"Mu'er, a temple fair is a fine place to see the world."
Old Ma laid a finished pair of crutches down before the furniture and spoke earnestly: "There are many villages in the Great Ruins, and not a few house masters who found the outside world too hard to bear and were forced to fight their way in. They settled here and took disciples. It's only at the temple fair that these folk and their disciples can be gathered together. Here you can see the exercises and arts of nearly every school under heaven!"
Qin Mu only half understood. "I've not been tempered in real combat, so my cultivation hasn't turned into true power. Is that why Grandpa Ma wants me to seize this chance—to spar with the martial artists of every school?"
A look of expectation lit Old Ma's face. "That's the sense of it."
"But what's with the crutches?" Qin Mu was at a loss. "Why has Grandpa the Blind set up a betting stall? And the beast the Butcher's selling isn't a flood-dragon at all—so why does he call it flood-dragon precious blood? And how did Grandpa the Herbalist have wound salves all ready beforehand?"
Old Ma coughed twice. "Adult business. Children shouldn't ask too many questions. Off you go—get up there."
Qin Mu had no choice but to climb onto the stage and paste the scroll the Deaf had written onto its posts. In a short while more villagers gathered below, and the noise swelled. He himself felt the words rather ill-advised, yet the fact they drew such a crowd still overawed him.
"Kicking aside all foes of the Yong River, sweeping through eight hundred villages of the Great Ruins! What outrageous boasting! Boy, you're only eleven or twelve—even if you'd started training in the womb, your cultivation couldn't amount to much!"
A voice, all righteous indignation, went on: "You hang up such an arrogant scroll—is that a challenge to every village of the Great Ruins? Who gave you such nerve?"
Qin Mu flushed with shame. Then his head turned and he glared at the Blind One—there was something familiar in that voice. Could it be anyone but the Blind One himself?
The Blind One grew ever more righteous, his voice drumming with persuasion: "Are there no true men left in the Great Ruins, that we let this whelp swagger up there? A snot-nosed brat of eleven or twelve—can you folk stomach that? Where's the blood of the men of the Great Ruins?"
At once a dozen-odd young men vaulted onto the stage. Qin Mu's face went green.
"But the folk of the Great Ruins mustn't look down on him either." The Blind One's voice boomed: "He's here to take challenges, not to fight a brawl, so we'll go one at a time. The boy is in the Spirit Womb realm, and whoever climbs up must be in the Spirit Womb realm too."
No sooner had he spoken than the dozen-odd young men stepped back down, leaving but a single youth.
Qin Mu let out a breath. "Honored Senior Brother, what might your name be—"
"Fight, or don't fight! Who's here to make friends with you?"
The young man suddenly dropped to all fours. His primordial qi burst forth and traced tiger stripes across his skin, until he seemed a fierce, dappled tiger! Palms and soles conjured claws of qi as sharp as knives, and with a leap quick as a swept shadow he sprang at Qin Mu.
As he sprang, Qin Mu felt as though some savage beast of prey had fixed its gaze on him. A fierce wind drove at his face, like a tiger's roar shaking the mountain—killing intent he himself did not possess, a skill gained only in the forge of life-and-death.
Behind Qin Mu surfaced the dragon's markings. He shifted his footing, and it was as though a great river hung reversed from a high ridge, pouring into the sea with a thunder of waters. He drove the first move of the Eight Thunder Moves with water-aspect Black Tortoise qi—not lightning in the palm, but the full force of a river plunging off a mountain into a sea.
The two collided. Qin Mu's fist met the other's, the watery power of the Black Tortoise qi erupted, and around his fist took shape a dragon's head that thundered forward! The young man felt the opposing force beyond all measure—it shredded his qi like withered stalks. Shock seized him, and Qin Mu's move sent him hurtling through the air.
But in that very instant of flight, the man stretched out both feet toward Qin Mu's chest. His soles were tiger claws, keen beyond compare; with a rending sound they tore through Qin Mu's clothing, near gutting him on the spot!
