White Hawk and Sable Swan: A Martial Romance of the Far Future - Part IV

This is the fourth part of an ongoing serial, written in honor of the Swords of St. Valentine initiative. Here are Parts One, Two and Three. Updates every day.

To Li Wei, fighting was as natural as breathing. And not in any uncouth sense, either. Like Yang the Invincible of yore, he was one of those rare luminaries, one of those shining stars of the pugilistic world, possessed of the ability not only to fight but to fight beautifully. To understand, intuitively, the momentum and effect of every strike and feint, and to shift chi with a thought.

On one level, he was completely unaware of this, but on another, he was vaguely cognizant of his unnatural talent.

It was why the Red Arhat was giving him so much trouble.

Ten exchanges in a single minute. Li Wei had struck with his jian in long elegant loops, trying to snake around and cut at his opponent’s arms, thighs, neck and breast. It should have been easy - despite the Red Arhat’s flowing robes, Li Wei clearly had the edge on speed. But the Red Arhat had stood stolid throughout the assault, warding the blade with a simple, unhurried guard. Like an aquifer in a storm, receiving the torrent and channeling it on without the slightest resentment.

Li Wei stood for three seconds in his familiar high stance, breathing heavily. The birds sang around him. The bamboo rustled.

This wasn’t how this was meant to go. He couldn’t hear the fans outside, in meatspace, but he knew what they were saying.

What if he…

The brass-capped tip of the Arhat’s staff rammed into his helm. The world erupted in a bright burst of purple-yellow, and he reeled. Only instinct saved him from dropping his weapon, forcing his left hand to the stone-tiled floor. He sailed back through the air in a clumsy flip and landed feet-first on a stone lion.

“Impressive,” said the Red Arhat, in his meandering voice. “Do you always meditate in the midst of matches?”

Li Wei bit back a curse, pressed both hands into the hilt of his jian. How had he cleared the space between them so suddenly?

“You rely on your speed and wits, White Hawk,” continued his opponent, advancing with the leisurely pace of a casual conversant, “but only that. You have no experience.”

Li Wei laughed. It was the only thing he could think of doing. He was terrified.

“And you do, I suppose.”

“Perhaps,” said his opponent, quirking his masked head. “Perhaps not. The amount is irrelevant, at any rate; only the comparison holds. You defeated the Yellow Tiger with your wiles last summer, but he was prone to wrath and rage. You will find that I am not as easily moved.”

The Arhat swung, as easily as a schoolmaster with a birch rod. The statue’s head burst into a million fragments. Li Wei flipped over his opponent and cut down, desperately, but his jian caught in a sweep of orange sleeve. Grasped by the wrist and thrown, he flew, rolled, and tumbled to a halt.

“You are no match for me,” said the Red Arhat. “Accept your fate, and I will leave you your life.”

Li Wei scrabbled for his jian, but it was out of his reach, lying ten meters across against the stone chess-table. He was unarmed. He felt the dull, aching pain of bruises all across his neck and shoulders - but there was a falseness to the hurt, as if it were only pain for pain’s sake. There was no heat to it, no throbbing sensation, not even the sharp prickle of broken skin.

“Weren’t you reading when they gave you the contract?” he gabbled. “No real wounds in this. It’s play-acting.”

He let out a wild bark of laughter. He was so scared, it was making him clear-headed. His entire mind was alive with the thrill of terror.

“No wounds, perhaps,” said the Red Arhat, casting a glance to the borders of their virtual world. “But the pain is real, and it can kill you. Get up, White Hawk. They are clamoring for our blood.”

And with that, the monk threw his staff aside. He beckoned, calmly, with his open palm.

Li Wei stood, shakily, head swimming with an endless number of possibilities. He’d never met anyone he couldn’t outfight before. Then again, he’d never met anyone he couldn’t out-think before, either.

“How fast are you, really?”

“Very, White Hawk, although by no means as much as you. Why-”

He leapt and kicked at the faceless mask, but the Red Arhat took the brunt of the blow on his left shoulder, shifting his weight and pushing back with his chi. It felt like he was driving his foot into a wall. Even though he was wearing sabatons. Even though the monk was only flesh.

Li Wei twisted in mid-air, brought his other leg around and over the Arhat’s neck, clinched his knees, and fell. The force was bone-breaking. Any normal man would have been paralyzed. But the Arhat simply shifted his weight again, and by the time Li Wei realized that he wasn’t falling, the monk’s legs were already set, holding him up like a statue, leaving Li Wei stuck in the air like a super-glued marionette. It would have been comical, if it wasn’t so intimidating.

The elbow-strike to his left thigh was much less comical. It felt worse than the stone floor. He was on the floor. It felt like his pelvis had exploded.

“They are jeering us, White Hawk,” said the Red Arhat. “Seeing as you view this as nothing but a paycheck, perhaps you should put on more of a show.”

“What are you?” gasped Li Wei, between groans.

The Red Arhat picked up his staff and examined it, philosophically.

“Someone who breathes the spirit of martial arts. A dabbler like you would never understand.”

He placed the brass tip between Li Wei’s helmet and mantle, pressing it painfully into his larynx. He slid his staff back with one hand, then readied himself for the final blow.