Before he had even caught his breath, Li Zhenwei stood up again.
The eighty-two men sat or lay on the ground, drinking water and gnawing on dry rations. Qin Tiexin had just swallowed the last bite of his flatbread and was reaching for a second when he heard Li Zhenwei's voice:
"Stand up."
The crowd rustled to its feet. Some men's legs were still trembling.
"Second round," Li Zhenwei said. "Form your own teams, five to six men each."
He paused, letting everyone digest his words.
"In the mountain you just crossed, there are fifteen veterans from the front army. They carry confidential information I wrote myself." Li Zhenwei took a slip of paper from his robe and waved it. "Your task is to get those slips from them and hand them to me."
Qin Tiexin looked at the slip. Black ink on white paper, folded three times.
"Three rules." Li Zhenwei raised his fingers. "One, no killing or serious injuries. Two, you cannot let them make a sound-if they do, you fail. Three, after you hand over the slip, no one must come looking for it within the next two hours."
He swept his gaze over them. "You have four hours. Form your teams now."
Before he had finished speaking, Lin Feng tugged Qin Tiexin's sleeve.
"Brother Qin, quick."
Before Qin Tiexin had fully grasped what was happening, Lin Feng was already pulling him toward the edge of the crowd. As they walked, he said quietly, "Don't look for people who've already grouped up. Let's find the ones on their own."
His eyes swept swiftly over the crowd before settling on three men standing alone.
The first was tall and thin, with exceptionally bright eyes.
The second was absurdly burly, broader even than Qin Tiexin by a good margin, with arms as thick as other men's legs. He was squatting there gnawing on a steamed bun, half of it disappearing in one bite.
The third was short and small. He was crouching beneath a tree watching ants, scratching at the ground with a twig he had picked up.
Lin Feng approached, first cupping his hands to the tall, thin man. "Brother from the archers' camp? What should we call you?"
The man turned his head, his eyes bright indeed. "Zhao Ling. You're..."
"Lin Feng, supply camp." Lin Feng pointed to Qin Tiexin. "Qin Tiexin, Craftsmen's Camp."
Zhao Ling looked Qin Tiexin up and down, his gaze lingering on the strap marks Edgeless had left on his shoulders, then nodded. "Heard of you."
Lin Feng went over to the burly man next. The man had just stuffed the last bite of bun into his mouth, his cheeks bulging as if he had an egg in each.
"Brother from the infantry?" Lin Feng asked.
The burly man swallowed with difficulty and wiped his mouth. "Tu Dazhu. What is it?"
"We're forming a team. Need more men."
Tu Dazhu looked at Lin Feng, then at Qin Tiexin behind him, and grinned. "Sure. You two look like you can fight."
Last was the short man beneath the tree. Before Lin Feng reached him, he looked up. "Chen San, scout camp."
Chen San stood and dusted the dirt off his backside. "Forming a team, right? Count me in."
That made five.
Over by Li Zhenwei, the wooden clapper had already sounded. "Leave all weapons in camp. Enter the mountain empty-handed. Your time starts now."
The crowd surged into the mountain. Qin Tiexin's team walked in the middle, neither hurrying nor dawdling.
"Brother Chen San," Lin Feng said as they walked, "you're quick to react. Lead the way?"
Chen San nodded and darted to the front, his steps light as a cat's. Zhao Ling followed diagonally behind him, his eyes constantly sweeping the woods on either side. Tu Dazhu and Qin Tiexin walked side by side in the middle, with Lin Feng bringing up the rear.
It was the same mountain path as before, but it felt different. The woods were too quiet. Not even the birds called.
After about a quarter of an hour, a sound came from ahead. Chen San raised his hand, and all five crouched at once.
Beyond the bushes, another team was surrounding a veteran. With his back against a large tree and a wooden staff in hand, the veteran swept two of the five men off their feet when they lunged at him. The remaining three tried to cover his mouth, but a "Hah" escaped his throat-not loud, but clearly audible in the woods.
The team froze. A whistle sounded in the distance, and two instructors emerged from the woods, shaking their heads. The five men followed them away, heads hanging.
"See?" Lin Feng whispered. "Not a sound."
They skirted that area and continued deeper in. They encountered two more teams: one had already succeeded and was hurrying back, while the other was still tangling with a veteran.
"We need to find one alone," Chen San said.
An hour passed, and the sun rose a little higher. The woods grew stifling. Sweat beaded on Qin Tiexin's forehead. He wiped it away, then suddenly fixed his gaze ahead to the left.
Beside a thicket, a veteran stood leaning on his spear. He was not against a tree, and the ground around him was open. Getting close would be difficult.
Chen San watched for a while, then whispered, "I'll lure him away. You come up behind him."
Lin Feng shook his head. "Too risky. One shout from him and you're eliminated."
"Then what do we do?"
As they spoke, Qin Tiexin noticed Lin Feng's fingers twitch-very slightly, as if flicking away dust.
In the bushes nearby, blades of grass suddenly swayed twice.
The veteran immediately turned his head, pointing his spear that way. "Who's there?"
