Falling Pine
You draw the old sword, letting the scabbard drop to the floor.
The weathered metal is dull in the morning light, with a single word carved into the blade: the character for ‘fish’. Rong Zhiyu’s wary gaze turns into a dismissive smirk. “Ah, finally you draw the sword I gave you. A child fancying himself a swordsman, that does not even have a sword of his own. Do you even know how to wield one properly, boy?”
“The sharp end goes into the enemy,” you say. “How hard can it be?”
The disciples laugh and jeer at you. “Oh, be polite!” Rong calls out to them, laughing. The thought of you pitting your sword skills against him seems to have eased his mind. “He must have gone mad in desperation!”
As you put your right foot forward and point the sword at him, the blade parallel to the ground, the mocking crowd is silenced.
“What do you think you are doing?” says Rong Zhiyu, anger flashing in his eyes – yet another emotion added to the volatile mixture within him.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” you reply, posed in the stance of the Songfeng Swordplay.
“Insulting my father and his technique, it seems,” growls Rong. This time, you do not answer, keeping the sword pointed at his heart and your stance steady. All of the elements are in place.
You have the old sword, a Rong family heirloom, though they do not place much importance on it nowadays.
You are adopting the stance of the Rong family’s signature technique, preparing to execute the first step of the Songfeng Swordplay.
As the proud young master of a sword school that has made its name with that technique, as the heir and inheritor of the school, Rong Zhiyu can only make one possible decision. He would have to match you in the Songfeng Swordplay and defeat you in a head-on clash. There is no other conclusion he can come to.
Should he use a Huashan technique in his attack now, his name would be tarred no matter what he says. The young master of the Songfeng Sword School resorting to another sect’s techniques in order to beat a fifteen year old physician’s apprentice who has only studied the first step of the Songfeng Swordplay? He cannot afford to do anything else in front of all the disciples of the school and his parents. It would shame him, his father, and the school completely and utterly even if he won.
Surely, with his privileged position and years of training, he would know the technique’s intricacies far better than you did. Surely he would be able to execute it faster, stronger, and more gracefully than you could. How could his Songfeng Swordplay be inferior to yours?
No, for Rong Zhiyu there is only one answer that he can accept.
“It looks like you’ve decided to die in a humiliating manner,” sneers Rong Zhiyu as he falls into the Songfeng stance confidently, his movements far more elegant and practiced than yours. “I’ll show you the difference in our skills.”
Your heart is pounding away underneath your calm exterior. He has taken the bait, just like you expected. Now all that is left is for you to execute your move perfectly. You shift your grip, testing the balance of the sword. It should do. You calm your heavy breathing, controlling and regulating it with the measures you learned through the Yinglang Step.
“What’s the matter?” Rong Zhiyu calls out mockingly. “Not coming to attack with your imitation technique? Are your knees trembling now, when faced with a true master of the sword?”
You twitch your hand, making the point of the sword weave and bob unsteadily as you return his mockery with a polite smile. “I’m waiting for you to show me how it’s really done, young master.”
“That tongue of yours, I will have it torn out today!”
Rong shouts as he lunges, executing the first step of the Songfeng Swordplay perfectly.
He is a better swordsman than you are, by sheer virtue of intensive training from a young age. He knows more moves, understands more techniques. However, despite your inexperience, if you focus all of your strength and understanding into one move, you can beat him there… and only there.
His sword swings in a graceful arc. Like the breeze rustling around a pine tree, it is malleable and gentle. Catching the breeze is not an easy task even for a master.
If you cannot capture the breeze, you will just have to chop down the pine tree.
Your feet kick off the ground as you rush into his strike, imitating his movements. You match him, despite starting later. Your arm is faster. Your sword flies to intercept his.
Metal meets metal. As he tries to pull away into another move, your sword follows even faster, helped along by its strange balance. In a situation where a true Songfeng practitioner would be withdrawing cautiously to glide into a second move, you are pressing the attack towards the center.
