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Among these perks is Jiao Tu's Endeavour Volumes 1 and 2 by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt. The author has graciously agreed to launch Volume 2 through this campaign: everyone who buys the book here will receive it ahead of the market. Proceeds will go towards support the Uitvlugt family, who has recently fallen on hard times and need all the help they can get.
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With that out of the way, to mark the second week of the campaign, here's the second half of Chapter 1 of Book 4, FIST OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. Enjoy!
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In the old days, a challenger would have hired a work crew to cut down nearby trees and build a lei tai in the middle of town. Or he might have done it himself. In the modern era, it was acceptable to rent a lei tai from a gym or martial arts association. Today, Han Yong had brought his own lei tai with him.
Han Yong stood at the village square. A wide, unpaved crossroads where farmers and buses and trucks bustled along on the way to the fields, the store or neighboring towns. Under the watchful eye of the Lis and Constable Chong, the sole police officer on duty in this part of town, Han Yong paced the square, measuring its length and breadth.
Satisfied, Han Yong parked himself at the northeastern corner of the crossroads. He unclipped his bag from his belt and held it up at chest height. He opened a couple of pouches and reached in, his hands working hidden controls. A holographic menu floated in front of Han Yong, listing various items.
“An interspatial storage bag,” Li Guo An muttered.
A black disk appeared before the bag. Blacker than night, thinner than a sheet of paper, it was a portal into dimensions barely seen by living men. White motes swirled within the depths of the disk. One of them grew larger, brighter, speeding towards the mouth of the hole. With a blinding flash of light, it leapt out of the black depths and materialized in the real world.
It was a huge, elevated platform, nearly as tall as the northerner. Sturdy wooden scaffolding held up the stage. The stage itself was a perfect square, sixty-four square _mi _of bare rosewood planks.
A lei tai, crafted in accordance with the ancient ways, bereft of modern safety equipment.
The men circled the lei tai, inspecting it for structural flaws. Li Ming marveled at its size. He had an interspatial storage bag of his own, but its storage capacity was barely one-tenth that of this bag. For an interspatial storage bag to be so small, yet capable of holding so much, Han Yong must have spent a bomb on it. The kind of money that could buy out this village.
Who was he?
“This is my first lei tai match,” Li Ming said. “What are the rules?”
“We fight until one of us is defeated or surrenders,” Han Yong replied. “Defeat is defined as a knockout, a submission, or being forced off the stage. No time limits, no restricted targets, no protective equipment, no weapons.”
“Traditional rules,” Li Guo An observed.
“It was how I trained.”
The commotion attracted a growing crowd. More cops rushed in, holding back the civilians. Chattering filled the air. As the policemen managed the audience, Han Yong pulled out a sheath of documents from his bag and handed it to Li Ming.
“Before we begin, please sign this,” Han Yong said.
“What is this?” Li Ming asked warily.
“Just a minor legal technicality. Don’t worry about it.”
Li Ming read the document with twice the care he normally would.
It was a blood waiver. An agreement by both parties to dismiss legal liability in the event of serious injury or death. Han Yong had already signed his name on the bottom. A blank line waited for Li Ming. More lines were reserved for witnesses.
“A ‘minor legal technicality’,” Li Ming said.
“Just something we need to sign to make this a formal match,” Han Yong said.
“If I sign this, it means I can use any technique I want.”
“I don’t plan on holding back. Neither should you.”
Li Ming signed the waiver. Li Guo An and Constable Chong co-signed as witnesses. The policeman held on to the document.
“Just in case,” Chong said.
Smirking, Han Yong set his bag on the ground.
“Of course,” he said.
And jumped.
In a single explosive burst, Chong leapt off the ground, rocketed into the air, and landed softly atop the stage. The sound of the impact carried across the square. Straightening to his full height, he spread out his arms, hamming it up to the crowd.
Someone applauded. A boy cheered, and others joined in. The background burbling became a roar of approval.
Li Ming’s eyes widened. The elder Li Ming frowned.
“Please show us what’s under your sleeves,” Li Guo An said.
