Blades And Creatives: Navigating Both Worlds Through Disciplined Storytelling. Ilmi Khalid, Founder Of Ilmkhal, Shares

While most people treat their hobbies and careers as separate lives, that, however, isn’t Ilmi Khalid’s style. To him, the boundary between a digital design studio and martial arts doesn't exist.

Through his platform, Ilmi has quietly built a sanctuary for the "Creative Warrior." He teaches martial arts, and he runs his creative agency at the same time. Focusing on multiple niches doesn’t mean you are losing your identity. Ilmi is proving this stigma wrong. We sat down to talk about him being a traditionalist and his "creative journeys," marrying the creative works and martial arts.  

Tell us honestly, who is Ilmi Khalid in your eyes?

I started my creative journey in broadcasting as a motion designer. Being part of a creative department gave me a front-row seat to many disciplines — graphics, video, copywriting, set design, and audio. I learned by observing how all these elements come together to tell a single story. That experience trained my eye and shaped how I think about creativity today.

Growing up, my father once told me over dinner that we should always try to live up to our names. My name is Nurrul Ilmi bin Khalid — Light of Knowledge, son of Khalid. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but the advice stayed with me and quietly followed me into adulthood.

I began to understand it when I started shining a light on my Silat teacher, the late Guru Jak. He was deeply passionate about promoting Silat to the world, rooted in Malaysian identity. Guru Jak also had a respected background in television and directing. We shared a common language in broadcasting, and through that unique connection, I learned how Silat could be communicated through storytelling. He used television as a medium, and I used YouTube as a platform to highlight the science and art behind Silat so others could see it, appreciate it, and learn from it.

When my teacher returned to his Creator, I went through a period of feeling lost. For a while, I felt like I was no longer living up to my name or my purpose. Then I met Datuk Jake Abdullah. When I visited his school, he helped me create a few short Silat reels and encouraged me to keep producing Silat content. That advice stayed with me, and I felt a sense of responsibility I could not ignore.

When I started writing my own Silat book, it pushed me to create even more video content. Not long after that, I was given the opportunity to open my own Silat training space. With everything now available to me, I realised I had no excuse to stop. I had to continue what my late teacher had started.

Today, I’ve stepped into the responsibility of shining the light on my own work — writing, documenting, and speaking about Silat across different platforms and mediums. All of this happens by the permission of Allah, and through the encouragement of good people who continue to guide, support, and remind me.

This is who I am. This is Ilmi Khalid.

You occupy a unique space between the ancient blade, as in martial arts, and the modern digital creatives, such as digital products, design, media-related, et cetera. How do you juggle between these two different worlds?

Moving between these two worlds has allowed me to learn from people who are deeply committed to their craft. In both spaces, I’m constantly sparring — sometimes with creative ideas, sometimes with martial techniques. Every mistake becomes an opportunity to learn, refine, and improve. That process feels natural to me in both training and creative work.

I draw inspiration from figures who never saw a contradiction between physical discipline and creative expression. Miyamoto Musashi, for example, was not only a renowned warrior but also a practitioner of calligraphy and ink wash painting, and the author of The Book of Five Rings. Closer to my own background, I’m inspired by Sayidina Ali bin Abi Talib — known as a formidable duelist in his time, yet equally respected for his eloquence and mastery of Arabic literature, often using concise poetry to impart Islamic values. I also think of Khalid ibn al-Walid, whom my father was named after — a warrior whose deathbed poem was marked not by victory, but by reflection on the life he had lived.

These examples remind me that depth of character is not confined to a single domain.

I don’t experience this as juggling. Juggling implies constant switching and exhaustion. Instead, exposure to both spaces has given me a broader perspective — a way to manoeuvre thoughtfully in a complex world. The same principles apply across both: attention, discipline, humility, and repetition. The tools may differ, but the posture remains the same.

Rather than pulling me apart, these two practices reinforce each other. Creative work sharpens how I think and observe. Martial training grounds me and gives my work weight. Together, they allow me to move forward with clarity rather than strain.

Martial arts have usually been an oral and either physical tradition passed down in person, or it comes from deep passion and talent. What was the biggest mental challenge you had to clear to believe that the ‘talent’ of this heritage could support you in the creative world?

One of the principles I learned from my late Silat teacher is to take the path of least resistance. Use footwork to position yourself properly, don’t fight force with force, and apply technique only when the timing is right. To do that, I also had to leave my ego outside the training ground — to empty my cup each time I trained so new knowledge could enter.

In my creative work, especially when dealing with clients, I approach things the same way. I listen to the brief, do my best to deliver, and when changes are requested, I try to say yes before I say no. I don’t feel the need to fully own or defend the work. I see it as a problem to solve, and I use the tools I have to make things work.

