by Jin Yong
And yet, even if they managed to take the Manual from Cyclone Mei now, they would then have to fight each other for it. Each man was quietly plotting a way to obtain the coveted martial tract, now that he was certain of its whereabouts.
Greybeard Liang glared at Guo Jing as he trudged after Wanyan Kang. The precious snake blood he had cultivated for more than a decade was still inside the boy’s body, but he stood no chance against the Freaks and Cyclone Mei on his own.
“Hey, give me back the herbs!” Guo Jing called.
Old Liang flicked his wrist without looking back. A Bone-Piercing Needle whistled through the air, straight at Guo Jing’s forehead.
In two quick moves, Zhu Cong knocked the Needle off course with the oilpaper fan in his right hand and caught it with his left. He sniffed its tip. “A Night and Noon Needle. Instantaneous death the moment it draws blood.”
The Ginseng Immortal turned, surprised to hear his secret weapon identified so easily.
“Here you go, Master!” Zhu Cong presented the projectile in the middle of his left palm.
Greybeard Liang reached out and took back what was his, paying little attention to the filthy scholar, since he knew he could defeat him with ease. Zhu Cong waved his arm to flick away the dirt on Liang’s left sleeve. The older man glowered and walked away.
Guo Jing was dejected. After everything he had been through this night, he had failed to get the herbs needed to purge the poison from Elder Wang’s body. He was at a loss what to do.
“Let’s go,” said the eldest Freak, Ke Zhen’e, as he hopped onto the palace wall. His siblings and Guo Jing followed after him.
Lotus Huang also jumped up, but stayed some distance away from the Freaks. She made no move to greet them.
“Little sister, where’s my shifu?” Cyclone Mei said.
“On Peach Blossom Island, of course!” Lotus giggled. “Why do you ask? Are you planning to visit him?”
Mei struggled to control her breathing. “You said he was coming,” she gasped eventually.
“Oh, he will, once I tell him where you are.”
No-one toys with Cyclone Mei! I’ll grab this little rascal and drag the truth out of her. She wobbled to her feet and lunged.
In the past days, the more she tried to free her life energy, the more it became stuck. Yet, right now, in her rage, she forgot that she was paralysed from the waist down, and a wave of warmth surged to her heart. Her legs were hers once more.
Shocked by Cyclone Mei’s sudden agility, Lotus leapt from the palace wall and disappeared into the streets and alleyways of the Jin capital.
I’m walking! Mei gasped. And yet, just as quickly, the numbness returned to her legs and they buckled. She collapsed on the ground and lost consciousness.
“What about her?” Jade Han, the youngest of the Freaks, asked.
If the Freaks wished to take her life now, it would be as easy as emptying their pockets. But it would be a dishonourable act.
“We promised Elder Ma to spare her life,” Ke Zhen’e replied as he landed on the street outside the palace.
3
AS IRONHEART YANG CRADLED CHARITY BAO IN HIS ARMS, A bittersweet rush of emotions overcame him. Reunited at last, after so many years. But he did not have time for reflection. They needed to escape fast. Lifting her tenderly, he scaled the palace wall.
Ironheart’s god-daughter, Mercy Mu, was waiting anxiously outside.
“Pa, why is the Consort . . .?” Mercy asked as she helped them down.
“She is your mother. We need to go.”
“My mother?”
“Hush, I will explain later.” Ironheart hurried on, with Charity still in his arms.
After they had covered some distance, Charity gradually began to grasp the whirlwind of events that had unfolded over this one night. In the dawn twilight, she could see that the man carrying her was the husband she had yearned for night and day for eighteen years.
She reached out to touch his face. “Am I dead?”
Sobs cracked Ironheart’s voice: “We are both alive and well—”
The drumming of hooves cut him short. A company of riders bearing flickering torches was galloping in their direction.
“Get him! Don’t let him go! He’s taken Her Highness!” The soldiers of the vanguard held their sabres and spears high, ready for combat.
I have her in my arms again; I can die a happy man, Ironheart thought. He turned to Mercy. “Child, take your mother.”
Scenes from Ox Village in Lin’an eighteen years ago came rushing back to Charity: Ironheart carrying her as they ran for their lives, the shouts and screams of the soldiers in pursuit. Eighteen years of separation, of heartbreak and disgrace.