Qin Mu hastily planted one foot and threw himself back. His other leg snapped out like lightning, kicking the man into a tumble through midair and crashing him more than thirty feet off the stage. He rolled to his feet, but no sooner had he sought to stand than a sharp crack came from his leg—the bone snapped under that kick.
The Herbalist called out, his voice long and drawn: "Fine wound salve here! Broken bones healed by the next day, never a missed hunt."
Old Ma announced at full volume: "Crutches, a fine pair, hewn from dragon-eye wood, sturdy as anything."
"Bad luck lately?" the Blind One called out. "Come to me. I'll rewrite your fate against heaven itself."
"Good-luck couplets, a pair of them, blessings at your very door," the Deaf shouted.
Qin Mu's face darkened as he steadied himself. The situation had been dangerous to the last degree, and all the Herbalist and Old Ma cared about was whether their goods would sell! Yet Grandpa Ma and the rest spoke the truth: that fellow's cultivation was far lower than his own, and he had flung him off with one move—yet even as he flew, he managed that tiger's heel-kick and nearly split him open, turning the tables.
Qin Mu drew a long breath, his eyes gleaming: "I have too little experience in this. The fair is a rare chance—I can clash with the martial artists of every village within two hundred li and learn their battle wisdom! I'll hold this stage to the very end!"
Below, the crowd had swollen, boiling with noise. Everyone who had watched the bout saw at once that Qin Mu's cultivation ran deep but his experience was thin. Every village that survived in the Great Ruins kept martial artists, some even divine-ability masters; for the Ruins were dangerous, and the villagers venerated the martial arts, fierce of spirit, bold and deadly in a fight.
Before long a girl climbed onto the stage. Her qi was a strange offshoot of the Black Tortoise's, but her moves were vicious—the instant they met, her qi wound about Qin Mu's legs like a great serpent and squeezed hard. Once bound, she moved around him like a woman-python, striking to kill. Her qi uncannily coiled as a great serpent, a fragment of the Black Tortoise's; her spiritual body was verily the snake alone, a branch of the Black Tortoise family, and her footwork was as strange as her arts.
Qin Mu blocked her with the Thousand-Hand Buddha. Strange as her footwork might be, he had grown a thousand arms and hands, and in a short while she took several hundred hits and fell unconscious. It was the first time Qin Mu had met such uncanny footwork, and he took a little hurt from her, though nothing severe. Old Ma, meanwhile, had smoothly sold off a stretcher.
Up on the stage the fighting went on. Down at the fortune stall, many came to bet on who would win. The Great Ruins had no unified currency—all trade ran on barter, and betting worked the same. Jade, ores, gems, oxen, sheep—people put down whatever they had. Among the goods stood an old hen, five-colored of feather, tall as a man, its beak crammed with sharp teeth, sand flying out like a rain of arrows when it flapped its wings! This was a chicken-dragon, the offspring of a dragon and a chicken; though not much dragon blood ran in its veins, the eggs it laid were a treasure.
"In the next bout, this humble monk wagers his disciple will win."
An old monk squeezed his way to the stall. With a clatter he laid a heavy staff on the table, its weight driving the table legs deep into the earth. He seated himself opposite the Blind One, pressed his palms together, and said: "This is the wager! Who will stand as my opponent?"
The Blind One's heart chilled. "The Great Thunderclap Monastery?"
"The Great Thunderclap Monastery," said the old monk.
The Blind One turned to look at Old Ma. "Old Ma. Your turn."
Old Ma set down his crutches and seated himself across from the old monk. The monk lifted his gaze, his face unreadable. "Junior Brother," he said. Old Ma's face was equally blank. "Senior Brother."
"You have passed on our Great Thunderclap Monastery's divine arts to outsiders, and broken our sect's rule."
The old monk's white brows hung long. He spoke low: "Years ago you cut off your own arm and sent it back to the temple, saying you were returning the arts to the monastery. Your arm lies in the Thousand Buddha Pagoda to this day. Yet now you have passed on our divine arts to outsiders—to that boy on the stage—going back on your own word."