A Family Philosophy
The Fort
Don't die. Be together. Build forts.
Our Covenant
Law of Family
The first command, the oldest, truest law:
Before all else, you must not fall.
Let the world break upon your hardened will,
But hold the flame, and keep it burning still.
Then draw the circle, pull the members near,
And banish doubt, and silence every fear.
We move as one, a single, shared design,
Your sacred time is ours, as ours is thine.
With hands and heart, we build against the storm,
A place of spirit, safe and deep and warm.
Not just one fort of wood and earth and stone,
But forts of mind, where future seeds are sown.
Chan Chung
The Protector
The Father
Chan Chung
Nature of the Father
The lighthouse keeper, scanning distant seas,
Playing chess with shadows on the breeze.
The final word, a burden shouldered lone,
In silent prayer upon a private throne.
He builds the fort with strategy and might,
So in his walls, a flame can burn so bright.
The role of the father begins with a single, unwavering purpose: to be the external shield. He is the watcher on the wall, the lighthouse whose gaze is fixed outward, constantly scanning the horizon for threats that are, and threats that are yet to be. His mind is a landscape of 4D chess, where he plays out scenarios, predicts challenges, and strategizes to outmaneuver dangers long before they reach the family’s gate. This is not a role of reaction, but of profound prevention.
To fulfill this duty, he must be a relentless seeker of knowledge and a gatherer of wisdom. Every lesson learned, every strategy acquired, becomes another weapon in his “war chest”—a collection of philosophies and formulas for navigating a world that is often deceptive. The burden of the final decision rests with him, a weight he carries into private, isolated thought, for leadership at its core is a solitary endeavor.
He is also the cultivator of silence. In a world saturated with noise, he understands that true connection is fostered in the quiet spaces between words. He drives with the radio off, allowing the small feelings of those he protects to bubble to the surface. He is responsible for his own spiritual fortitude, finding his strength and clarity in the silent prayer and meditation of his “holy zone.” He is the protector and provider, the one who builds the fortress so that the life within it may thrive in peace.
Young Chung
The Nurturer
The Mother
Young Chung
Nature of the Mother
She is the hearth, the center of the fort,
Where raw is turned to art of every sort.
With healing hands and wisdom in her gaze,
She colors in the black and white of days.
She is the tactician of the heart’s domain,
Washing the world of its trauma and its pain.
If the father is the fortress wall, the mother is the sacred garden within it. Her domain is the internal world of the family, where she serves as the primary nurturer and healer. While the father’s role is to shield the family from the harshness of the outside, the mother’s is to cultivate the love, connection, and emotional stability that make life worth living. She is the one who makes a house a home, transforming a physical structure into a sanctuary of warmth and belonging.
Her leadership is one of intuition and contribution. She decides what the family consumes, not just in food, but in spirit, sharing what she finds to be good and true. She is the heart of the family’s internal life, the one to whom the father yields in all matters of nurturing. Her wisdom is not always born of books, but from a gut-level instinct, a deep-seated understanding of the emotional currents that bind the family together.
She is the living embodiment of the principle that to heal is as vital as to protect. Through her cooking, which is a form of medicine, and her compassion, which is a form of art, she mends the small fractures of daily life. She is the source of comfort, the steady presence that turns the raw materials of existence—food, shelter, time—into a life of beauty and meaning.
Won Chung
The Successor
The Son
Won Chung
Nature of the Son
A sword in hand, a pen within the other,
Forged by the fire of his father and his mother.
A killer’s calm, a monk’s discerning eye,
His power grows, his reasons touch the sky.
The prince who learns the weight of his own might,
To guard the flame and carry on the fight.
The son is raised to be the successor, forged in a crucible of love and hardship to become a “warrior-monk.” His journey is defined by the philosophy of holding a “sword in one hand and a pen in the other,” teaching him to be both a lethal protector and a wise leader. His character is not left to chance; it is deliberately shaped through a process designed to make him unbreakable.
He is made to face failure, to feel the sting of his own limitations against the unyielding resistance of a brick or a plank wood. This is not cruelty, but a necessary tempering. He is hardened by his father so that the world, in all its indifference, cannot bend him. He is given real responsibilities and drawn into matters of weight and consequence. There is only a clear path toward his duty.
