As the fight wore on, Mao’s breathing within the mask became increasingly labored, and several times she felt as though she would swoon when defending against her opponent’s ferocious attacks. She knew that if the match continued for much longer, she would not be able to defend herself. She resolved to try some drastic strategy in an attempt to finish the fight, although it was a risky strategy: she would either end the battle immediately, or leave herself open to an easy counterattack for which she would be relatively defenseless. Nevertheless, she had little choice at this point, as she could feel her stamina waning with each passing instant.
She began by attacking the man’s chest with several kicks that were merely a feint to provoke a counterattack, with her last kick apparently leaving open her right side for a quick strike. The natural attack would likely be a driving backfist with the right hand and a swift frontal kick to the right side of the body in a typical style of kung fu. Her opponent took the bait, and he lunged ferociously at her head with the back of his right hand, which he planned to follow with a front kick with his left leg to send her reeling backwards. However, as his fist flew toward her face, she spun away from it and his fist only grazed her cheek as she did so. His momentum propelled him forward, but at the same time he had already raised his left foot off the ground for the ensuing frontal kick, leaving him horribly off balance. Mao continued her spin as he sailed past her, striking the back of his head with the back of her right fist. This she immediately followed with a high whipping kick with her left foot to the back of his head, sending the man reeling forward. She rushed forward to leap onto his prone body and finish him with an elbow strike to the back of his neck, but he thrust out his right foot and managed to trip her as she moved forward. She fell awkwardly toward his head, and as he began to raise himself from the floor, he turned slightly upward and she came crashing down on his hard shoulder. The right side of her body had struck his shoulder in the same place as during the match with the Shailan monk, fully on the lower rib cage, and she tried to stifle a loud groan as she felt the impact.
The man rolled to his feet and jumped backward. He stood fully erect with his hands on his hips and began laughing, pumping his fists in the air in triumph. He had felt the impact of Mao’s body on his shoulder, and had heard her muffled groan of pain. He realized that she would now be unable to withstand his attacks. The crowd cheered noisily as the man goaded them on.
Mao slowly rose to her feet, holding her left hand over the left side of her body, which was not the side on which she was injured. The man laughed again, openly mocking her, as she grimaced from the pain in her right side. “Let us see who it is behind the black mask, shall we?”, he taunted as he began his final attack. “I am sure everyone would like to know the identity of the poor Black Cat! I think I shall keep your mask as a trophy of my victory today!”
Believing that Mao had injured her left side, he approached her from that side of her body with his hands down. He was entirely confident that the fight was his, and was not at all concerned about defending an attack. As he approached, she raised her left leg slightly to keep him at a distance, but then winced in pain and appeared to be unable to lift her leg any higher from the ground. The man’s confidence and arrogance grew even greater, and he walked slowly forward. His intent was to drive a sidekick straight into Mao’s left torso to shatter her ribcage and end the match; however, he left himself completely defenseless so that he could impart as much power as possible into his kick. As his foot left the ground, Mao shot up and pain surged through her right side as she sprung forward with her left foot, which landed squarely between his legs.
An expression of disbelief passed over the man’s face, followed by one of extreme pain. He let loose an ear-splitting scream, and dropped his hands to cover the area that had just been struck. As he did so, Mao grabbed him behind his head by his hair with both hands and yanked his head downward. She slammed her left knee into his chest, and then a second time straight into his face. She then pushed him backwards with her forearms, sending him sprawling on the ground amidst several of his teeth with blood spewing from his nose. He did not arise within a reasonable period, and the referee stopped the fight.
A terrific roar arose from the crowd like a tidal wave, while Mao collapsed onto the arena platform. Her opponent regained consciousness, and was helped off the platform by several other men. His face would likely be disfigured from a broken nose and the loss of several teeth. He would never again be the handsome man who had arrogantly entered the stadium earlier that afternoon.
Mao thought about the ironic end to the man’s tournament aspirations, how he had been undone by his own pride and vanity. She was appalled and sickened to realize the extent of the injuries she had caused to him. This was not how she imagined the tournament to be, all of these long years of her life. She took consolation from the fact that the man had brought this upon himself by trying seriously to injure her. It was well within Jai-tien’s philosophy to bring injury to those who were trying to injure you, but only to the extent that the threat was neutralized. But had she gone too far? And had she irrevocably damaged his honor, the way that she had possibly destroyed it in the young Xieng-gui? After a few moments of contemplation, she determined that she had not taken honor from him; he had taken it from himself by his own actions.
Then the realization struck Mao that she had made it to the final round of the tournament! It was the culmination of all her childhood dreams! She momentarily experienced again the rush of exhilaration that had accompanied her previous victories, but it quickly dissipated as the pain in her side reminded her of the high cost she had paid for victory. She was also stunned by the fickleness of the crowd. One moment it was cheering wildly for her arrogant opponent, and the next for her. Did they really only care about who was the winner? Or did they merely want to see pain and blood? She was sweating heavily and panting under the black mask, and wanted nothing more than to leave the stadium before she became sick to her stomach. She searched the crowd in the vain hope of spying Qianpeng, but to no avail. Steeling herself against the pain, she carefully lowered herself down the stairs from the platform and slowly made her way out of the stadium with the mad cheers of the crowd ringing in her ears.
