Savage Ma was taken to the competitors’ canopied pavilion, where the head physician declared what everyone knew already. Jun was relieved to see Tiger Peng there as well, sitting up, looking pale and injured, but talking coherently to his schoolmates and not in any apparent danger of dying. One attendant cut the red leather bands from the wrists of the losers, alive and dead.
Jun found some food and water, then sat and rested until the doctor came around to check on him. To Jun’s surprise, Doctor Lim was a stout woman with a triangular patch of bronze scales descending from her graying hairline onto her forehead like a glittering diadem. “You’re breathmarked,” he exclaimed, which caused her to look at him as if he were a simpleton.
Doctor Lim was what Old Man Zhang had told Jun about two days ago: someone with a rare gift for healing, employed to care exclusively for the emperor, the Guardian, and the highest officials. “I didn’t know there would be a breathmarked doctor here,” he added quickly, trying to smooth over his initial reaction. Zhang hadn’t mentioned any special medical treatment from his own time as a competitor.
“It’s a new addition to the tournament,” Lim said briskly. “I volunteered.” She ordered Jun to take deep breaths as she laid her hands on his back, stomach, and sides over the places where Tiger Peng’s blows had left bruises. The palms of her hands were hot against Jun’s skin, as if she were running a high fever, even though she looked perfectly well. Her touch left a prickling, tingling sensation. “You’re fine to continue competing,” she declared crisply, as if she were a mechanic completing an inspection on a carriage. “I’ve encouraged your natural healing. Drink this tea, slowly.” She handed him a cup of cloudy medicinal liquid and walked away.
“Wait,” Jun called, wanting to ask her how her ability worked, but she had already left to treat competitors with more serious injuries—sprained or broken bones, concussions, dislocated limbs. Just because a candidate won their match didn’t always mean they could continue to fight.
Jun sipped the bitter tea, his stomach slowly unclenching. At least he was through the first round, which would take the longest and result in the most competitors eliminated. With the already diminished number of entrants, the tournament would go by faster than it usually did.
Yin Yue had already gone off to fight his second-round match, but Jun had time to wait and think about what his classmate had said about the politics at play. The Guardian was supposed to stand apart from the web of bureaucracy that surrounded the Imperial Court and civil service. As the most accomplished martial artist in the country, their discipline and integrity were relied upon; they were supposed to be a strict but fair judge of who was permitted to access Dragon’s wisdom. As the unofficial but traditionally accepted leader of the entire martial arts community, as well as a revered public figure, they acted as a counterbalancing force to the throne.
If Leopard won the tournament, then General Cobu would be the man in power behind both the emperor and the Guardian. He would be a step away from taking complete control.
If the ploy seemed obvious to Jun, who rarely spent time thinking about politics, then it must be apparent to just about everyone. Why did so many of them—the black-robed officials who’d filled the stage this morning, as well as the citizens of the city—seem to accept it? Were they blindly going about their lives unaware that the scales of power were precariously tipping? Or did they not care? Either way, what did that mean for Longhan?
Don’t think about that now. The admonishing thought came to him in Sai’s voice. Focus on what you can control—winning your fights.
When it was nearly time for his next match, Jun got up and walked out of the pavilion, circling behind it in hopes of finding a latrine. Doctor Lim was standing a short distance away in the shade of a ginkgo tree, presumably taking a break from her nonstop duties. To Jun’s surprise, she was speaking quietly to the man with the gap between his front teeth, the enthusiastic bettor whom Jun had seen losing money on Tiger Peng and winning it back on Leopard. When Jun passed by, he overheard a snippet of their conversation. “He has two broken ribs, but won’t pull out of the match, so I’d say you can safely put fifty—” They broke off until he had passed them.
Doctor Lim had volunteered to work at the tournament, had she? Jun wrinkled his nose. It appeared her motives were not so selfless. Perhaps that was why people were happy for the tournament to continue under Cobu’s new rules even if it ruined the integrity of the Guardianship and threatened the stability of the country. There was money to be made, and bloodshed entertained the masses. It seemed corruption was found at every level, not just at the highest tiers of the government.
KWAN the Rolling Boulder flailed wildly, struggling to dislodge Jun’s grip. Sweat dripped off Jun’s brow as he gritted his teeth and drove his hips toward the ground, keeping Kwan pinned and tightening the choke hold he’d secured across the man’s throat.
Give up. Give up. Give up, he urged.
Kwan heaved desperately for another second before raising his hands in surrender. Jun released his hold and got to his feet as the announcer declared him victorious. Appreciative applause went up from the sidelines, and even Kwan, holding his neck, gave Jun a grudging nod.