Han Yong rolled up his sleeves, revealing bare skin. Without asking, he lifted the folds of his tunic, exposing muscled abs, then lifted his pants legs to show powerful calves.
“I trust you’re satisfied?” Han Yong asked.
Li Guo An nodded grimly, then turned to his son.
“I’ll hang on to your gear.”
Reluctantly, Li Ming disarmed himself. First he unstrapped the reality shapers from around his forearms. Then he pulled the knives from his pockets. Finally, he lifted his shirt and removed his war belt, and with it his holstered handgun.
“Big Brother, good luck!” Li Ying Zhi cried.
His younger sister was at the front of the crowd, along with Mother. He could recognize them anywhere. Li Ming nodded to her. To them.
People stirred within the crowd. Soft whispers grow louder, organizing into clusters, cells, a chorus, chanting three words in harmony.
“LI SHAO YE!”
Young Master Li. Li Ming shook his head. Everyone called him that, but it embarrassed him. Still, in using that title, they were paying their respects to his father. It was a form of address better suited for someone rich and powerful. Someone like…
Him.
He blinked.
He wouldn’t call himself powerful. But he was objectively the richest man in town, by a long shot. He just didn’t flaunt so much as a fraction of his wealth. That alone would have earned him the right to be called ‘shao ye’.
Why should he be embarrassed?
Li Ming shook his head, dismissing that thought. He could dwell on it later. He had a fight to win.
Han Yong stood on the stage, left fist on his hip, right hand beckoning Li Ming. As Li Ming approached the platform, his father leaned in.
“Don’t mess around with him,” Father whispered. “End this fast.”
“That’s the plan,” Li Ming said.
Li Ming grabbed the edges of the platform. In a single, smooth motion, he pulled himself up on the stage. His opponent was already waiting for him in the center of the platform, his posture completely loose and relaxed.
Li Ming’s heart pounded in his ears. Colors smeared into each other. The crowd roared its approval, chanting his name like a rapid-fire mantra. The constables shouted for calm and order. Sister cheered. A stray thought floated into Li Ming’s mind.
I wish I could have seen Cai Yan again.
He inhaled. Deeply and slowly and smoothly, filling his lungs with oxygen and his dantian with qi. As he exhaled, he visualized a thick black stream flowing out of his nostrils, carrying with it accumulated toxins and stray thoughts, dispersing in the infinite cosmos.
It was fight time. He had to focus.
Li Ming walked.
With every step, he felt the play of his muscles, the subtle shifts of weight from one side of his body to the other. With every breath he charged himself with qi, readying himself for war. He contracted and relaxed his muscles, ridding himself of unwanted tension.
Han Yong stared at him, his eyes twin lasers burning into Li Ming’s. Powerful qi waves surged from his core, battering against Li Ming’s own, unseen by untrained eyes. It was like walking into the path of a hurricane. Han Yong was projecting an aura of supreme confidence, of martial capability, aiming to crush his spirit. In the face of such pressure, Li Ming did the only thing he could.
He walked.
Electricity crackled through his skin. Fire surged in his veins. Liquid lightning gathered in his dantian, in his hands, in his feet, ready to be unleashed on the world. Li Ming swiveled his head left to right, up and down, breaking out of tunnel vision, keeping his gaze soft and wide and steady.
And now, he stopped.
Han Yong was now just two arm’s lengths away. He had dropped the facade of etiquette and respect. Here was a wolf in man’s skin, eyes glowing like a tiger on the hunt, shoulders rounded like a bear about to strike, iron fingers curled like eagle claws, his smile like an army of daggers.
Li Ming held his right fist over his heart, thumb folded over his fingers, knuckles parallel to the ground, covered it with his angled left hand, and bowed slightly.
“Li Ming, An Family gongfu, Fuyang Village,” he declared.
Han Yong punched his fist into his open palm, knuckles rotated perpendicular to the earth, thumb arched and digging into the flesh of his index finger, the fingers of his left hand pointed at the heavens.
Not a salute. A challenge.
“Han Yong. Shi da xing. Wanjianhui.”
Li Ming’s eyes widened.
The Ten Thousand Swords Society! The secret society he had defeated twice before, once in the race to the cache of Yue artifacts, and again when they tried to destabilize the Central Plains. Han Yong was one of them?
