Between the two fighters, flashes of saber and sword-light darted and danced, the two blades whirled into twin balls of cold brilliance, clashing against each other from time to time, neither gaining the upper hand.
Han Li watched for a while without being able to make head or tail of it. He could only see that the two were putting on a very lively and exciting display; he could not tell which strokes were the masterstrokes and which the blunders, and as to which of the two was the greater master—that was far beyond what a mere outsider like himself could determine.
"Junior Brother Han," Small Abacus could restrain himself no longer, and spoke up with a respectful air, "may I ask under which of the sect's patrons you cultivate? Now that you have come forth from seclusion, your skill must surely have advanced by leaps and bounds."
For it should be known that every inner disciple of the Sect of Seven Mysteries, having passed roughly two years of basic training at the Hundred-Temper Hall, was sent to kowtow before some senior of an older generation and take that master, in order to learn yet higher martial arts; and only upon graduating from this apprenticeship did these disciples come to hold posts of substance within the sect.
Of course, that was the path common to ordinary disciples. Should any disciple distinguish himself brilliantly in the entrance test, he might, forgoing the two years of basic training altogether, enter directly into the Seven-Absolutes Hall, where several of the sect's leaders might take him in as a chamber disciple and pass on to him the sect's most secret arts—as a carp leaping the Dragon Gate, rising at one bound to the very heavens.
If one proved himself outstanding during the two years of basic training, moreover, one might also win the notice of some elder, hall master, patron, or such high personage, and be taken in as that master's personal disciple. The prospects of such disciples, while not the equal of the leaders' own disciples, nonetheless recommended them for far more favor than ordinary disciples ever enjoyed.
Hearing that Han Li had but lately come forth from seclusion, and never having laid eyes on him before, Small Abacus naturally guessed that this man was the disciple of some high and mighty personage within the sect, and so he asked with deferential courtesy, hoping to strike up a connection.
"Some years ago I was singled out by a certain patron of high standing and taken in as his disciple," Han Li answered, knowing full well what was going through the lad's mind, yet putting on a bashful face—though he made a point of ladling a fine measure of self-importance into his words. "As to which patron he was, I should not presume to speak the good elder's honored name."
"Is that so? Then Junior Brother Han is a truly fortunate fellow indeed!" Small Abacus was not at all troubled to hear that Han Li would not reveal his master's name, reasoning that whichever patron it was, he was sure to outrank his own humble master; but his manner changed at once. "Your standing in the sect is sure to be very high from now on, and your road ahead boundless. I only hope that, should the occasion arise, you will condescend to look after your little junior brother here."
"Senior Brother Han is plainly no creature of the pond," he went on, heaping on the flattery. "One day he will soar to wealth and eminence; of that there is no question."
"In this dark, dim-witted-looking fellow," Small Abacus muttered to himself, "how ever did some patron come to take him as a disciple? Here I am, the sharpest-witted man among us, and yet no great personage has ever wanted me!" Yet upon his face the show of respect only grew the deeper.
Han Li could hear the complete about-face in the lad's tone—he had in a trice gone from being addressed as Junior Brother Han to Senior Brother Han—and it struck him as rather amusing.
Nor did Han Li feel the least contempt for him in his heart. For toadying to the mighty and the rich is but a man's natural instinct; who would not wish to live better and climb higher? Still less did it surprise him that this fellow, as one could tell even from his name, was a sly and calculating man who knew how to angle for advantage.
He was in for a disappointment, however. What Han Li had just said was not a lie, but this vaunted title of "patron's disciple" was a hollow thing indeed—any disciple picked at random from the Sect of Seven Mysteries could topple him with ease. If the lad thought to lean against him as against a great tree, he had most likely picked the wrong trunk.
So Han Li smiled his bitter smile to himself, and all the while, with an unconcerned air, listened to Small Abacus's profession of praises and was even obliged to bandy a few pleasantries back.
"Senior Brother Han's martial skill is of the highest order," Small Abacus carried on, his mouth never once ceasing to pour out honeyed words even as he tried in sidelong fasion to study every move of Han Li's. "If you would only condescend to enter the ring, you could surely batter that swordsman to a pulp, you most assuredly could..."
"Odd!" Small Abacus thought, though his tongue never flagged. "A patron's disciple ought to be deep in internal arts and light on his feet. Why then can I make out nothing of this man's depth at all? His temples are not so much as slightly raised, nor does his eye show the barest gleam of spirit. By every sign he looks like a man who knows nothing of the martial arts." The more he observed, the more bewildered he grew.
"The matter is settled," came Han Li's voice, light as a feather, cutting through his revery.
Given a start, Small Abacus hurriedly turned his gaze back to the ring.
And sure enough, the swordsman—the man who had wielded the sword—had cast his blade aside, one arm gushing blood, the other hand pressed hard against the wound, his face ashen with fury. Clearly he did not submit with a good grace. Small wonder, for the two were near enough equal in skill; he had but suffered a moment's carelessness and fallen into his opponent's ruse, losing by a single stroke.
Seeing this, Small Abacus's face fell in regret, and he could only keep sighing "Pity!" over and over.
"Why should it be a pity?" Han Li had seen nothing remarkable in the bout, but with so ready a commentator at his very elbow, it would be a shame indeed not to make use of him.
"This bout—had the man on Wang Dapang's side won it," Small Abacus explained, "then Wang Dapang's faction would have taken three matches, and there would be no call for the last one. Pity that he did not win after all!"
"Oh!"
"But it matters not. There is but the final bout left, and the man Wang Dapang is sending out is the most accomplished martial artist among all us disciples of this crop. His hand at the Wind-Thunder Blade Art is incomparably fierce—it can shatter stone and sever metal. Ha! Just to see Senior Brother Li's famous blade in motion makes my trip here worthwhile. Whatever fighter Zhang Changgui's side sends out, we are sure to win." Small Abacus had been a little crestfallen at first, but here his spirits bounded up again, and he seemed brimming with faith in that Senior Brother Li.
"So we have come to the final bout already," Han Li answered absently, while thinking to himself: And who might this Senior Brother Li be? A fellow I have never even heard of.
At that moment, from Wang Dapang's side there stepped forth a youth with a cold, hard look about him. In his hand he bore a long blade that gleamed with a chill, deadly light. Step by step he walked out to the very center of the ring, and there he closed his eyes, not uttering a single word.
"Senior Brother Li! Senior Brother Li! Senior Brother Li!"
At the sight of this youth taking the field, everyone outside the ring was swept up in a fever of excitement, and with one accord they all cried out the youth's name—shout upon shout, each louder than the last. The roar shook the whole arena. And now none could any longer tell who was a rich man's son and who a poor man's; there was only a single, unanimous surge of cheers for this one youth.