Midway down the ring, between the two bands of onlookers, two bare-handed youths were squaring off. One was stout and puffy of frame, yet his footing was steady and sound, and with every kick and blow he gave off a great show of strength—this was none other than Wang Dapang, a good friend Han Li had made in days gone by. Stout though he was, there was nothing weak about his skill. With every shout from his lips and every punch he threw, he tore the very air with a whistling wind, a fearsome sight to behold. His opponent was a short fellow, quick and nimble as a mountain rat. He made no attempt whatsoever to fend off Wang Dapang's fists, but only danced and darted this way and that, plainly bent on wearing the stout lad's strength down to nothing before springing a last, desperate counter.
Seeing his old friend locked in combat before his very eyes, Han Li's heart could not help leaning toward his companion.
He watched for a while, and seeing that Wang Dapang still pressed on with his swift and furious charge, Han Li—who knew nothing of the martial arts himself—could tell that his friend would not be so easily defeated. With that he set his mind at ease.
Then he glanced about, hoping to find someone to ask what on earth was afoot.
Not far from the tree where he perched, close by a great rock, stood a lad who watched the fray with all his might, waving his arms about and muttering to himself under his breath: "Strike him in the head! Kick him in the waist! Aiyo, so close! There, there—kick his backside, put your back into it..."
This youth kept up a merry running commentary, his face alight as he watched.
From his tone, Han Li gathered that he was rooting for Wang Dapang.
Thinking this fellow rather amusing, Han Li climbed down from the tree at a leisurely pace and made his way over to him.
"Senior Brother," Han Li began, putting on his most honest and simple air, "do you know all these men in the ring? And what are they fighting over?"
"What need to ask?" the lad replied smugly. "Is there anyone my Small Abacus does not know? Why, they are fighting over—hey! And who might you be? I have never laid eyes on you before. Are you newly entered? No, that cannot be—the newcomers do not even arrive for another half year or more. Then who in the world are you?" The fellow, half-dazed as he was about to answer, suddenly realized he had never seen Han Li before, and snapped wide awake at once.
"He who stands before you is Han Li, a good friend of that brave and doughty Wang Dapang fighting in the ring," Han Li answered with all due gravity.
"A friend of Wang Dapang? All his friends are known to me, and there is no such man as you among them!" The lad remained wary.
"Oh," Han Li said, half in truth and half in jest. "These past few years I have been in seclusion at a certain place, and have not come out for a very long while, so it is only natural you do not know me."
"Is that so?" The fellow glanced over Han Li's clothes, and seemed to accept his words. "So you are a disciple who entered along with us four years ago. Fancy that—I never imagined there could be someone in these mountains whom I, the man who knows all, had never heard of."
The lad chatted on for a few more exchanges, and at length, unable to contain himself, took it upon himself to tell Han Li the story behind the duel.
"This junior brother, you will not know it, but all of this is the doing of a comely face that breeds calamity. It all began with—" And sure enough, this Small Abacus, who styled himself a know-it-all, proceeded to unfold the entire tale from beginning to end, in full and exacting detail.
It turned out that the whole affair centered on two figures. One was a certain Wang Yang, Wang Dapang's younger cousin; the other was a certain Zhang Changgui, son of some money changer's shop owner. Both were disciples of the Sect of Seven Mysteries—only one was an outer disciple, the other an inner disciple.
Although the two youths dwelt in the same town, they would never ordinarily have crossed paths. It was all a girl who brought them together—a maiden from a neighboring town, betrothed to Wang Yang since childhood. But some time ago, when this girl chanced to go out on an errand, the young master Zhang, passing by on his way home, caught sight of her and took a fancy to her straightaway. And under the onslaught of Young Master Zhang's silver, the girl and both her parents simply fell. The engagement was broken, the maiden was given over to Zhang Changgui instead, and Wang Yang's betrothal gifts were sent back to his doorstep in disgrace. The woman's family, scorning poverty and clinging to wealth, had given her to another—this bitter news dealt Wang Yang a heavy blow, for he, too, had long been deep in love with the girl. Learning of it, he moped about day after day, crying that he would rather die, and truly, in the end he found no way to see things through. One day he threw himself into the river and drowned.
And with that, the tale might well have come to a close, a sad tragedy and nothing more.
But Wang Dapang, who had been thick with his younger cousin ever since they were children, was naturally not one to let the matter rest. He went straight to Zhang Changgui and challenged him to a duel, the loser to pour tea for the winner and bow his head in apology, kowtowing in humble submission.
Zhang Changgui was proud enough in his heart, but he knew well enough that his own martial skill was a cut below Wang Dapang's. He therefore demanded that each side be allowed to bring along companions, and that several bouts be fought, with the overall tally deciding the victor. Wang Dapang agreed without a second thought. Thereupon Zhang Changgui, trusting in his wealth, scattered silver by the fistful and hired the most accomplished fighters among the well-born disciples of the sect. Wang Dapang, for his part, though he had no money, was warmly regarded throughout the sect, and had a wide circle of friends among the humbler ranks—many men of no mean skill volunteered to take up his cause of their own accord.
In the end, a great many fellow disciples, hearing of the duel, came flocking to watch and cheer; and it set the stage for a fierce and polarized standoff, two hostile factions bristling with enmity.
From the lad's tone of voice, Han Li gathered that the rift between the scions of the rich and the disciples of humbler birth had only grown wider of late.
One single duel, and it had drawn such a crowd to watch and to cheer!
"You are on Wang Dapang's side, too, are you not?" the lad rattled on, unable to hold his tongue. "If they do not play fair, we will all pile in together and drub these pampered young lords until they run off whining with their tails between their legs, and never dare bully us again."
Han Li gave a bitter smile. What had this feud between the two factions to do with him? And it was hard to say who was truly right and who truly wrong in the matter. After these years of gathering his qi and sitting in meditation, all the hot-blooded rashness of his youth had largely worn away. Besides, he had never so much as trained in fistwork, footwork, or the handling of weapons, and could not now defeat a single ordinary fellow disciple even if his life depended on it. He had best watch the dueling to its end, then quietly slip back to his valley.
"Capital!" the lad suddenly cried out, his face lighting up with delight.
Han Li, hearing this, turned hurriedly to look out at the ring. It seemed Wang Dapang's opponent had at last failed to hold on to the very end. A moment of inattention, and he could not dodge Wang Dapang's great puffy fist—it caught him square on the forehead, and he toppled over, knocked cold.
At once one portion of the crowd burst into hearty shouts of approval, while the other portion's faces turned very sour indeed.
Wang Dapang wore a look of pure triumph. He clasped his hands in salute to all four directions, then, with his great plump backside thrust out, waddled proudly back to his own side—all sign of the previous ferocity utterly vanished from his manner.
From Zhang Changgui's camp, two men stepped forth and dragged the felled disciple back to their own side.
Then, one man from each faction stepped into the ring—one wielding a saber, the other a sword.
Both seemed to be of quick and furious temper. Without a word spoken, they swung their weapons about and fell to it, clanging and clashing in great earnest.