Wielding a Knife, Kneading the Hands

The sixteen martial establishments in and around Linjiang County hung different signs, but all honored the same founding master. If you traced their roots, only the school run by the Dragon Gate Escort Agency in the east of the city was a true homegrown institution.

The rest, whether they taught kicks or punches, were outsiders.

The Eight Gates Martial Hall was no exception.

Its roots lay far away in Qinghai. It was a branch of the Eight Gates Association in the northwest.

By rights, they were all outsiders who had left home to make a living in Linjiang County. They should have huddled together for warmth against the local powers trying to squeeze them out.

Why, at a moment like this, would they be the first to step forward and make trouble for the Shocking Heron Martial Hall, another outsider?

Unless someone had forced the Eight Gates Martial Hall to come and lay down the rules.

Shut out the newcomers to protect your place. That's the martial arts world, Li Xiang thought with a silent sigh.

In this world, rules sometimes mattered more than life.

As the crowd buzzed with speculation, unhurried footsteps came from deep inside the hall.

Hong Tianbao strolled to the entrance and glanced at the imposing Huang Silang. His gaze finally settled on the bright red visiting card in Huang's hands.

Now that the man he had come to see was here, Huang Silang wasted no time.

He straightened his collar, brushed nonexistent dust from his cuffs, and stepped forward.

There were no threats or curses, no reckless rush to blows.

Instead, Huang Silang presented the red card with both hands. Its lettering gleamed gold as he raised it above his head and bowed at a perfect right angle. His movements were faultless, his manner as respectful as if he were greeting an elder of his own family.

"The Eight Gates Martial Hall heard that Master Hong has opened a school in Linjiang to teach genuine martial arts. I have long admired you."

Huang Silang did not speak loudly, but he put martial force behind his voice. Every word rang clearly down the street.

"I've come today with this visiting card for two reasons. First, to pay my respects to a senior and show you some hospitality as a local. Second... to bring these disappointing students of mine to exchange a few moves with the Shocking Heron Martial Hall and broaden their horizons."

The onlookers were stunned.

"What's this? Isn't he here to challenge the school?"

"Looks more like he's bringing a gift. Why's he being so polite?"

Only Li Xiang, standing in the crowd, understood what it meant.

This was the martial world.

In Tianjin, they called it sounding out the road, or offering the first step over the threshold.

A real challenge to a martial school was never a disorderly street brawl. It was a matter of appearances. The more a man wanted you dead, the more carefully he observed the courtesies.

Courtesy first, force afterward.

By presenting a visiting card, Huang treated Hong as a senior in the trade and gave him full respect.

If Hong accepted it, he had to meet the challenge by the rules.

If he refused, he was showing contempt for a fellow practitioner. Then they could storm in and smash his sign, and he would have no one to blame but himself for spurning the courtesy offered.

Rushing in with curses and fists would make it a feud to the death. Only a hotheaded fool did that.

Hong Tianbao looked at the visiting card but did not reach for it yet.

"The Eight Gates Martial Hall. Eight Gates Fist..." He rolled the words around in his mouth, his tone turning curious.

"As I understand it, Eight Gates Fist came from the northwest. It draws its principles from the Eight Formation Diagram. Its unpredictable techniques include chopping strikes, grappling, rushing kicks, and central-line wrestling, with an emphasis on four kinds of speed and a single intent."

"After it came through the passes, it absorbed the crushing strike of Xingyi and the forceful forms of Red Fist. It became a true killing art, one that seals the exits, shuts the doors, and beats the dog trapped inside."

Hong Tianbao changed tack. "But under the Demon Dynasty's Martial Arts Prohibition Edict, Eight Gates Fist split into branches. One changed its name to survive and vanished among the common people. That was the Yang Branch.

"The other was fierce as fire. They refused to shave their heads and fled deep into the Great Desert. That was the Chen Branch. Instructor Huang, which branch are you from?"