No answer. The grass swayed again.
Frowning, the veteran slowly approached with his spear leveled and parted the grass with its shaft-nothing.
The instant he turned to walk back, Qin Tiexin and Tu Dazhu charged out together.
Qin Tiexin was fast. In one stride, he reached the veteran's back, clamping his left arm around his neck and his right hand tightly over his mouth. Tu Dazhu arrived almost simultaneously, wrapping both arms around the veteran's waist and bearing down. The veteran struggled, but the two were far too strong. It was like being caught in iron pincers.
Lin Feng flashed out from the side and chopped the back of the veteran's neck with the edge of his hand. The veteran stiffened, then went limp.
Zhao Ling poked his head out from behind a tree. "Out cold?"
"He won't wake for four hours." As Lin Feng spoke, he swiftly searched the veteran's bundle. He pulled a slip of paper from the lining.
He unfolded it. There was only one word on it: yang.
The five exchanged looks.
"Let's go back first." Lin Feng put the slip away.
When they returned to camp, two stacks of slips already lay before Li Zhenwei. The left stack was thicker, the right thinner. Lin Feng handed over the slip. Li Zhenwei glanced at it and placed it on the right-hand stack.
"Yang team," he said.
An instructor beside him made a note in a register.
The five stepped aside to wait. Teams returned one after another, some smug, others dejected. One team was escorted back by instructors-they had made too much commotion and let the veteran cry out.
As noon approached, Li Zhenwei stood.
"The second round is over."
Every slip in the left-hand stack before him bore the word "yin"; those on the right read "yang." An instructor counted and reported, "Sixty-one passed."
Someone sucked in a cold breath-after only two rounds, just sixty-one of the original hundred remained.
Li Zhenwei surveyed the remaining men. Every face was grimy, every back soaked with sweat.
"Hungry, aren't you?" he said.
No one dared answer.
"Only one round left." Li Zhenwei paused. "The first tested strength and endurance. The second tested teamwork and adaptability. This third round tests fighting ability."
He waved a hand, and several soldiers carried two large bundles of short staves out from behind a tent. They were white waxwood, with cloth wrapped around one end.
"One each." Li Zhenwei pointed to the center of camp. At some point, a wooden platform had been erected there, with a flag planted in its center. It had black lettering on a red field, but the words were too indistinct to read.
"You'll be divided into yin and yang teams according to the intelligence you brought back. In one hour, whichever team holds the flag advances in its entirety. The other team-" He looked around at them. "Will have men eliminated until fifty remain in total. We instructors will decide who goes based on performance."
The crowd stirred.
The soldiers began handing out staves. Qin Tiexin took one and weighed it in his hand. Far lighter than a hammer.
"Yang team, collect your black clothes here!" someone called.
Only then did Qin Tiexin notice two piles of clothing laid out at one side of camp, one black and one gray. Yang wore black, yin wore gray.
He followed the line, collected a black short tunic, and pulled it on. It was a little tight, stretching across his shoulders and back. Tu Dazhu's was tighter still, its buttons nearly bursting.
The five gathered together. Lin Feng looked unhappy. "These rules... whoever holds the flag wins?"
"What about it?" Tu Dazhu asked.
"Then we should wait until the end to seize it. Whoever takes it first is bound to get surrounded."
Qin Tiexin gripped his short staff without speaking. He was still thinking about the previous round-he did not seem to have contributed much. Lin Feng had arranged everything.
This time, he had to do something.
Li Zhenwei stepped onto the platform, looked at the sun, then at the hourglass below.
"Ready-"
Qin Tiexin drew a deep breath and looked at Tu Dazhu. Tu Dazhu was looking at him too. Their eyes met, and each saw the other's meaning.
"Begin!"
Qin Tiexin charged out first.
With his long legs and broad strides, he reached the platform in four or five steps, planted a hand on its edge, and vaulted up. Tu Dazhu arrived almost at the same instant. They stood back to back on either side of the flag, short staves held across their chests.
Everyone below froze.
Lin Feng slapped his thigh. "Oh, no!"
But it was already too late. The yin team reacted, all thirty-one pairs of eyes fixing on the two men on the platform.
"The yang team has seized the flag!" Lin Feng could only shout. "Yang team, forward! Protect the flag!"
Chen San and Zhao Ling charged up after them. Only then did the other yang team members wake up and surge onto the platform. Over twenty men quickly formed a ring around the flag, protecting it in the center.
The yin team charged up too.
The platform was small, and suddenly over fifty men were crammed onto it. Staves cracked together, while grunts, thuds of falling bodies, and shouts mingled.
Qin Tiexin stood in the innermost ring, with hardly anyone able to reach him. Occasionally a yin team member slipped through, only to fall when he swept a staff across his legs. It was the same with Tu Dazhu, whose staff swung in broad, sweeping arcs. Anyone it struck went down.
But the yang team's outer ranks gradually began to buckle. The yin team had more men and fought fiercely, targeting the thinly defended spots. One yang team member after another was dragged off the platform, while instructors at the side recorded their names.
The ring shrank smaller and smaller.