As he left the arena, Jun noticed, with a smug smirk, that some of the audience members who had been betting against him that morning were now collecting on his win, including the Tiger Spirit supporter with the face paint and the gap-toothed high roller he’d seen talking to Doctor Lim. The woman who’d declared that she liked to cheer for underdogs had returned to watch his second fight as well. She smiled approvingly at Jun, her curious gaze following him out of the arena.
Kwan had not been as formidable a fighter as Peng, but that wasn’t the only reason the fight had ended so quickly and decisively. Unlike the earlier match, Jun had felt calm and in control the entire time. When the fight had gone to the ground, he hadn’t wasted energy on unnecessary movement battling his opponent’s weight. He’d been patient and defensive, letting the other man tire himself out as he waited for the right opportunity to present itself.
Jun paused to let the moment sink in. A warm sense of satisfaction pervaded his tired body. Against all odds, he’d made it through the first day of the Guardian’s Tournament. Tomorrow, he was sure to face more difficult opponents, but right now he couldn’t wait to return to the Golden Gate Inn for a meal and a hot bath, and to tell Ren and Chang about his success.
Disappointed spectators were dispersing from around the adjacent White Arena. Leopard stood alone as the judge declared him the winner by default. After witnessing what had happened to Savage Ma earlier, Leopard’s next opponent had forfeited and left the tournament.
Leopard scowled and stalked away, not to where all the other competitors rested and were refreshed between rounds, but to his own tent where personal attendants waited on him and a pair of General Cobu’s soldiers from the Sixth Division stood guard on either side. Jun could not imagine what their function was, other than to make it clear to everyone who Leopard’s influential patron was. It wasn’t as if the man needed anyone to protect him or to prevent people from approaching. He did that perfectly well himself.
Most of the attention now was on the contest happening in the Yellow Arena between the fighter in the white mask Jun had stood next to during the opening ceremony and the tallest man he’d ever seen. Jun stopped to watch, fascinated by the unusual matchup. A single solid blow from “the Mountain,” as the words sewn into the back of the tall man’s shirt read, would’ve flattened his smaller opponent, but the masked combatant never gave the seasoned boxer the chance to land a straight punch.
Jun watched with a growing sense of unease. There was something unmistakably familiar about the way the masked man moved with seemingly effortless agility, unleashing high spinning kicks or crouching evasively low to the ground, darting in with whiplike strikes to the face, ribs, or knees before dancing out of reach.
Still, he didn’t seem to be doing much damage, and the fight might’ve gone on indefinitely if the Mountain hadn’t become impatient. He chased after his opponent, determined to finally run him down and pummel him. When he finally appeared to have cornered his slippery rival in one corner of the arena, he lunged, using his superior reach, fist aimed at the other man’s face.
The masked fighter slid in, letting the knockout blow fly past his cheek. Without any hesitation, he seized the extended arm and leapt into a flying takedown, scissoring legs across his opponent’s knees and waist. Both fighters thudded to the ground and the masked man dropped the heel of his top foot onto the Mountain’s chin with a precise and definitive crack.
Jun’s eyes narrowed with mounting suspicion. He knew someone who’d once put him on his back in almost exactly the same way.
“The winner, representing…” The arena announcer glanced down at the paper in his hands uncertainly. “Representing ‘peace and unity of Longhan’ … the hero Ghostface!”
Ghostface? The fictional traveling folk hero whose entertaining adventures Jun had seen recounted in so many stage performances at the opera house? Laughter and bemused applause erupted. “Guardian Ghostface!” someone shouted. Others repeated the cry enthusiastically.
Was this some sort of joke? Whoever was behind the mask had given the registration clerk a false school and false name. Competitors at the Guardian’s Tournament had always proudly declared their family and martial school, but “Ghostface” was hiding his identity by fighting in costume, posing as a well-known character out of legend. It was bizarre and unprecedented, but as far as Jun knew, there weren’t any specific rules against it.
The masked fighter stood dramatically over his unconscious opponent and raised his arm. With the slow, theatrical deliberateness of an actor onstage, he pointed straight at the gates of the Pearl of Wisdom. The compound of the emperor, the seat of government of the whole country.
Coming from “Ghostface,” who battled corrupt villains, the accusation was clear.
Ghostface touched the back of his open hand to his lips, then his fist to his heart.
It was the same gesture Jun had seen in the village of River Maiden weeks ago. Not only in River Maiden, but other places, whenever Chang’s friends had come up to them after performances. A regional custom, Jun had assumed, a special salute for traveling performers.