Huang Silang remained bowed, without lifting his head. "I am merely an unworthy nominal disciple of the hall master. But I once heard my teacher say that his master bore the surname Chen."

"Chen?" Hong Tianbao narrowed his eyes. "So you're a disciple of Chen Ruhai's line—the old grandmaster's grand-disciple."

At the name Chen Ruhai, several knowledgeable martial artists in the crowd drew sharp breaths. So did the scouts from other schools who had hidden among the onlookers to observe.

He was a legendary grandmaster. Who would have thought the Eight Gates Martial Hall had such illustrious backing?

Li Xiang heard someone beside him whisper in astonishment, "Good heavens, a successor to old Grandmaster Chen? They say that back in the northwest, he took on three hundred mounted bandits with just a staff and sent their heads rolling. Even the warlords had to call him Master Chen!"

Li Xiang was startled.

The Eight Gates Martial Hall's backing was formidable.

Hong Tianbao nodded. At last, he reached out and lightly took the visiting card between two fingers.

"Out of respect for old Grandmaster Chen, I'll accept your card."

He passed it to Ye Qingyao behind him, then looked back at Huang Silang. "Well? Lay out your terms. A civil contest or a martial one?"

By the iron rules of the martial world, a challenge to a school could take either form.

A civil contest tested the breaking down of techniques, weapon routines, and the sensing of force through joined hands.

The two sides exchanged moves within a marked circle and stopped short of serious harm. First blood meant defeat. It left both face and room to retreat. A loser had merely proved less skilled and could still make a living in the trade.

A martial contest was another matter.

Both sides signed away responsibility for life or death and stepped onto a deathmatch platform. Each fought with whatever skill they had. Blows had no eyes, and each bore the consequences of injury or death.

If the losing side admitted defeat, they not only had to serve tea and apologize but also leave the area for good, perhaps even take down their school's sign. Life and livelihood were at stake. Losing could mean the ruin of an entire family.

Huang Silang straightened and cupped his hands. "Our hall master said that we all earn our living in the same trade. We'll keep running into one another, so there's no need for bloodshed. Naturally, it'll be a civil contest."

The onlookers answered with disappointed boos.

"Tch. I thought we'd get a real show."

"What's the fun in a civil contest? Just two grown men pushing each other around like women dancing."

The crowd wanted rivers of blood and skulls split open. A civil contest that barely drew blood held no appeal for them.

Hong Tianbao smiled.

There was not a trace of warmth in it.

"A civil contest? How considerate of your hall master."

He knew that a civil contest could sometimes be more dangerous than a martial one, and a greater test of skill.

To win while controlling your strength well enough not to kill demanded extraordinary mastery.

Besides, some civil-contest rules were more vicious than drawing blades outright.

Hong Tianbao asked, "How shall we do it? By northern rules, taking a couple of turns on the plum-blossom stakes? Or by southern rules, joining hands and listening for the strike?"

"Master Hong, you've come a long way, and you're our guest here in Linjiang County. The host should naturally defer to the guest. We'll use the contest most popular in the south these days..."

Huang Silang paused, then pronounced each word distinctly. "Blades locked, hands entwined!"

"Blades locked, hands entwined?!"

Most of the onlookers still looked baffled. Clearly, they had never heard the unfamiliar term.

"What's that mean? Kneading dough?"

"I'm a Grandmaster kneader!"

"Dough, is it? Don't make me say what you're really kneading!"

Li Xiang happened to know.

Back in Blackwater Ancient Town, he had heard traveling fighters brag about it.

Blades locked, hands entwined was a civil contest in name, but in practice it was one of traditional martial arts' most dangerous forms of close-quarters weapons training.

It had originated in Wing Chun, then been adopted and adapted by other schools until it became an ideal way to settle personal grudges.

The entwined-hands portion was a variation of Wing Chun's sticky hands. It emphasized close grappling, sensing an opponent's force and redirecting it. On its own, it was harmless. Add blades, though, and everything changed.