Suddenly it all made sense now. Han Yong’s demeanor. His refusal to read the Lis’ tea signals. The blood waiver.
This wasn’t a duel. This was an assassination disguised as a duel.
In a single smooth motion, Han Yong torqued his arms and torso and legs, stepping into his guard. Li Ming barely had time to get his own hands up when Han Yong erupted into motion.
He stepped like a chicken, swiftly and aggressively, body bladed towards Li Ming, weight rooted on his front foot, rear foot in motion, smoothly switching between them. It was like watching the footwork of wuxingquan through a broken mirror, uncannily similar yet remarkably different.
Han Yong fired a left straight punch, a right, another left, probing Li Ming’s defenses. The tall northerner had an immense reach, but he was still out of range. Li Ming kept his hands close, defending his centerline, watching, waiting. Another left straight, and Li Ming exploded.
Fanning his right hand outwards through a tight arc, Li Ming slipped to the left, fingers whipping for Han Yong’s face. Jerking away, Han Yong slapped Li Ming’s hand away with his free hand. Han Yong pivoted through a tight circle, turning towards Li Ming. Li Ming cut into the circle, right hand clawing back, left hand spearing at Han Yong’s eyes. Han Yong torqued sharply, covering his head with his left arm, smashing Li Ming’s arm away, and launched his right fist like a cannonball. Li Ming flowed with the energy, twisting towards the blow, raising his right arm and elbow to form a wing of bone pointing to the ground, deflecting the fist to the side. Li Ming rebounded, whipping a right-handed backfist at Han Yong’s head—
Gone.
Han Yong faded away. Li Ming’s hand passed through empty air. The tall northerner was still there, still within sight, maddeningly out of range.
Han Yong was good.
The moment the thought sank in, Han Yong blasted in again, spinning into a low kick. Li Ming lifted his left knee and dropped his left elbow, taking the shot against his shin.
But it was light. Too light.
The moment Han Yong’s foot touched the floor, he whirled around again, faster, harder, becoming a black blur. He hopped off the ground, lifted his right leg high, and brought it scything down on Li Ming’s head.
Li Ming dropped into a crouch, driving his left elbow into Han Yong’s torso.
Han Yong relaxed into the blow, his turn bleeding off most of the force. His spin went wild, his legs windmilling. Han Yong twisted about in mid-air and dropped into a crouch, slamming his left palm against the floor.
Li Ming stepped up to kick him in the head. Han Yong’s right hand shot out, parrying his foot to the left. Unbalanced, Li Ming hopped away on one foot, and stomped the platform to ground himself. Han Yong scrambled to his feet and stole a long step towards Li Ming. As Li Ming brought his hands up, Han Yong twisted around and chopped his right arm down.
The blow blasted Li Ming’s left hand down, exposing his temple. Li Ming retreated. Han Yong’s right arm rolled through a tight circle, describing an arc around his head. Li Ming brought his right hand up, covering his face—
Han Yong struck.
The palm was heavy, as if it were a brick. The backhand slap struck with the force of a baseball bat, blasting right through Li Ming’s defenses. Pain exploded in his head. Stars danced across his eyes. Li Ming staggered away, suddenly unable to resist. Instinctively his hands flew to cover his aching skull. He bent over, widening his stance, exposing his low line.
Come on, take the bait, it’s right here—
Han Yong took a massive step forward and lashed out with his rear foot, aiming at Li Ming’s groin.
Weakness fled Li Ming’s posture. His arms swept through a tight clockwise circle, his torso twisted counterclockwise, his right foot followed. Han Yong’s foot shot past Li Ming, so close he felt the wind of its passage.
And Li Ming’s fingers seized Han Yong’s leg.
Li Ming lifted and twisted.
Han Yong threw himself off the ground, getting ahead of the throw. His captured leg eeled out of Li Ming’s grasp and smacked into Li Ming’s chest. But the counter was desperate, poorly-timed, and he lost his own balance. Curling his back, he landed heavily on the floor, and smacked the floorboards. The boom resounded in the town square. Momentum carried him halfway through a roll. Even as he settled, he kept his legs up, guarding his body.