It cannot happen again! Charity clung to her husband’s neck. I will never let go.
The soldiers were almost upon them. I would rather die defending my love than abandon her again, Ironheart thought. He unwound Charity’s arms from his neck and settled her with Mercy before running headlong into the pursuing force. He took out a foot soldier with a punch and snatched up the man’s spear.
Now armed, he was ten times the fighter he had been empty-handed.
One thrust and Ironheart managed to unseat the captain of the Sixth Prince’s personal guard from his horse.
Having lost their leader, the riders scattered. Relief washed over Ironheart. There were no skilled martial artists among them. But he was also disappointed. He had failed to grab any of their horses.
They pressed on. In the early-morning light, Charity noticed the blood on Ironheart’s clothes.
“Are you hurt?”
The mere question sent stabs of pain down the backs of Ironheart’s hands.
The ten holes dug by Wanyan Kang’s ten fingers.
It had been two days since Yang fought the young Prince. He had refused to acknowledge Mercy as his betrothed, having won her hand in the Duel for a Maiden.
The wounds had started bleeding again. Ironheart had not felt any discomfort while fighting, but now he could barely lift his arms. Just as Charity was about to bandage his hands, soldiers could once more be heard behind them. The dust kicked up by their horses masked their numbers.
“No need.” Ironheart sighed. “Run, my child! We will stay here.”
“No! I’m staying with you,” Mercy said.
“Is she your child?” Charity could not help but ask.
Ironheart was about to answer, but the soldiers were closing in. He turned and saw two Taoist monks heading in their direction. One had a kindly face framed by grey eyebrows and a long, grizzled beard. The other, younger-looking man, with dark hair, carried a sword on his back.
“Elder Qiu! How wonderful to see Your Reverence again!” Ironheart cried.
The Taoists were Scarlet Sun Ma Yu and Eternal Spring Qiu Chuji. They had arranged to meet their martial brother Jade Sun Wang Chuyi here, in Zhongdu, the capital of the Jin Empire, to discuss the contest with the Seven Freaks of the South.
Qiu Chuji’s mastery of internal-strength kung fu had kept his features youthful. Even though it had been eighteen years since his encounter with Ironheart Yang, his face had hardly changed at all. The only sign of time’s passing was the touch of grey at his temples.
Qiu Chuji studied Ironheart’s features. He had never met this man before.
“Eighteen years ago, we drank and fought together in Ox Village in Lin’an. Does Your Reverence remember that day?” Ironheart asked.
“May I ask who . . .?”
“Your servant, Ironheart Yang.” He fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground.
Qiu Chuji cupped his hands together to return the honour, but he was hesitant. This man had been scarred by injuries, harsh elements and destitution. He bore little resemblance to the young man Qiu met all those years ago.
The soldiers were almost upon them. There was no time for explanation. Ironheart Yang sprang into a Nodding Phoenix. The spear’s red tassel fluttered, its tip flashed inches from Qiu Chuji’
s chest.
“Elder Qiu, you may have forgotten me, but you cannot have forgotten the Yang Family Spear,” he said when the spear was once again at rest.
All at once, that snowy day came back to Qiu Chuji.
“Brother Yang, you’re alive! Thank heaven and earth!”
Ironheart bowed in acknowledgement. “Help us, Your Reverence!”
Qiu Chuji glanced at the riders. “Brother Ma, I fear I might not be able to refrain from killing today. Please don’t think ill of me.”
“Scare them away, but, brother, do not kill,” Ma Yu replied.
Qiu Chuji strode forward as the horses thundered towards them. This monk thrived on action. He stretched his arms out and, as the men drew level, he plucked two from their horses and threw them at another two soldiers close behind. The men collided and collapsed in a heap. He seized eight more riders at lightning speed and flung them at another eight, with perfect aim. Terrified, the rest of the company turned their horses and fled for their lives.
A man strode out of the dust. He was tall, stout, and bald as an egg.
“Who is this tawdry monk?”
The man shifted his stance. And then, in the blink of an eye, his feet were planted before Qiu Chuji, his palm striking out. Qiu Chuji raised his arm and blocked.