That evening was not a pleasant one for Black Cat. Her ribs ached severely and a deep purple bruise had covered the area of impact. She returned to the palace square and crawled under her bushes to begin recuperating as much as possible before the final match of the tournament. Fortunately, she had two full days to recover, as this amount of time was allowed between the semifinal and final rounds to allow both contestants to obtain sufficient rest to ensure a great fight. Despite the pain in her side, she immediately fell asleep for several hours, only to awaken as the sun was falling from the sky. She forced herself to sit upright and eat some of the food that had been given to her.
Afterward, she lay back down on her blanket and attempted to fall back to sleep. However, she could not do so for a long period of time, and when she did, she suffered from fitful dreams wherein she fought a series of tournament matches, ending each one by causing serious injury to her opponent. She struggled with these dreams, trying to find ways to win the matches without causing any serious damage, but each time, no matter how careful she was, her opponent would sustain some grievous injury at her hands. She awoke well after sunrise the next morning, feeling as if she had not slept at all.
The next two days passed very quietly for Mao. Most of her time was spent under the bushes that she had adopted as her home. Gradually, the pain and swelling in her side subsided to a tolerable level, but there was little doubt in her mind that she had sustained a rib fracture, and that several months would be required for a return to full health. Had she not suffered the same injury previously, the blow might not have had as severe of an effect on her, but this was irrelevant now. She spent most of her waking hours devising strategies for disguising her injury during her next match, as well as deciding which techniques she could s
till rely upon in spite of her fractured ribs. Most importantly, she spent much time thinking about which movements she would be unable to perform during the final match. She must be very careful to mask her fractured ribs or her opponent would be sure to notice and strategize to take advantage of her injuries. He would surely have injuries too, but he would also be trying to mask them so that she could detect nothing to exploit.
On the third day, the final tournament match was scheduled to occur. Mao awoke on this day with the sunrise, and felt her injured ribs before sitting up on her blanket. They felt much better this day than on the previous two, and she was confident that she could muster enough energy and strength at least to put up a good fight. She ate much of the remaining food, deciding to eat a lighter meal an hour before the match to sustain a high energy level throughout the contest. Before donning the black costume for the last time, she ripped a swath from her blanket and carefully wrapped it around her bruised ribs for additional support. She changed clothes, tied up her hair, and wound the black mask around her face. It promised to be another hot day, and she dreaded the thought of fighting once more in the suffocating shroud.
Slowly she made her way to the other side of the palace where the stadium was situated. Everyone she passed by stopped to look at her, whispering among themselves long after she had moved on. The whole city was vibrantly active today, and the streets were decorated with ornate silk trappings depicting dragons and warriors, and pictures of the royal family. The stadium was covered with brightly colored silk flags, representing all of the regions of ancient China. The building had been occupied since the night before, as everyone wanted to obtain a place within the stadium, rather than be forced to listen to second-hand recounts relayed to them through the tunnels from those inside. This year the tournament enjoyed even more excitement than usual, due to the presence of Grand Master Bai Chen and the prospect of a glorious battle between the contestants, Master Xie-feng from the prosperous southernmost coastal province of China and the mysterious black-masked figure from the north.
Master Xie-feng was considered to be one of the greatest masters of kung fu of his generation, and was the heavy favorite to win the tournament for the third time in a row at the outset of the event. However, the odds had changed drastically over the past two days, and now he was only slightly favored to become the champion for a third time. He was a disciple of the southern Zhaojin school of kung fu, which was centered at the Zhaojin Monastery that stood on a steep cliff overlooking the dramatic coastline of the East China Sea. This style was very different than that of the Shailan warriors, and monks from these two monasteries often met in the final match of the Grand Tournament to determine its champion.
As she entered the arena through one of the rear tunnels, a tumultuous cheer erupted from the throng that filled the stadium beyond its capacity. Mao hesitated at the deafening roar, and a momentary shudder of panic swept over her before she slowly made her way toward the match platform at the center of the arena. She listened to the words of encouragement of those who supported her as she passed by them, and the derision of those who wished for Xie-feng to win. She heard people wagering on the outcome of the match. She could not help wondering if the purpose of the tournament was simply entertainment, or an opportunity for people to make money. Surely it had more meaning than this! She had always imagined a glorious event where the competitors and audience alike displayed courtesy and the utmost degree of respect. Instead, she was deeply disappointed at the nature of the event, and wondered if it had always been so.
As she stepped onto the match platform, another deafening cheer arose from the crowd. This time, it was Master Xie-feng who had entered the stadium through the main tunnel. He wore the characteristic rainbow-colored robe of the Zhaojin Monastery, with billowy red and black pantaloons bound tight at the knees and ankles. His head was bare of hair, as was traditional among the monks of ancient China. He was a tall man, with a well-proportioned and muscled body. Yet he had a characteristic leanness that was rarely seen and only possessed by those who had devoted a lifetime to strenuous physical activity. As he strode through the parted crowd, Mao could tell that he would be a formidable opponent.