Li Ming circled around, trying to go for his flanks. Han Yong scooted backwards, away from Li Ming, keeping his feet aimed at him. He planted his hands on the floor, crunched his abs, and exploded into a kip up, getting up on his feet.
Li Ming continued circling. Han Yong rushed straight in, charging like a blood-maddened bull. Li Ming shifted one last step, angling himself very slightly to the left of the incoming force. Han Yong extended his arms, as though preparing for a tackle. Li Ming drilled his right hand out, twisting it palm-up, bumping Han Yong’s right arm out of the way. At the same time, Li Ming exploded into a kick, catching Han Yong’s grounded leg.
The shot halted Han Yong in his tracks. Li Ming twisted his hand back around, snatching at the base of Han Yong’s thumb, then planted his foot and swiveled around on the ball, swiping his left hand down and swinging his rear leg forward. The classic metal fist, expressed as an elbow dislocation.
Han Yong twisted his hand and shot it back, breaking loose of the grip, then swayed back. Instead of slamming into Han Yong’s shoulder, Li Ming’s left palm found only empty air. As Li Ming retracted his arms, Han Yong raced in.
Han Yong’s hands became balled fists, knuckles pointed down at the ground, left arm over right, forming a spearhead of bone. With a powerful lunge, Han Yong blasted into Li Ming, fists coming in from under Li Ming’s defenses, erupting into a double uppercut.
Li Ming stepped back, leaning away. Hardened fists shot past his chin, nose, eyes. Li Ming recognized it immediately, the elements of fire and metal expressed through the paradigm of shi da xing, and he knew what comes up must come down. Already Han Yong was rotating his hands, opening them into palms, readying them for a shear, a grab, claws to the face or eyes.
Han Yong’s hands came slashing down. Li Ming stepped off to his left, right fist crossing over his left in a horizontal arc, parrying the slashing arms, twisting Han Yong to the side. Driven by momentum, Han Yong’s entire upper torso drove down, blasting into a headbutt. Wind whooshed past Li Ming’s right ear.
And Li Ming drilled his left fist into Han Yong’s exposed armpit.
The blow shocked the nerves in his arm. Suddenly numb, Han Yong’s hand dropped, exposing his head. Twisting around, Li Ming drilled out his right fist through a tight backhand swing. Hardened knuckles struck Han Yong’s temple.
Han Yong staggered away. Rubbing his armpit and head, Han Yong glared at Li Ming, his face a mask of rage. He sucked down a breath and rushed in again. Body bladed towards Li Ming, he guarded his head with his right hand and positioned his left hand beneath his right elbow, protecting his charge with blades of bone. Li Ming stepped off-line. Han Yong pivoted to follow, taking a huge step forward, then grounded his front leg and chambered his rear knee. Li Ming crouched, dropping his hands, ready to intercept the incoming kick.
Han Yong dropped his raised foot.
Swung his other foot.
Raised his arms.
Too late, Li Ming tried to get his hands up. But he was way behind the curve, and the northerner was taller and faster and stronger.
Stepping forward, Han Yong drew his arms through tight rising circles, blowing away Li Ming’s own, exposing Li Ming’s centerline, chambering his hands by his neck, sucking down qi into his dantian with a powerful inhale.
All this Li Ming saw in slow motion, a sense of disaster flooding his mind, recognizing everything that was going on, unable to do anything to stop it, helpless before the coming storm.
Han Yong struck.
His front foot stomped the floorboards as violently as a bomb. His arms spiraled inwards and crashed down with the force of a runaway train. Heavy palms slammed into Li Ming’s upper ribs. Bone flexed, bent, broke. Pain lanced into his chest, a dozen spears of pain burning and tearing and twisting, the deep pain that signaled wounds deep within. The force was inexorable, unstoppable, irresistible, blasting Li Ming off his feet.
A collective gasp filled the crowd.
Li Ming automatically tucked his chin and curled his back. His muscles protested. An inferno of pain consumed his chest. He slammed into the hardwood floor, and a volley of fragmentation grenades exploded in his lungs. He willed himself to stand, but his nerves would not respond, his muscles would not move.