It is a fast, reckless charge.
Rong Zhiyu attempts to snap back to a defensive position, knowing that he has overreached on the attack, but your blade is too swift and strong. His desperate, unsteady guard is knocked aside. His stance is broken. The pine tree has fallen. In its absence, the gentle breeze transforms into a strong gale, but the wind is now yours.
Your blade arcs towards his head at a high speed.
And then, the old sword falls apart, the blade snapping into two at the stress of your attack.
It really was just a badly made sword after all. Your swing falls just short of its mark, notching Rong’s nose with the broken end of the blade.
His counter-swing, which had started slow and was never going to arrive in time to save him, bites into your collar, digging into bone. A bloom of pain washes up your neck and shoulder.
A wide grin spreads across the lucky bastard’s face, filled with relief. “Even Heaven is on my side!” he shouts loudly into your face.
You, on the other hand, quietly thrust your sword-arm upwards and outwards. Even a broken blade can kill. And this is a movement you have practiced many, many times, until you could do it in your sleep.
The sharp end does, indeed, go into the enemy. Travelling under his rib-cage and avoiding bone, it sinks deep into Rong Zhiyu’s chest, finding its mark.
This is why you are a killer, and he isn’t.
What idiot would think that he’s won a duel to the death when his sword is merely lodged in his opponent’s collarbone?
The young master of the Songfeng Sword School falls to his knees, a confused expression on his face. As you stagger backwards, clutching your wound, the audience explodes into a cacophony of roars and screams and wails. You see Master and Madam Rong rushing to their sole son’s side. The disciples run towards you, their swords drawn. You are too tired to even escape, but they stop just short of your reach, surrounding you in a cautious circle. A few of them back away a step or two when your gaze meets theirs. You hear the sound of feet shifting in the gravel as the ones behind you attempt to approach in what they think to be a stealthy manner.
“Stop! That is not how Songfeng disciples should act!” The disciples look at each other nervously and part ways as Master Rong comes to the fore, his face pale and his hands bloody. With a swing of his hand, he throws a glinting object at you. The broken sword clatters to the ground, stained with the blood of Rong Zhiyu’s heart.
“You go now, Xu Jing. Go, and take the sword that killed my son along with you. I never want to see you or the blade again,” says Rong Muben, his voice tired. He seems to have aged ten years in an instant.
You reach down and grasp the sword, wincing at the pain. Giving Rong Muben a deep, respectful bow, you turn and walk off as the disciples of the school make way for you silently.
The walk to the gates of the compound feels long and arduous. The pain increases every time you move your feet forward. If you die here, you are sure Rong will not lift a finger to help you. You stumble and grab a nearby pillar, leaving your blood-stained prints on it. Your vision blurs.
You hear hurried footsteps coming towards you from the front. A disciple ignoring the command of Rong Muben? You suppose your ill luck is not done tormenting you yet. But, no, the footsteps sound lighter.
You stagger forward one more step, and collapse into Cao’er’s arms.
***
When the both of you arrive at the hut outside Xuchang, with you swaddled in bandages, you see Master Yao has already returned. He is sitting outside the hut, stoking a fire. Another man is with him, wearing rough and ragged sack-cloth clothing and a dirty red cap. He appears to be a decade or so younger than Master Yao, his face weathered and his whiskers gray.
When Master Yao sees you approach, he raises his eyebrows. “You are late. I was about to go down to Tuzhonglin to look for you.”
You sigh as you drop on your haunches with a groan, Cao’er quietly supporting you from behind. “As you can see, Master, I am in no condition to walk quickly.”
“Hmph,” he snorts, getting up and coming over to inspect your wounds. “They have been treated well. Don’t be a big baby, you should recover fully by tomorrow.” He turns to Cao’er, saying, “Good job healing your useless junior.” Yao goes back to his seat and looks at you impatiently. “So? What happened there?” You glance at the other man, who has a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “He’s a friend,” snaps Yao. “What’s the story?”
