When Luo Jing’s sweeping kick came in, it did not appear particularly fast — it almost seemed as though even an ordinary person could read each movement. Yet there was something about it that defied clear explanation: if you convinced yourself you could dodge it, your end would likely be far worse.

So when that kick swept toward him, Zhuang Wudi immediately raised both arms to cover one side of his head. The foot landed across his forearms.

A muffled thud — and Zhuang Wudi’s body slid sideways. As the friction against the boards increased, his upper body began to topple to one side.

In the moment before he pitched over, Zhuang Wudi thrust both hands against the platform, and with a kip-up managed to regain his footing. He was barely back upright when Luo Jing’s fist came in aimed at his face.

Zhuang Wudi had no room to evade. The fist loomed large in his vision, swelling in an instant — and with a boom, it landed square. Luo Jing had pulled the strike, sending only three parts of his force behind it. Even so, Zhuang Wudi — who had only just righted himself — fell backward again. This time, he could not recover.

It was not that his reflexes had failed him. It was that the pain from the knee strike to the chest was radiating out now, and the breath had gone out of him — it was as though even his heart had only just registered the impact and stuttered to a halt in response.

Zhuang Wudi crashed to the ground. The exchange had unfolded with blinding speed; those final blows had come in flashes of lightning, one after another — so Li Chi had had no chance of reaching him in time. By the time Li Chi made it to the foot of the platform, blood was already trickling from Zhuang Wudi’s mouth.

Luo Jing looked down at Zhuang Wudi and spoke in the same level tone. “Counting the earlier ones, you have now taken five of my moves. You’ve earned a hundred taels of silver. I like your style — your reactions are quick, your counters are quick. I pulled my last strike for that reason. I would like to have you in my personal guard.”

Zhuang Wudi pushed himself up from the platform, coughed several times, raised a hand and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. In those few moments, the swelling on his forehead had already risen up — and seemed to still be slowly growing.

He merely looked at Luo Jing for a moment. Said nothing. Made the difficult effort of moving toward the badly injured man, put a hand under the man’s arm, and prepared to help him down.

Luo Jing, seeing that the man had simply ignored his words, felt a flash of irritation. He had already given the man considerable face. If not for the fact that he had pulled that last blow, that punch alone would have killed him outright. And yet the man had not shown even a flicker of gratitude — had not even acknowledged his words.

“Wait.”

Luo Jing looked at Zhuang Wudi. “Are you trying to leave? I said you’d taken five of my moves, but I said nothing about you being free to go. If you want to leave, make it plain. Admit defeat. Acknowledge you are no match for me.”

Zhuang Wudi glanced at Luo Jing again — still no reply. He bent to the man on the ground and asked, “Can you walk?”

The man nodded, managing a bitter smile. “Thank you for saving my life, hero. I’ll find a way to repay this debt.”

Zhuang Wudi shook his head. “Never mind that.”

He moved to help the man up. But Luo Jing’s patience had reached its limit. He stepped forward quickly and reached for the back of Zhuang Wudi’s robe.

“You have not admitted defeat!”

Zhuang Wudi heard him coming and spun on instinct, throwing a punch. Luo Jing flipped his hand and seized Zhuang Wudi’s wrist, gave a twist and a sharp shake — dislocating Zhuang Wudi’s shoulder. Then he pulled, drawing Zhuang Wudi in front of him, and seized him by the front of his robe. With one arm, he hoisted Zhuang Wudi off the ground.

“Admit defeat!”

A furious shout.

Zhuang Wudi said nothing — and spat a mouthful of bloody saliva.

Luo Jing erupted in rage. With one arm, he slammed down!

Just as Zhuang Wudi was about to be driven headfirst into the platform, Li Chi finally reached the stage. But he had no time to climb up — Zhuang Wudi would be head-first into the boards before he got there.

So instead Li Chi drove a kick into the side of the platform. The wooden boards blew out; a chunk of the stage caved in, leaving a gap.

In the midst of the splintering wood, Zhuang Wudi dropped through — his head never struck the platform. Li Chi thrust both hands out and caught Zhuang Wudi by the shoulders, and with a sharp backward pull, wrested him out of Luo Jing’s grip.

Luo Jing was jolted.

That force — the pulling force of the man below — had nearly dragged him off the platform.