The rules were brutal.

The two fighters stood face-to-face, no more than a foot apart, their feet almost touching. Each held two short knives, or daggers in reverse grip. Their arms had to stay in contact at all times, never separating, as though glued together.

As in tai chi push hands, they fought at close quarters with their arms constantly touching, each feeling the shifts in the other's strength.

While pushing, pulling, grappling, and shedding force, each had to find an opening to drive a blade into the other's flesh.

And while blocking and redirecting force, the opponent looked for a flaw that would let them strike back.

They were so close that blades flashed right before their eyes and grazed past the arteries in their necks.

It tested nerve as much as skill.

If their force went astray or their reactions lagged by half a beat, they could lose a hand or foot—or have their throat cut outright.

And at that distance, there was nowhere to run.

How was that a civil contest? It was dancing on knife points, risking your life with your head tucked into your belt.

"Instructor Huang, I can hear your abacus clacking from here."

Hong Tianbao's smile vanished. "Blades locked, hands entwined may be a southern custom, but one slip can sever tendons and shatter bones. Is that what the Eight Gates Martial Hall calls stopping short of harm?"

Huang Silang's expression did not change. "Our Eight Gates Fist has absorbed the best of Wing Chun's close-range striking. We've long wanted to seek Master Hong's instruction."

"Besides, since this is a civil contest, we'll wear ox-tendon guards and coat the blades with lime. The marks left by the knives will decide the winner. No one need actually lose their life."

"Fine."

Hong Tianbao nodded. Without another word, he rolled up his long gown's sleeves, exposing a length of pale, plump but sturdy forearm.

"If you want to play at blades locked, hands entwined, I'll play along."

"Come on. I'll fight you."

He stepped forward, and his presence burst forth.

Huang Silang's mouth twitched sharply.

Why wasn't this fat man following the script?

You're a Grandmaster! You were the Martial Laureate of the previous dynasty!

Were you really going to step in personally against a junior challenging your school? Did you have no concern for a senior master's dignity?

"Master Hong, surely you jest. You're a senior and a pillar of our profession. Apart from the old grandmaster at the Dragon Gate Escort Agency, who in Linjiang County would dare join hands with you?"

Huang Silang hurriedly cupped his hands. "With my paltry skills, how could I trouble you to fight personally? If word got out, people would say the Eight Gates Martial Hall had no respect for its elders."

Hong Tianbao regarded him with a half-smile. "Then how do you want to fight?"

Huang Silang took half a step back and cupped his hands again. "Since you've opened a school and taken students, naturally we should compare the quality of those students. If the teacher is formidable but every student is useless, the school only leads people astray."

"Good. We'll compare students." Hong Tianbao seemed to have been waiting for those very words. "How?"

"Three matches."

Huang Silang raised three fingers and spoke quickly. He had clearly come prepared.

"In the first, each side sends a new student who has only just begun toughening their body. That tests how well a school teaches the fundamentals."

"In the second, each sends a student who's found their way and gained a Profession Mark. That tests the genuine skills the school passes down."

"In the third, each sends an instructor who has mastered at least one routine thoroughly. That tests the backbone of the school."

"Best two out of three." Huang Silang stared hard at Hong Tianbao. "If we lose, the Eight Gates Martial Hall will immediately publish an apology in the paper, prepare a generous gift worthy of your approval, and hang red decorations in honor of the Shocking Heron Martial Hall."

"If we win..."

"If you win, the Shocking Heron Martial Hall closes its doors for good. Or I do as you do: charge fifty silver dollars in tuition and think twice before teaching anyone real skills. How's that?"

Hong Tianbao finished the sentence for him.

Huang Silang did not deny it. He merely cupped his hands. "You may choose the time and place."

"Good."

Hong Tianbao swept his gaze over the students behind him, their expressions varied, then turned back to Huang Silang.

"Seven days from now. Right here!"

"See our guests out!"