You nod and begin recounting all that had happened at the Songfeng Sword School. Your master listens quietly, sombrely, and when you finish, his friend laughs loudly.
“He’s every bit as resourceful as you made him out to be, Shunshi! And your senior apprentice will be scarier than you in the future if she can cure Wuxian Canshui at this age. She’s much better than you boasted of!”
Yao glares at him unhappily. “He’s still a useless kid. Coming back injured like that just proves it, and he nearly got his senior into trouble.” You look at your master with an amused smile, irking him. Has he been praising the both of you behind your backs?
The ragged man gives you a mischievous bow. “That is a marvellous adventure, Xu Jing. I will retell your exploits to my friends. Of course, the gossip of beggars and rogues mean little to the stuck-up swordsmen hiding up in their mountains, but to those who wander the jianghu seeking adventures and wrongs to right… or rights to wrong, they will know of your name.”
You return his bow respectfully. “I thank you, kind uncle. May I be correct in presuming that you are a member of the Beggars’ Sect? Could I know how to address you?”
“You would be right. Qi Liuwu is my name. Call me beggar if you like,” grins the man.
You spring to your feet despite your wounds – you are in the presence of beggar royalty here. The leader of the huge Beggars’ Sect and one of the most powerful martial artists in the world today… “I-it’s an honour to meet you, Master Qi!”
“Oh, sit down, and stop with the polite speech,” complains Master Yao. “You have not been half as polite with me since the first month of your apprenticeship. What’s with the sudden manners?” Qi laughs. “That’s right, listen to your master. No need to stand on ceremony with me, kiddo. We’re all travellers of the road here, and all equals. Come, drink with us.” He shakes a gourd of wine – you see that Yao and Qi appear to have already dealt with two more gourds lying empty on the ground.
You gratefully accept – after the events at Songfeng, you need some relaxation.
“So, Master Yao, Master Qi,” you ask, “how did Kaifeng turn out?”
Yao frowns while Qi just smiles sadly. Your master is the first to speak. “Qi’s friend was not the murderer. That much I can say. The rest, well…”
“It was just Xiong’s bad luck that he happened to be at the scene of the crime. Who would believe a beggar?” says Qi.
“What about the evidence you delivered to the magistrate? You did find out that he could not have killed the victim, right?”
“Oh, the magistrate gave some argument based on the Dialects about how the evidence was not admissible in court.”
You frown. “But the Dialects have nothing to-“
“Of course they have nothing to do with it, boy,” snaps Yao. “But even though it is a public trial, the audience is full of beggars and peasants. How would they know what the Dialects have to say? No scholar in Kaifeng would defend a beggar either. I delivered my coroner’s verdict, and that is where my duties as to the request ends.”
“Before you ask your master why he did not intervene,” interjects Qi, “he would rather not, and I would rather he not do so. Direct intervention would have counted as saving a life. I would not have my friend kill for the sake of another friend, or break his principles in doing so. No, that would not be right. But it is how it is. A beggar has no friends or family to rely on except his fellow beggars and the kind acquaintances he meets on the road. We are grateful for what help we receive. No need to ask for more. But enough of this topic. Drink up!” He tosses another gourd at you.
As the night passes on, the drink flows and the laughter grows. Cao’er falls asleep rather early, leaning against your shoulder. This is the most excitement she’s probably encountered in the year since you joined them. She must be really exhausted.
“Hey, kiddo,” calls out Qi suddenly. His face is red from the wine, and it seems that he is already drunk after imbibing half a dozen gourds. “What’s that sword you have there? That the one you –hic– killed that bastard with?”
You look at the broken sword that you have brought back. “Yes, it is.” You offer it to Qi, as he clearly wants to take a look. He ponders the sword with a furrowed look, and then swings it around casually so fast that you cannot catch his movements. When he finishes his swing, bits of old metal have dropped off from the sword. A beautiful short blade is left behind. The inscriptions are archaic, catching the flickering light from the fire. It predates even the Han dynasty… perhaps even the dynasty of the First Emperor.
