Laid Off at 36, a Martial Saint Moved Into My Body

On my thirty-sixth birthday, I got laid off.

HR slid a non-compete agreement across the table: two thousand a month for three years. I said, "I'm thirty-six, not so old I have to beg for food."

The open-source engine I'd spent twelve years building was renamed after my boss. I sent out dozens of resumes, and every reply said the same thing: "Contract work, half the salary."

On a rainy night in an alley, two thugs tried to snatch my cardboard box. One cracked me on the back of the head with a club, and suddenly an old voice rang out in my mind: "What kind of young punk dares beat someone up right under my nose?"

Iron Palm Xiao of the Taihang Mountains. His entire family of thirty-seven was slaughtered, leaving only a wisp of his soul. From today on, he lives inside me.

He taught me stances and passed on his boxing techniques. I taught him how the world works now. In the tech world, I reclaim the name they stole from me, line by line. In a fight, anyone who wants to lay a hand on my family had better ask the old man if he'll allow it.

From the back seat of a rideshare to ringing the opening bell at the stock exchange: at thirty-six, I'll see you at the summit.