An hour? It felt like half a day.
Qin Tiexin panted heavily. Sweat ran into his eyes, stinging painfully. He wiped his face, only then realizing that Tu Dazhu and Lin Feng were the only ones left beside him.
Tu Dazhu's arms had taken several blows and were covered in bruises. Lin Feng was worse off, with a split mouth and a swollen left eye, but he still held his staff.
Below the platform, eight yin team members remained standing. They were wounded too, but their eyes were fierce.
Their leader was a tall man with a scar on his face. Leaning on his staff and panting, he pointed at the three on the platform. "Eight against three. Give up. Save yourselves another beating."
Qin Tiexin shook his head.
Tu Dazhu spat a mouthful of bloody saliva. "You talk too much."
Lin Feng's fingers twitched again-Qin Tiexin saw it. He shook his head and caught Lin Feng's wrist.
"No need," Qin Tiexin said.
Lin Feng stared at him, startled.
The eight men charged up.
Lin Feng was surrounded first. His footwork was good, but his strength was spent. He dodged two blows, but the third staff struck his side. With a muffled grunt, he dropped to his knees. Another blow landed across his back, sending him sprawling.
Now, two against eight.
Tu Dazhu and Qin Tiexin stood back to back.
"What now?" Tu Dazhu asked, panting heavily.
Qin Tiexin stared at the men closing in, then suddenly said, "Charge."
"What?"
"Charge through."
They moved at the same time.
Rather than defending, they lunged into the crowd. Tu Dazhu roared like a maddened bear, swinging his staff wildly without caring where it landed, only trying to force people back. Qin Tiexin was even more direct. He threw away his staff and grabbed at them with his hands.
The first man whose wrist he caught tried to break free. Qin Tiexin twisted and shoved, sending him flying off the platform.
A second lunged from the side. Qin Tiexin sidestepped, caught his collar, and pressed him down as his knee drove upward-it did not connect, stopping an inch short. But the man went limp all the same.
The yin team grew afraid. They began circling him, striking once and running, then letting someone else attack.
Qin Tiexin took several blows across his back and legs, the pain burning hot. But he did not care. There was only one thought in his eyes: put one down, then another.
Tu Dazhu took down three more before he finally gave out. A staff struck the back of his knee, bringing him to his knees, followed immediately by three or four staves crashing onto his back. Lying facedown, he still tried to rise, but an instructor held him down. "Enough. Eliminated."
Now, one against one.
No, one against four.
But Qin Tiexin was already seeing red. He grabbed the nearest man, lifted him outright, and hurled him off the platform. When the second charged, he took the man's staff blow head-on and drove a fist into his stomach. The third wrapped his arms around him from behind. Qin Tiexin threw himself backward, and they crashed to the ground together. Rolling over to pin him, Qin Tiexin drove his elbow down-into the ground beside the man's ear.
The man's face turned deathly pale.
Qin Tiexin stood, swaying.
Now, one against one.
It was the tall leader, Sun Yun.
Sun Yun's face was wounded too, but he still stood steadily. He threw away his staff and assumed an opening stance. "Sun Yun, left army. Eight Trigrams Palm, passed down in my family."
Qin Tiexin said nothing, merely taking a stance-though it was not much of one, just a few basic movements from the Body Tempering Technique.
"You can take more punishment than anyone I've ever seen," Sun Yun said. "Give up. I'll let you save some face."
Qin Tiexin shook his head.
Sun Yun moved. His footwork was slippery; in a flash, he was on Qin Tiexin's left, striking beneath his ribs with a palm.
Pain. Like a blow from an iron hammer.
Qin Tiexin staggered a step. Sun Yun's second palm strike came, hitting the same spot.
A third palm, a fourth.
Qin Tiexin stopped dodging. Watching Sun Yun's movements, he suddenly heard Zhou Cang's voice in his mind: Layered Edge Technique. Heavy, light, fall.
When Sun Yun's fifth palm came, Qin Tiexin swung his left fist-not a fist technique, but a hammer technique. His fist met the palm like a hammerhead.
A sharp crack rang out.
Sun Yun's entire arm bent backward, his hand hanging limply. His face went deathly pale in an instant. Before he could cry out, Qin Tiexin's right fist had already arrived.
The punch landed squarely on his face.
Sun Yun pitched backward, blood and two teeth spraying from his mouth. He crashed heavily onto the edge of the platform, swayed, and did not rise again.
Below the platform, there was dead silence.
Qin Tiexin straightened, his left fist hanging down, already dislocated. He turned and walked toward the flagpole, step by step.
His right hand closed around the pole.
He pulled it free.
The red flag rose into the air, and he roared
Aah!!!!!!!!!
Aah!!!!!!!!!
He seemed never to have felt so unrestrained before,
-There was no particular meaning to it; he simply couldn't hold in the breath pent up in his chest. He had to shout it out.
Everyone below the stage who was still conscious tilted their heads back and watched.
They watched the black-clad man onstage, covered in wounds, his left fist contorted, yet his right hand holding the red flag high.
As though watching a beast that had just risen from a pool of blood.