Their hands met.
Pang!
Both men stumbled back three paces.
Who is he? His strength surprised Qiu Chuji.
The man’s arm throbbed. With an angry howl, he launched his fists once more. Qiu thrust out his palms in quick succession.
A dozen blows flew between them.
Five red lines were scored across the man’s glossy bald pate. Hot and raw.
I can’t take him down barehanded, Dragon King Hector Sha realised. He reached for the iron oar strapped to his back and swung with great force at Qiu Chuji’s shoulder, in a move known as Su Qin Carries the Sword.
Qiu Chuji fought back using Bare Hand Seizes Blade technique. But the Dragon King had spent decades fighting with the oar, having killed fearsome tigers on land and giant eels in water. His mastery of this weapon was exceptional and he would not let go so easily.
Impressed, Qiu Chuji was about to ask for the man’s name when a voice of rock-shattering hostility boomed out from his left.
“Which Elder of the Quanzhen Sect are you?”
Qiu Chuji leapt to the right, away from the speaker and his three fellows, who had just appeared on the scene. He had never met any of these men before.
“Your humble monk’s surname is Qiu. May I ask your names?” He put his hands together in a gesture of respect.
No wonder the Taoist’s fame precedes him. He certainly lives up to his reputation, Hector Sha thought. He glanced at his companions and he could tell they were thinking the same.
Tiger Peng might have just arrived, but his mind was already one step ahead: We injured Wang Chuyi the other day, so we are already enemies of the Quanzhen Sect. It matters not if we cross his martial brother Qiu Chuji now. If we defeat him today, then we will be famous across the wulin for crushing two of the strongest Quanzhen Masters.
“Attack!”
Hector Sha and his martial brother Browbeater Hou immediately sprang to action at Tiger Peng’s battle cry.
Peng charged at Qiu Chuji with a pair of Scribe’s Brushes, aiming at the monk’s acupressure points – the Cloud Gate, by the collarbone, and the Great Luminance, under the navel. One jab at either spot could be fatal. He meant to kill.
What an unreasonable little man! Qiu Chuji thought as he drew his sword with a sha!
In a single move, the Taoist monk repelled all three of his assailants. The sword’s point darted towards Tiger Peng’s hand and its blade sliced at Hector Sha’s waist, while the hilt swept close to Browbeater Hou’s ribcage, right at the Camphor Gate.
Sha and Peng twisted their weapons mid-move to block. But Hou was forced to retreat – right into a kick up the backside from the Taoist. The Three-Horned Dragon fell face down, landing heavily on the cysts on his forehead.
Ignoring their companion’s yelps of pain, Hector Sha and Tiger Peng rained down a torrent of blows on the monk. Greybeard Liang, though alarmed by the Taoist’s skill, saw the chance to steal in and join the attack.
Watching Qiu Chuji flitting between his three opponents, Gallant Ouyang decided that he would be passing up a golden opportunity if he did not sneak in a death blow from behind. He pulled a feint with his left hand, then thrust the iron-ribbed folding fan in his right at three lethal pressure points on the Taoist monk’s back – Kiln Path, Gate of the Soul and Central Pivot.
Qiu Chuji had nowhere to turn to evade the blow.
A movement in the corner of Gallant Ouyang’s eye caught his attention. Out of nowhere, three fingers appeared on his fan. A powerful stream of inner strength coursed down the handle. Gallant Ouyang yanked his weapon away.
Ma Yu had intervened.
“Masters, may I ask your names?” His enunciation was soft, but he projected his voice with power. “Though we have never before met, surely we can reason out our misunderstanding, should there be one, without resorting to physical means?”
Each word knocked firm and clear into their eardrums, cutting through the noise of the fight. Hector Sha, Tiger Peng and Greybeard Liang jumped back to appraise the speaker.
“May I ask the Venerable Elder’s title?” Gallant Ouyang spoke for the group.
“Your humble monk’s surname is Ma.”
“Oh, so we are in the presence of Scarlet Sun the Immortal. Pardon us, Elder Ma,” Tiger Peng sneered.
“I dare not respond to such an honour, given my meagre knowledge,” Ma Yu replied modestly.