Xie-feng stepped onto the platform and took a place opposite of Mao on the edge of the match ring. His first action was to bow in her direction, and she likewise returned the sign of respect. Then he removed his robe and sandals, revealing his impressive torso to the delight of the crowd. He began performing a series of exercises to prepare his body for the upcoming battle.
A moment later, a wail of sound rose above the din of the crowd, signaling the entrance of the royal entourage. This time a large procession led the contingent of royal dignitaries, with blaring music and a long, colorful, silk dragon dancing to the rhythm of the musicians. Loud bursts of crackling fireworks left a trail of hazy smoke through which acrobats hurtled their bodies with amazing leaps and somersaults. It was truly a wonderful spectacle to behold, and again Mao felt a momentary surge of panic within her breast.
The parade was followed by the royal entourage, with the ruler, Bengui, and Grand Master Bai Chen sitting on ornate golden shaded chairs that were carried with poles on the shoulders of eight men each. These carriages were lifted onto the stage, and the two men exited onto the royal platform, where they stood to wave at the crowd. At length, the crowd quieted to a sufficient degree that Grand Master Bai Chen could speak in his raspy voice. He bent his crooked and aged body over his old, common walking stick, and waited for the crowd to calm down. Eventually, he raised his hand for complete silence, and the ruler took a seat behind him.
“Men of China,” he began with barely more than a whisper, but his words were relayed through the crowd as soon as he uttered them. “It is now one hundred years since I entered this world, and soon I shall leave it.”
The crowd hissed at this suggestion. Bai Chen again silenced them with a raise of his hand. “In my time, I have witnessed this great event many times, and have had the great honor of being its champion several times. For over a thousand years we have carried on this tradition, and for a thousand more we shall continue to honor our greatest warriors in this fashion.”
The crowd let out another roar of approval, and Bai Chen was forced to silence them a third time. “All who fought in this tournament, this year and for the past thousand years, have brought great honor to our land, and have provided the inspiration for future generations of warriors who will carry on our arts and traditions. Let us give thanks to the Great Buddha for our noble and honorable ancestors who have met the challenges of the past with determination and bravery.”
Bai Chen raised his hand in a blessing, while the crowd remained respectfully silent. “This year, the 100th anniversary of my birth, there are two contestants before us who have withstood the rigors and hardships of three weeks of tournament matches.”
Bai Chen turned to face the two competitors on the match platform. Mao could feel a swelling of emotion as her eyes met those of the grand master for the first time in many years.
“These two contestants represent our finest warriors throughout our land, and have poured much sweat and blood into their training over many years. Their presence here is a testament to their dedication and adherence to the principles of our great art of kung fu. I wish you both good fortune, and may the Great Buddha smile on each of you.” When he finished his speech, he turned around and hobbled on his stick to his seat beside the ruler while the crowd erupted at his back.
All eyes in the stadium then turned toward the match platform and a sudden stillness felt like a heavy weight upon Mao’s shoulders. The referee walked onto the stage to signal the start of the match. Mao assumed a defensive posture in which she could cautiously approach her opponent, as she felt her heart rise into her throat.
The referee raised his arm, but had yet to signal the start of the match when a shout from the rear of the stadium lanced through the silence of the crowd. All eyes turned toward the source of the commotion, a
nd a parting wave spread toward the royal stage as three figures swept through it. Two of these men appeared to be dragging the third one by each arm. The figure in the middle was wearing baggy clothes and the wide-brimmed hat of a farmer.
The three figures passed through the crowd and stopped in front of the royal platform and looked up at the stage. One of them addressed the royal court. “Honorable and Majestic Sirs,” he began, “we do not mean to offend you with our humble presence, but it is our duty to disclose to you what we have found among the audience!”
With these words, he pulled off the hat of the middle figure, revealing the face of an old woman staring dejectedly down at the ground. In an instant Mao recognized the features of Qianpeng, who she had encouraged to disguise herself to enter the tournament grounds. A loud gasp escaped from Mao’s lips as she stared down at the trembling figure standing before the royal stage.
The ruler of Xiaomei, Bengui, and the rest of his court also emitted a collective gasp, and jumped to their feet. Bengui approached the edge of the stage and glared down at the old woman. “What is this outrage?”, he shouted down at her. “You know that this event is forbidden to women! By whose authority have you entered here?”
Qianpeng said nothing, and only stared at the ground. She began to sob in despair, as the angry crowd began shouting derision at her.
Mao felt the screaming pain of guilt and sickened that she had persuaded the old woman to disguise herself in order to enter the stadium. She knew that she was responsible for the old woman’s plight, and felt her knees begin to give out from beneath her. But at that moment, she became very angry and her face began to burn with resentment and indignation. Why shouldn’t women be allowed to watch the tournament? This was the true outrage to her!
Black Dragon, Black Cat Page 25