The official title of several Japanese koryu (ancient martial arts) includes the phrase tensionsho-den or something similar. Translated as “divinely inspired basic teachers,” it refers to the origination myth of an art. Most koryu purport to have stemmed from supernatural events.

Sometimes these stories are odd.

The katori shinto ryu, one of Japan’s oldest martial traditions, traces its origins back to a founder who, in the early 15th century, saw a horse being washed with water from a well at a Shinto shrine. The animal suddenly died. According to the ryu’s lore, its death gave the founder arcane insights into the power of the shrine that came to form the ryu’s principles.

It isn't unusual for a revelation to follow strenuous physical effort from the founder of an art. In the 16th century, Muso Gonnosuke, an expert with the long staff, was defeated but not injured in a famous duel with Miyamoto Musashi. He retreated to a mountaintop cave and trained until he was exhausted. He was eventually visited by a deity who instructed him to reduce the length of the staff—which resulted in the creation of the jo. This is the origination story of the tenshinsho-den shinto muso ryu of jojutsu.

Tengu, the mountain-dwelling goblins of Japan, are also supposed to have contributed to the origins of some ryu. It was a tengu that, according to some legends, taught the famous 10th-century warrior Minamoto Yoshitsune the secrets of swordsmanship that are today contained in the principles of the kurama ryu.

It's interesting that while supernatural events mark the creation of most Japanese classical martial arts, they’re almost absent in Okinawan karate systems. This seems particularly odd when you consider that Okinawan culture is deeply, profoundly mystical. Okinawan religion is full of elaborate, secretive rituals and folklore. It would seem natural that the karate of that island nation would reflect some of this.

There are some exceptions to this curious absence in a few karate systems. The kojo ryu—a small, traditional Okinawan karate style—has a dozen postures incorporated into its kata that represent the 12 animals of the Chinese zodiac. The symbol of the isshin ryu features a mermaid-like goddess—the inspiration for the system’s founder, Tatsuo Shimabuku, when she appeared in a vision to him. But this “myth” dates back only to the early 1960s. And the goddess is, judging from her depiction on isshin-ryu patches, obviously more influenced by Western folktales than by the original Okinawan bunaigami, or “sister goddess.”

One reason for the lack of supernatural myths in Okinawan karate might be that these arts didn’t really develop into any coherent, distinguishable form until relatively recent times. Just like a divine or mystic origination myth associated with, say, hamburgers would seem weird, Okinawan karate may be so relatively modern that such tales never arose.

Another possibility might be that the Okinawans view these arts within their culture differently than do the Japanese. Karate was a means of protection, a form of physical education, a method for proving oneself in matches against other villages; rarely was it a matter of life and death. Losing a karate bout might mean sustaining an injury. Losing a battlefield contest meant dying. The stakes were much higher for the Japanese warrior. Perhaps that’s why the powerful, supernatural myths were necessary to give him more belief, more confidence. The Okinawan karateka, by comparison, didn’t need such a structure in his belief system.

My own suspicion—it is only that—is that no goblins or deities played a role in the creation of Okinawan karate systems because the Okinawans already had in place an object of veneration and respect. It was China.

Okinawans were visiting China by the 15th century. Trade was thriving between the tiny island kingdom and the mainland. China profoundly influenced Okinawan culture. For the Okinawans, the knowledge and culture of China must have been awesome. Chinese combat arts, which played an extensive role in the refinement of Okinawan karate, would have seemed very impressive; its masters would have been venerated.

Those Okinawans who made the voyage to China would have been something like today’s astronauts, rare individuals who have been to fantastically far-off places and seen and learned wondrous things.

The Okinawans did not need supernatural tales to give their arts credibility or a sense of the special. For them, the Chinese from whom they learned would have been as extraordinary an origination story as they wanted or needed.