Tiger Peng was confident that the five of them could defeat these two Taoists. If they could subdue three of their leading figures in days, they would never have to worry about being troubled by the Quanzhen Sect again. But what if their martial siblings were nearby? He looked around. Her Highness, a wizened peasant and a girl – they would be no bother.
He addressed Ma Yu: “We have long admired the Seven Masters of the Quanzhen Sect. Your fame and reputation reach far and wide in the wulin. We hope we will also have the honour of meeting the other five Masters today.”
“We reside in different temples and rarely see each other.” Ma Yu was a trusting and honest man. The notion that Tiger Peng was trying to find out if he had help nearby did not occur to him. “My brethren ought to be seeking the Way in seclusion, yet they often meddle in worldly affairs, gaining undeserved fame. They are making fools of themselves in the eyes of true heroes like yourself. Qiu Chuji and I are on our way to join our brother, Wang Chuyi, here in Zhongdu. It is serendipitous that we should all meet as we have done. There are many forms of martial arts, but we all strive for the same end. Much like the red lotus and its white roots, they are of the same plant. Why should we not be friends?”
Wonderful! Tiger Peng grinned. The monks aren’t travelling with their martial brothers and they haven’t seen Wang Chuyi yet. It won’t be hard for the five of us to defeat the two of them!
“If Your Reverence doesn’t find us too lowly to be troubled by our names, mine is Three – Three Black Cats.” He tucked his Scribe’s Brushes into his belt and walked towards Ma Yu.
This was unexpected. The Taoists were certain that this man would have a reputation in the wulin, but they had never heard such an odd name before.
“Elder Ma, the pleasure’s all mine,” Tiger Peng offered his right hand, palm facing downwards.
Ma Yu took the man’s hand, assured by his smile that it was offered in friendship.
Tiger Peng tightened his grip.
So you’re testing my skills, Ma Yu thought. Returning Peng’s smile, he summoned his inner kung fu and propelled it into Tiger Peng’s palm. A sharp pain ripped into Ma Yu’s fingertips and he pulled back quickly.
Tiger Peng hopped away and roared with laughter.
The Taoist looked at his punctured fingertips.
Five black holes, cut deep to the bone.
In the world of martial arts, offering a handshake was a common way of testing another’s kung fu without exchanging blows. It was particularly useful at first meetings since it would be churlish to start swinging one’s fists at a new martial acquaintance. These gestures of apparent goodwill often ended in broken bones, bruised palms and screams of pain, with the weaker party grovelling for mercy.
“What’s wrong?” Qiu Chuji was alarmed by Ma Yu’s change of countenance.
“The villain has poisoned me.”
Tiger Peng had slipped on his secret weapon as he put away his Scribe’s Brushes. Its fine steel pins were laced with a poison that could kill within ten hours of contact.
Qiu Chuji had not seen Ma Yu raise his hands against anyone for more than a decade. Yet Ma Yu moved straight into Palm of Treading Frost and Shattering Ice, the most fearsome technique of the Quanzhen Sect. Qiu joined in immediately – sha, sha, sha! – slicing his sword at Tiger Peng in three swift strokes.
But Tiger Peng was prepared. Once, twice, his Scribe’s Brushes blocked and clashed with Qiu’s sword. He even made a quick attack, but he had not reckoned with the monk’s thrusting palms. The strikes from Qiu Chuji’s left were as sharp as the blade in his right. He twisted his palm and hooked his fingers into a claw, trapping Peng’s brush.
“Let go!” Qiu Chuji cried and tugged with his extraordinary internal strength. The sudden force numbed Peng’s right arm, and yet he managed to cling on to the brush. Tightening his hold, Qiu plunged his sword forward. Peng had no choice but to let go, tumbling back to avoid being skewered. Qiu flung the brush away and launched into an uninterrupted wave of palm thrusts and sword slashes.
Stunned and sore, Tiger Peng had lost his fighting spirit along with his weapon. Gallant Ouyang and Browbeater Hou came to his rescue, but this fired Qiu Chuji up even more. He was now a storm of razor-edged palm and glittering sword, and showed no sign of fatigue, even though he was outnumbered three to one.