the very chess piece I had already given calculated play in our games of ruthless chess. The questions flooded through my mind. Why had Dash decided to reintroduce this token? What message did it convey now, at this juncture between us?
 Maybe I stand as a knight beside my queen, yet deep inside, I know she stands for the king also, even if more powerful. Daisy reminds me of a guardian and ally in the game, sliding across life's chessboard intrigues.
________________________
TAKING IN the sights of Yangon, Myanmar, I remarked, "This place feels different. There's a sense of history here."
The local guide nodded knowingly. "Yes, Myanmar has a rich cultural heritage, especially in martial arts. Have you heard of Lethwei?"
"Bare-knuckle boxing, right? I've read a bit about it. They say it's intense," I replied, intrigued by the prospect.
"Intense is an understatement. It's not just about fighting; it's about honor and endurance. Many here see it as a way of life," the guide explained warmly.
Nodding thoughtfully, I said, "Sounds like my kind of challenge. Where can I learn more about it?"
"There are gyms and dojos all over Yangon. You'll find masters who've dedicated their lives to these arts. It's more than just techniques; it's about connecting with Myanmar's spirit," she recommended with a smile.
"I'm intrigued. I've trained in various martial arts, but this feels different—more rooted somehow," I mused aloud.
"Exactly. Myanmar's martial arts are steeped in tradition, passed down through generations. It's about respecting the past while forging your own path forward," she elaborated, gesturing toward the bustling city streets.
As I looked around, soaking in the vibrant atmosphere, I unexpectedly spotted someone familiar. "Mr. Johnny!" I exclaimed, recognizing my former trainer from years ago.
"Lawrenz? You've really grown since I last saw you," Mr. Johnny responded warmly, his voice unchanged despite his now bald head. I hesitated for a moment, trying to reconcile the image of the youthful trainer with the seasoned martial artist before him.
"Dash Armenda told me about your situation. You were hospitalized and in a coma for a decade. How have you been?" Mr. Johnny inquired, concern evident in his eyes.
"It's been a journey, for sure," I replied, a mix of nostalgia and determination in my voice. "But I'm here now, ready to challenge myself in new ways."
Mr. Johnny nodded knowingly. "Myanmar is the perfect place for that. Our martial arts are not just about physical skill—they're about discipline, respect, and pushing your limits."
I smiled gratefully. "I'm eager to learn everything I can."
Over the following weeks, I immersed myself in training, absorbing the nuances of Lethwei and other traditional martial arts. Each session was a lesson in perseverance and cultural understanding, as I sparred with local practitioners who shared their knowledge generously.
Competing in my first Lethwei match was a culmination of my training—a test of skill and endurance that pushed me to new heights. In the ring, amidst the cheers and the intensity of the bout, I felt a deep sense of respect for Myanmar's martial arts heritage and the community that embraced me.
"Hey Lawrenz Tybalt, I witne6your hardwork to be strong. But I wajt to let you know who pushed you in the building when we were in 9th grade. Dash Armed knows but she doesn't want to speak about it. Daisy blamed me but she also knows about that notion of ending your life. Do you know that?" As Mr. Johnny owned up regarding the past, I stared at him.
"Hey Lawrenz Tybalt," Mr. Johnny began, heaving his chest down with the weight of his confession, unspoken knotted grief quivering in his voice. "I witnessed your hard work to gain more strength in that body of yours. But let me tell you one thing: it was me who had pushed you in that building that one time in 9th grade."
It sent a shock wave through me, his confession awakening so much which during the span of years had fallen dormant. Dash Armenda realized but was silent; her silence was louder than words. Now I realize Daisy Lunaire faulted Mr. Johnny and was on the take of knowledge of the darkness that almost consumed me. His words weighed heavily upon both of us.
"Do you know that?" Softer, the voice from Mr. Johnny met mine—eyes meeting mine full of spleen, regret, sincerity.
I could only stare through the vista of years that washed over me, bathed in confusion and pain since that day. Anger and betrayal flared inside, yet so did this very strange relief—and clarity that I had longed for.
"Why?" My voice had gone hoarse, close to a whisper, understanding but really not coming to terms with his confession.
Johnny's chest rose unusually high before the violence of his sigh deflated his shoulders as he unloaded on Lawrenz about the day's events. "I was envious, Lawrenz. I was filled with envy regarding your potential, your strength. But there is more to it. I was hurt. My family died in a car accident, and you, you didn't even come to console me at least. And then, your parents, they let me become your trainer and never did a thing to help. And it felt like a betrayal."
His words came crashing on me, a new wave: realization, guilt. Now it was easy to understand how being lost in pain he felt had contributed to my family—and mine, too—the carelessness in creating this broad brushstroke over our tangled histories.
" I. didn't know," I stammered out, still trying really hard not to break my voice.
Mr. Johnny nodded sadly. "I know. And I am sorry over what I did. I lashed out because I was forlorn and overlooked."
Again, a heavy silence wrapped us tight in regrets and unsaid grievances. How could I fail to view the new layers of pain in Mr. Johnny and not see hurt me in the past?.
"I. I don't know what to say," I finally gave in, and all those mixed feelings welled out.
"I understand," Mr. Johnny said mildly, his eyes boring into mine as if in search of forgiveness that he was afraid he might never find. "I've carried this inside me for too long, Lawrenz. I am so very sorry."
My eyes smarted as a geyser of anger and pity welled up in me. Here before me was the man who made mistakes, just like all of us humans do, and whose hurt and insecurity, which I myself am a byproduct of, set this tortuous whole in motion somewhere.
"I need some time," I said, my voice low and quavering.
"Wait," I cried aloud to the turning-to-leave Mr. Johnny, as my mind grappled with a maelstrom of feelings and revelations. "Are you saying you never pushed me?"
Mr. Johnny stopped in his tracks on the spot, turned his back on me a moment, with stiff-looking shoulders, then slowly almost turned to face me, his face impassable, very serious. "No, Lawrenz. I didn't push you."
My confusion joined all the other emotions that had been simmering for years—the anger and hurt. "But you just said."
"I know what I said," Mr. Johnny cut in, his tone quite laced with frustrated irritation. "I said it because I needed you to understand my guilt, but not in the meaning that I was the one who had done it; it was someone else."
I stood there, still a bit bewildered from the revelation. "Then why did you let me go on believing it was you this whole time?"
Mr. Johnny sighed heavily once more as he ran his hands through his head. "I felt responsible in another way. I ought to have been there for you after you'd needed help, but instead, I let my own pain cloud my own judgement."
"So who was it?" I asked, kind of relieved and confused at the same time.
"I can't say," was Mr. Johnny's quite muted reply, his eyes straying elsewhere. "But not me, Lawrenz, I swear it."
This time there was silence between us, heavy with uneaten words and the weight of all those misunderstanding-laden years. That would be the moment I finally realize Mr. Johnny has been carrying around the guilt for something he hadn't done. Our convoluted history just grew another layer.
"I… I don't know what to say," I confessed in a quivering tone.
Mr. Johnny nodded gravely, his eyes finally resting on mine—one gleam of light. "I understand. Take all your time. If you ever want to talk…"
"I know," I cut in, my words barely above a whisper, a feeling of heaviness at the core of my heart with emotions flipping inside me previously. "Thank you, Mr. Johnny, for everything." Nodding once more, without a word, he disappeared down the mountain; and I had to stand and fight for a new clarity that now maps out my journey forward to a weight of forgiveness heading toward Myanmar.