As if from far away, the crowd chanted his name.
“LI SHAO YE! LI SHAO YE! LI SHAO YE!”
He inhaled. His lungs burned. His breath froze halfway through. But he could still draw breath. His heart could still beat. He could still fight.
“LI SHAO YE! LI SHAO YE! LI SHAO YE!”
He pressed his palms against the floor. Pressed himself up. Crunched his abs. Bolts of jagged pain ripped through him, tearing him up from the inside.
“LI SHAO YE! LI SHAO YE! LI SHAO YE!”
He couldn’t—
“LI MING! FIGHT!” Ying Zhi cried.
Bellowing at the top of his lungs, screaming through the pain, Li Ming forced himself back up.
Han Yong stared incredulously at him. His eyes went wide, his hands fell open. But only for a moment. Then he glared at Li Ming and assumed his guard.
Li Ming’s chest was a broken wasteland of agony. Every breath brought fresh torment. His vision narrowed and grayed. The voices of the crowd faded out.
Han Yong sneered at him.
Li Ming could not drag this out. Willpower was no match for broken bones. The next exchange had to be his last.
Li Ming brought his arms close, guarding his wounded sides. He breathed as deeply as he could, lowering his posture. Han Yong rushed in, chicken-stepping, arms in a long guard.
Li Ming had to intercept Han Yong. It was his only chance. But where would Han Yong come from? The sides? The middle? High? Low? As though reading his mind, Han Yong zigzagged back and forth, his arms drawing circles, trying to confuse Li Ming.
Li Ming exhaled. If he couldn’t predict Han Yong’s movements, then he just had to give Han Yong an opening.
Li Ming backed up, slowly, stiffly, leaning forward. He pressed his elbows against his sides, lowering his hands to expose his face, his face twisting in agony. It was an act, but not too far from the truth.
Han Yong charged in. Right up the middle. And punched at Li Ming’s head.
Li Ming straightened and twisted clockwise, left hand parrying inwards, right hand sweeping around and forward. Han Yong’s fist blasted past his eyes, missing his nose by a hair. Li Ming’s left hand found Han Yong’s wrist and pulled down. His right hand, primed and ready by his side, clenched into a fist.
And exploded.
Half-stepping as he struck, his fist rocketed upwards and forwards, his entire body weight behind it. Hellish stitches ripped through Li Ming’s torso. His knuckles slammed into Han Yong’s chin. More pain erupted, radiating through his fingers, his wrist, his chest, his entire body becoming a symphony of agony.
And Han Yong dropped.
He fell to the floor with a heavy crash. He lay sprawled out on the hardwood planks, totally insensate. His eyes stared sightlessly at the sky, but his chest heaved up and down.
A silence fell over the crowd, stretching into a timeless moment.
And the crowd erupted in cheers.
“LI SHAO YE! LI SHAO YE! LI SHAO YE!”
Pain blasted through him. Pain filled his brain, his nerves, every fiber of his being. Pain became his entire existence. He breathed it in, reveled in it, letting it pass. Li Ming raised his fist, and more pain racked his body.
And the crowd cheered.
Out the corner of his eye, Father pulled himself up on the stage.
“Li Ming!” he cried. “Are you okay?”
Li Ming tried to say something. All that emerged was a painful, tearing, hacking, coughing fit. He covered his mouth with his free palm. Hot liquid sprayed across his hand. When the spasms subsided, he forced himself to look.
Blood.
Bright red oxygenated blood.
Father wrapped his arms around Li Ming. Gentle, unshakable strength enveloped him, lifting him off the floor, supporting his weight. Li Ming coughed again. Bloody sputum spattered across his front and pants.
“I—” Li Ming began.
“I’ve got you,” Li Guo An said. “We’re taking you to the hospital.”
Li Ming wanted to say something. But he was cold. And sleepy. And weak. With every step his strength leaked from his body. Colors faded to gray, gray bled to black. As his consciousness faded, he thought he heard a fresh cheer.
“FUYANG SHENGLONG!”
Rising Dragon of Fuyang!
