White Hawk and Sable Swan: A Martial Romance of the Far Future - Part V
This is the fifth part of an ongoing serial, written in honor of the Swords of St. Valentine initiative. Here are Parts One, Two, Three and Four. Updates every day.
Even surrounded by a chorus of never-ending boos and curses, Xu Hai managed to keep some semblance of cool. It was hard to pay attention to a fight when the only thing the audience seemed to want to do was interrupt it.
“What is this, love-talk? Fight, you chickens!”
“This is the White Hawk? His daddy must’ve paid his way through, then!”
“White Hawk, you can do it! Do it, White Hawk!”
But there was real anger, real resentment, even in the bemused heckling and inane wails. From people who had been promised some sort of entertainment, from people who had something to lose. From people who wanted something.
That’s right, came Father’s voice. That’s all your precious pugilists are. Just chickens in a cage.
Xu Hai gritted her teeth.
“No,” she said, even as the Red Arhat raised his staff for the decisive blow. “We’re fighting birds.”
Unlike most of the audience, she knew exactly what was going on here. The White Hawk was a reactive, adaptive fighter who thrived against speed and aggression. He depended on confusion, on clumsy blunders made in the wake of his slick style, to stick his talons in and get a tight grip. He’d shown that much last summer, in the Yellow Tiger championship bout.
No-one had expected him to go that far, much less win. The forums had flooded for weeks. There were still cries in some corners for a rematch.
But here, at this very moment, the Red Arhat was calling his bluff. He was a reactive fighter, too, but a stronger, slower, more rooted one. Like a crafty willow tree, he had caught the White Hawk and ensnared him. By the time his opponent realized what was going on, the bout was already over.
But no! It -
When the White Hawk revealed his final gambit, a long-shut window creaked open in Xu Hai’s mind, bringing in the blinding light of unexpected revelation.
She was in the presence of a true genius.
The solution was simple. So simple, in fact, that he had completely overlooked it in all his panicking.
The Red Arhat drew back his staff, aiming for the simulated blow that would crush Li Wei’s windpipe. The pain would incapacitate him for days, if not weeks. There were reports of fighters actually asphyxiating on the spot, or staggering off street-curbs to their deaths three weeks later, reliving the phantom pain of a fatal wound.
Li Wei closed his eyes and breathed deep like a baby, channeling his chi. He sent it through his arms and legs and every single joint of both hands. He felt himself centering at his dantian, becoming as supple and strong as silk thread.
If he was fast, but not fast enough, then all he had to do was move faster.
He raised his gauntleted hands above his face, sobbed in half-real terror, then, at the exact moment when the staff came down, tilted his head aside, rolled, and smashed the spiked toe of his left sabaton into the Red Arhat’s ankle.
This time, the monk really did go down.
Li Wei scrambled away and to his feet, clutching the staff like a lifeline. Every part of him screamed in agony.
“Impressive,” said the Red Arhat, rising to his feet - or rather, foot. His left foot was raised off the ground, hanging as if useless. There was a tremor of discomfort in his voice.
Li Wei swung straight at his bad leg. The Arhat hopped up and over the sweep, only to receive a sharp spinning back-kick in the chest. He flew back through the air, skidded across the stone on one foot, then steadied himself. Then he coughed, wetly.
“Don’t be so cocky,” said Li Wei. “It’s not even a flesh-wound. What was that about the spirit of martial arts, again?”
He leapt forwards, spun, and swung again, hard, from the right this time. The Arhat ducked underneath and caught the center of the staff, turning, trying to unbalance him and repossess the weapon.
The monk was like a tree split by lightning. Even with only one leg, it still felt like he could could crush a man just through falling.
Well, then fall he would.
Li Wei grunted and slammed most of his own winged helm into his opponent’s mask. Then he dropped the staff, shot low, caught the staff, pulled the Arhat’s good leg from under him, jumped, and came straight down in a vicious, air-bruising arc, an overhead smash with all his chi behind it.
An orange sleeve flapped up to intercept the blow. Too late. Far too late.
By the time Li Wei felt confident enough to stand, the Red Arhat was a heap of red robes and limp flesh on the ground. His left hand lay on his fractured mask as if broken itself, although Li Wei knew that real damage was categorically impossible.
No wounds here, after all. Only money, and glory, and emptiness.
What had the Red Arhat been fighting for? More of the same?
What was he fighting for?
The courtyard melted away, leaving him alone in the ring with his pain and fallen foe. It was even worse now that he could hear everyone. With a hollow heart, he raised his hands to greet his exultant fans.