Li Chi caught Zhuang Wudi, hoisted him over his shoulder, and turned to go. Luo Jing stared at the man parting the crowd and making for the exit, then dropped from the platform with a surge of his legs — turning mid-air and landing cleanly in Li Chi’s path.

He looked at Li Chi. “Strike a blow and think you can just walk away?”

Li Chi, with Zhuang Wudi across his shoulder, replied: “Why can I not walk away?”

“The rules of the fighting stage,” Luo Jing said. “Once you’ve made a move, you stay until there is a winner. No one leaves without a decision.”

Li Chi asked, “The rules of the stage — did I actually *get on* the stage?”

Luo Jing blinked.

Li Chi had not gotten on the stage. He had struck from below it.

Luo Jing looked Li Chi up and down. There was something faintly familiar about this face — he had turned it over in his mind and still could not place where he had seen this young man. For a man of his standing, people met on the road were passing strangers not worth remembering; the fact that Li Chi’s face stirred any recognition at all was already unusual.

“What kind of crooked reasoning is that?”

He gave a cold snort. “Able to save someone, but not able to fight. You are a coward.”

Li Chi said, “It has nothing to do with cowardice. It has to do with whether it’s worth my while.”

“What do you find not worth it?” Luo Jing asked.

“Honestly,” Li Chi said, “if this were a year ago, for a hundred or two hundred taels of silver, I’d have done it in a heartbeat. But these days I’m better off than I used to be — I could call myself modestly comfortable. Getting into a fight for a hundred or two hundred taels isn’t worth it. I’m not saying you’re not worth fighting. I’m saying that amount of money isn’t.”

He met Luo Jing’s eyes. “General Luo perhaps didn’t understand what I was just saying. I said I don’t want to fight because what you’re offering isn’t enough — not because of who you are. I’m a simple man: give me enough money, and I’ll fight anyone.”

He held Luo Jing’s gaze and said, “Five hundred taels to take five of your moves. A thousand taels for ten. That is my price. If General Luo finds those terms acceptable, I’ll fight you right now. A hundred or two hundred taels was last year’s rate. You’re too late.”

Luo Jing was so exasperated he burst out laughing. He gave a nod. “Fine. I’ll agree to your terms. Five hundred taels if you take five of my moves. A thousand taels for ten. A hundred taels per move — however many you take, that’s what I’ll pay. If you can take twenty moves, not only will I give you two thousand taels of silver, but I’ll give you the rank of personal guard commander.”

Li Chi thought to himself: a hundred taels a move sounded like something worth doing.

So he set Zhuang Wudi down, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and said, “Elder brother, rest here a moment. I’m going to go collect some money.”

Zhuang Wudi stared at him: “……”

He caught Li Chi by the arm. “You can’t beat him…”

“You think I don’t know that?” Li Chi grinned. “I could see that much from down on the ground.”

But he turned and leapt onto the platform, looked back at Luo Jing, and called, “Come back up. What are we waiting for?”

Luo Jing dropped back onto the stage. Li Chi straightened his long robe, rolled his cuffs up, tucked the hem of his robe into his waistband, and made ready. When he was set, he made a gesture: *after you.*

“Please instruct me.”

As a return courtesy — and as the etiquette of matched combat — Luo Jing cupped his fists and made the same gesture.

“Please.”

Li Chi nodded. “A hundred taels received. My thanks.”

Luo Jing froze. He stared at Li Chi. “What do you mean by that?”

“Isn’t that gesture the same as yielding a move?” Li Chi said. “I watched from down below — I know how it works. No need for General Luo to do it again. Though you’re welcome to do it a few more times if you’d like — a hundred taels each.”

Luo Jing felt that this person was an entirely different creature from the two who had come before him. Those two, for all their flaws, had had their pride.

This man seemed considerably more capable than those two — and he clearly had no pride to speak of whatsoever.

Not that a person like Luo Jing would trouble himself over such things. So he gave a nod. “All right. I’ll grant you one move.”

Li Chi said, “I can count three moves.”

Luo Jing flared: “Shameless!”

Li Chi sighed. “I want money and that’s shameless? Bullying people from a position of power without being aware of it, striking down anyone who stands against you without mercy — you are a general’s son, you hold a general’s rank, so you feel you can kill without it meaning anything. *That* is shameless.”

He looked at Luo Jing. “I take one of your moves, you give me a hundred taels. I’m more generous than you — you take one of mine, I’ll give you a thousand.”

—