“The Yuchang Sword…” mutters Qi. “Thought to be –hic– lost for a hundred years. It’s one of the Ten Great Swords of history. I suppose… –hic– it’s bad luck for you that it has come into your hands.” Cradling the slender sword, he looks grimly at you.
“Bad luck? Why is that?”
“Well, m’boy… this here sword,” he whispers theatrically, “it’s an Emei treasure. You know, the nuns? I think it was stolen from them ages ago. They are going to –hic– hunt you down if they find out that the blade has re-emerged from hiding.”
Emei – one of the major orthodox sects. They only accept female disciples in their ranks and are regarded as one of the great powers, strong enough to rival Shaolin and Wudang. You grow slightly nervous.
“Scared? You ought to be, kiddo,” groans Qi. “Once they send their Castration Nuns after you, you will be sorry.”
“I’m sorry, what? Castration nuns?” You try to clarify what you have just heard.
“You heard me the first time! Castration! Nuns! Nuns that are trained to castrate!” exclaims Qi.
You glance over at Master Yao. “Is that true?”
He nods solemnly. At this point, you don’t know whether they are making fun of you or not.
“But… but… don’t worry! –hic– I’ll teach you how to protect yourself from them. Watch my hands carefully. Once you master this move, –hic– you will be unbeatable.”
“Oh, no, not again,” grumbles Master Yao. “Liuwu, you better-“
Ignoring your master, the Eastern Beggar squares off into a stance and begins performing moves from a technique, calling out their names as he executes them. It appears to be a palm technique, strong and robust in its attacks. Qi is performing it so fast that you cannot catch his moves – it almost appears as if his arms have multiplied in number. The fire is blown out by a stray swing of his palms. With a shout, he finishes performing the final move of the technique, striking out at the hut behind him. There is a loud crash as the wooden wall splinters inwards, a great hole forming in the hut even though Qi is still standing a good distance away from it.
“Bad habit of his,” grumbles Yao, “Every time he gets drunk, he tries to show off his Xianglong Palms (降龍十八掌,Dragon Subduing Eighteen Palms). Looks like we were unlucky enough to get the full show this time. Usually he wouldn't be steady enough to complete even the first move.”
“So, what did you think of it, kiddo?” smiles the drunken beggar as he wobbles back to a sitting position. “I’m not supposed to teach it to outsiders, but eh, screw the council of elders. I’m the head, and what I say goes!”
You nod your head slowly. The entire sequence of moves was too fast and powerful for you to perceive, but you think you managed to catch the very first move that he used – the most basic strike of the Xianglong Palms. You believe that he called it ‘The Arrogant Dragon Regrets’.
You replay it over and over in your mind, wondering if you are getting it right…
***
When you wake up the next day, Qi Liuwu is gone. Master Yao prods at you with his foot. “We can’t be staying here any longer, boy. That idiot trashed the hut. Time to move on. I feel like wandering, so do you have any particular destination in mind?”
***
A. Xiangyang City. A vital fortress city overlooking the Han river, it is run by a military-minded prefect. Wudang Mountain is a few days’ travel from Xiangyang.
B. Luoyang City. One of the main capitals of the Tang dynasty, though Chang’an serves as the current residence of the Emperor. The Shaolin Temple is located on Mount Song, close to Luoyang.
C. Xuzhou City. A major trade center in the Jiangnan region, it is also an agricultural center. The Luoying Manor, a learning house for martial artists who are interested in the pursuits of art, history and scholarly knowledge, is located near the city.
***
Also, the drunken tale of the Castration Nuns bothers you. Perhaps...
A. You pawn off the Yuchang Sword.
B. You keep the Yuchang Sword.
Ohwell. Here's to hope. 