I deliver the work, I get paid, and everyone moves forward.

Over time, I learned to adapt my martial training to how I approach work. The way I move in training — staying relaxed, adjusting instead of forcing, conserving energy — slowly became the way I handled creative challenges as well. I didn’t plan it. It happened naturally through experience.

The biggest mental shift was realising that Silat didn’t stop in the training space. What was passed down to me physically shaped how I deal with pressure, people, and expectations. Once I recognised that, I no longer questioned whether this heritage could support my creative work. It had already been doing so all along.

Do you believe the future of the creative economy belongs to the artisan rather than the agency?

I don’t think the future belongs exclusively to one or the other. What’s changing is where value comes from.

In the pre–social media era, audiences followed brands and institutions because access and distribution were centralised. Today, people follow people — their thinking, their process, and their values. That shift naturally favours authorship over abstraction. Artisans carry something difficult to replicate: a visible relationship between life, practice, and output. When you follow an artisan, you’re not just consuming a finished product. You’re witnessing a process over time, and that builds trust and depth.

At the same time, no two artisans are the same. Each comes from different experiences and offers a different perspective. How well an artisan connects with people — and how relatable their work feels — becomes a deciding factor. This doesn’t make agencies obsolete. It changes their role. Agencies that endure will likely support artisans rather than replace them — acting as collaborators, amplifiers, or infrastructure rather than anonymous producers.

It isn’t artisan versus agency. It’s about restoring authorship as the source of meaning and value in creative work, shaped by connection and trust.

AI, like it or not, will reach a point of maturity in the near future. When you look at the future of creative work, do you think the value of a creator will go completely obsolete, or will it force them to shift away from their talent into doing something else?

Creators will not become obsolete, and abandoning talent would be a loss — not just for humans, but for how AI itself is meaningfully used.

I embrace AI as a tool that empowers me, gives me an advantage, and strengthens my work — not something that replaces it. It allows me to spend more time on decision-making and direction. The responsibility always remains with the creator. I set the direction. I keep the work in check. I decide the outcome. AI can assist with speed and iteration, but it doesn’t carry judgment, values, or accountability.

I see AI the way a martial artist sees a weapon. A blade doesn’t act on its own. Its effectiveness depends entirely on the discipline, intent, and ethics of the person wielding it. History shows that great warriors adapted to new tools without losing their principles. They trained harder, refined their judgment, and took full responsibility for their actions.

Creators today face a similar moment. We can resist new tools out of fear, or we can study them, integrate them, and remain accountable for what we produce. Used consciously, AI doesn’t dilute creativity — it sharpens it by freeing us to focus on direction, meaning, and authorship.

The future belongs to creators who keep the human at the centre of their work, while empowering themselves with every tool available.

You’ve chosen a path that is intentionally calm, more unique and in-depth than the rest of the industry. For those observing you from the sidelines, either through LinkedIn or quietly browsing your website, we’re sure of this one question they wish to understand. This exciting journey of yours, what would be your endgame, if you don’t mind sharing? 

I don’t think of it as an endgame in the conventional sense.

A few years ago, the passing of my late father, followed by the passing of my Silat teacher last year, brought a quiet clarity into my life. Moments like that remind you that time is limited and make responsibility unavoidable. As one of Guru Jak’s many students, it is no longer enough for me to simply practice. I feel a duty to continue the work — to train, to write, to document, and to teach to the best of my ability — so that what was entrusted to us does not disappear.

My Silat training shaped me to be calmer, more grounded, and more aware of restraint. It taught me patience, self-awareness, and the consequences of losing control. One lesson that stayed with me was something Guru Jak once shared from his own teacher:

“I can teach you a thousand ways to kill a man, but I cannot teach you one way to bring him back to life.”

That perspective placed responsibility above ability, and restraint above skill. Later in life, I came across a hadith that reinforced those same values and gave them a clearer moral frame:

“The strong man is not the one who can wrestle others, but the one who controls himself when he is angry.”

The hadith didn’t introduce a new idea to me — it confirmed what practice had already taught me. Strength, to me, is about self-control.

I see my work as preserving and sharing one of the unique treasures of my people, for real benefit at the individual level. My teacher once answered a simple question — why he taught Silat around the world to non-Malay Muslims — by saying that Silat can help a person become better and more grounded. That understanding has stayed with me.

The path I try to uphold is one of balance and moderation. Martial arts, when taught responsibly, can shape character, discipline emotion, and strengthen both body and mind. That kind of training should always be grounded in good intentions. If my work can help people develop strength with humility, confidence with restraint, and skill with responsibility — for the sake of Allah — then I’ve played my small part. I don’t see this as a solitary mission, but as a contribution within a much larger community and tradition.

That, for me, is enough. This is my endgame.