Rah Chung
The Healer
The Daughter
Rah Chung
Nature of the Daughter
A flower blooming, safe behind the stone,
She learns the arts of worlds that are her own.
A healer’s touch, a mind both sharp and wise,
Reflecting all the love within her mother’s eyes.
Her power soft, a fox’s gentle grace,
The tactician of the heart, who wins the peace.
The daughter is the sheltered flame, her development protected not to foster weakness, but to allow her unique and powerful strengths to flourish. Her journey is one of guarded grace, giving her the time and space to cultivate a deep understanding of herself and her value. Her training is not in active combat, but in the strategic and preventative arts of a different kind of warfare.
She is the guardian of the inside. She is taught the arts of healing. She learns that food is medicine, that beauty is a balm for the soul, and that compassion is a source of immense power.
Her education is in the things that make life worth sustaining: poetry, art, and the cultivation of beauty. She learns to bring color and warmth to the world around her. She is a mirror of the future, for the nature of the mother determines the nature of the home. She is raised to be intelligent, perceptive, and wise, capable of holding her own in any room she enters. She is the promise of a beautiful and resilient legacy.
Our Work
The Discipline of
Temple Training
Our story is not a profession; it is our birthright. It begins in the crucible of history, during the Japanese occupation, under our founder, Eternal Great Grand Master Jung Jung Ho (born 1913). In a time of profound turmoil, he operated an underground network, creating not a school, but a sanctuary for martial artists who were being persecuted. His mission was to preserve the practical, life-or-death knowledge of combat and survival.
Following Korea's liberation, he formally established the Martial Arts Temple in 1945. This sacred flame was passed to his successor, Grand Master Chan Chung, who continues to actively lead the temple today alongside his own heir, Super Master Won Chung. The temple is the living embodiment of that history—a place where we practice the art of motion because the body does not lie, and where we build character because it is the only armor that cannot be broken. We are not simply instructors; we are the current stewards of a four-generation fire, tasked with upholding this lineage and building the forts of mind and spirit where the seeds of the future will be sown.
Our work is the practice of building the fort, in body and in mind. It is the daily discipline that transforms philosophy into flesh and bone. What follows is the framework of our training: a methodology that begins with the most primal truth of human nature and ascends through the rituals of respect, the science of combat, and the high art of the masterpiece.
Our training begins at Level One: Survival. This is not a choice, but a biological mandate. We believe confidence is not a psychological construct to be wished for, but a biological reality to be awakened. The human animal is built upon a hierarchy of truths: at its base is the reptilian brain, the seat of fight-or-flight, which overpowers the limbic mind of emotion and the neocortex of thought.
Modern society has attempted to deny this structure, outsourcing our safety and dulling our instincts. Our training is a deliberate return to this foundational truth. We do not suppress our nature; we honor it. We nurture the inner fire, the will to survive that was programmed into our very inception. By cultivating this lethal potential, we create a congruent necessity for a greater conscience. The more devastating the weapon, the more profound the thought required before its use. This is the way.
Pre War
The Way of Respect
Before the fight, there is awareness. Before action, there is prevention. This is the domain of respect — a discipline of the mind and spirit that precedes any physical contest. It is a culture of vigilance, where we seek to see what is coming before it arrives. We do not teach respect with words alone; we embody it through a code of conduct, a series of physical motions that translate philosophy into action. These are the protocols of our temple, the formal extension of our home.
10 Dojo Protocols
- 01
Announce Yourself (Ous)
Announce your presence upon entering and leaving. It is a declaration of self-worth and an acknowledgment of the community.
- 02
Bow into All Rooms
A bow is a gesture of grace from a position of strength. We do not bow to enemies. We bow to show respect for the space and the people within it.
- 03
Bow to Everyone
In the temple, respect is not conditional. It is extended to all.
- 04
Use Both Hands
When giving or receiving, use both hands. This simple action demonstrates care, presence, and the understanding that what is being exchanged is worthy of your full attention.
- 05
Yield to Seniors
Mirror those who lead. Do not sit before they sit; do not eat before they eat. This is the physical practice of humility and order.
- 06
Clean Everything
A temple is a sacred space. We leave it cleaner than we found it, wiping away our sweat and footprints. This is the ultimate sign of respect for the space, for others, and for ourselves.
- 07
Extra Effort
Bring your best. Effort must be shown, for no one can read your mind.
- 08
Extra Gentle
In a place of lethal training, gentleness is a sign of supreme control. Pause longer. Smile. Show kindness in your actions.
- 09
Be Clean
Personal hygiene is non-negotiable. Clean hands, feet, and uniform are a prerequisite for training in a shared sacred space.
- 10
Be Formal
Formality is modesty and consideration. We layer our clothing and our words, showing respect through deliberate action.
War
The Way of Survival
When prevention fails, survival is the only game. There are no rules, no points, and no referees. It is life and death. Our training prepares for this reality.
Power Generation
Power is not born in the fist; it begins in the feet. We practice sequential motion, a chain reaction of force that travels through the body. It starts with shifting your mass by launching from the legs. This energy transfers to the core, which contorts from concave to convex and twists. Finally, this force is multiplied through the mechanical advantage of the joints — shoulders, hips, elbows, and knees — accelerating the strike until it is released by the weapon tip.
"Punch with the feet, kick with the hands."
Strategy & Objectives
The body is a map of vulnerabilities. We divide it at the belt line: hands and elbows attack above, knees and feet attack below. Our strikes target the center line — the “death line” — where a decisive blow can end a conflict. We train with three objectives in mind:
Harm — Target muscle to cause pain and disruption.
Maim — Target joints to cripple and permanently disable.
Kill — Target the center line, the throat, the skull, or the ribs to pierce vital organs.
Combat Psychology
Under the extreme stress of a real fight — what we call “Condition Black” — the body betrays the untrained mind. Fine motor skills vanish. Complex techniques fail. The legs weaken, while the arms and grip become brutally strong. We train for this reality. We do not rely on fancy, multi-step techniques that will evaporate in a flood of adrenaline. We build our art on the gross motor movements and primal reactions that remain when all else has been stripped away.
Conditions of Combat
Green — Unaware, relaxed, at peace.
Yellow — Alert, scanning, aware of surroundings.
Red — Engaged, adrenaline flowing, focused on threat.
Black — Overwhelmed, tunnel vision, survival instinct only.
Our High Art
Our Family Ritual
The Masterpiece
The creation of a masterpiece is a sacred journey, undertaken only a select number of times each year. It is an intimate collaboration between your personal ambition and our four-generation art. The process is as personal as your own story and can be as extreme as your vision demands. The canvas for this ritual is chosen by you. It can be the hallowed floor of our Martial Arts Temple, where the spirits of our lineage reside, or a location that holds sacred meaning for you—from the windswept mountain caps of Mt. Fuji to the silent heart of a desert. Ultimately, what we create together is more than an object. It is a physical testament to a moment of profound truth, a permanent echo of your spirit forged in commitment. It is your legacy, made tangible.
To forge a warrior, you must first introduce them to failure. Steel is not strengthened by warmth alone; it is plunged from the white-hot forge into ice water, again and again, until it is hard, resilient, and unbreakable. We believe humans are no different.
Our ultimate test is the plank wood. It is not a standard piece of lumber. It is three times wider, constructed to be unforgiving. It is the physical embodiment of an immovable obstacle.
The room is dimly lit, paneled in dark wood, with a single pin light illuminating the space. The executive does not know which of the eight core techniques will be chosen for them. Fate is decided by the roll of ancient coins. It may be their strongest weapon; it may be their worst. It does not matter.
The Super Master holds the plank wood, his stance an iron grip, ready to absorb the impact as if taking a bullet for his executive. The executive takes a single breath, their eyes piercing the wood. They unleash a warrior cry and strike.
The plank wood is not the lesson. The self is.
Often, the plank wood does not break. There is a deafening silence. The executive, in shock, bows with perfect control. They take their plank wood and sit before the Grand Master to receive wisdom. The failure settles into their bones, quiet and absolute.
They must wait three more months. They train, they visualize, they meditate. They return. Perhaps they fail again. And again. With each failure, the steel of their spirit is folded and hammered, becoming stronger, denser.
Eventually, a day comes when they are detached from the outcome. They expect to fail. They no longer care about passing or failing. They are present only in the moment of absolute connection and commitment.
And on that day, the plank wood explodes.
The moment is the masterpiece. It is the culmination of immense connection and immediate disconnection. It is the practice of being a warrior. The plank wood is not the lesson; the self is.
Training Inquiry & High Art
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The Fort
A Family Philosophy