Yet other people were following Ghostface’s lead, bringing hands to lips and fists to chests. Some of them did not stop there; they raised their arms defiantly into the air.
A woman shouted nonsensically, “When will Zanu’s flute play again?”
“What’s going on?” Jun wondered aloud, but no one answered him. The last fights of the day were still going on in other arenas, but suddenly, all attention seemed to be on the silent masked stranger and the commotion that had coalesced around him. Nearby soldiers from the Sixth Division—four of them standing vigil next to the Scroll, and two outside Leopard’s tent—were glaring at Ghostface with hostility and suspicion. They shifted forward slightly, hands on weapons.
Ghostface walked calmly out of the arena and away from the tournament grounds.
General Cobu’s supporters in red scarves hurled taunts and insults at his back. “How ugly are you beneath that mask? Wait until you meet Leopard, you clown!” No one got in the mystery man’s way or challenged him directly, however, because the red leather band around his wrist was the emperor’s protection, and it applied to every candidate still in the Guardian’s Tournament.
A small but energized crowd fell in behind Ghostface and followed him across the bridge into the city streets of Xicheng. Jun joined the tail end of the procession and found himself in the raucous, bustling corridor of vendor stalls that had sprung up around the Island. Merchants eager to take advantage of the tournament crowds were selling every manner of street food and drink, real and toy weapons, posed wooden puppets that fought one another when their strings were pulled, kites and banners and headbands with the insignias of the largest and most popular martial schools. With the final afternoon matches coming to an end, the street was filling up as spectators spilled off the Island, ready to eat and shop and spend money as they discussed the day’s matches.
The onslaught of food smells made Jun abruptly realize how hungry he was. As anxious as he was to get back to the inn, Master Chang had schooled him in fueling his body with enough of the proper food at a regular, optimal schedule. Now of all times, he needed to stay at his very best, so he slid onto a bench in front of a stall dishing out steaming hot bowls of soup with vegetables and slices of the smoked duck hanging from a row of hooks above the chef.
“Ah, you’re a competitor in the Guardian’s Tournament,” the soup vendor exclaimed, noticing the red leather band around Jun’s wrist. “And still undefeated after the first day? You must be pretty good! Your meal is free, sir, just speak well of my smoked duck if you become the Guardian.” He pushed Jun’s coin back toward him, along with a hefty portion of food.
Jun couldn’t see Ghostface anymore; he seemed to have slipped away completely, but the excitement he’d sparked had been infectious. A man jumped onto a wooden vegetable crate. “General Cobu is corrupting the Guardian’s Tournament,” he bellowed. “We saw it for ourselves this morning. He’s changed the rules to favor the candidate who’s loyal to him. His ambition is boundless. He wants the Scroll and the throne for himself, and he will lead us into war!”
Jun almost jumped up from his place to cheer in agreement. Back in the competitors’ pavilion, he’d wondered if anyone would speak out against what the general was doing.
“No to war!” a woman shouted. The cry was taken up. “No to war!” More hands were brought to lips, fists pressed to hearts and raised into the air. “Zanu’s flute will play again!”
Jun motioned to the soup vendor. “The sign those people are making, what does it mean?”
“You don’t know? You aren’t from around here, are you?” The man wiped his hands on his apron and lowered his voice. “It’s a sign of solidarity with the Silent Flute Society. They’re unificationists. Some would say appeasers. They want the Snake Wall to come down and the Scrolls of Heaven and Earth to be brought back together.”
“They have a lot of support in the countryside,” a diner sitting next to Jun at the counter interjected heatedly. “The Scrolls and the land were separated by misguided and power-hungry leaders, but they’re meant to be together. The Society advocates for Dragon’s intent.”
The soup chef snorted dismissively. “A whole lot of naive and dangerous foolishness from a bunch of idealistic nature lovers, if you ask me.”
“Are you saying you believe the military’s self-serving propaganda that Dragon wants us to go to war?” the diner countered.
The chef held up his hands and shrugged. “Everyone seems to agree that Heaven is displeased and we have to do something about it, but no one can agree on what. Who knows what Dragon really wants? Not me. I just make noodles.”
Soldiers stormed into the street, half a dozen White Phoenix Guards from one end, a squad of the Sixth Division striding up from the other. Alarmed pedestrians scrambled to get out of their way. The outspoken gathering of Silent Flute Society sympathizers scattered. Some of them bravely tried to resist or delay the soldiers by hurling vegetables, random objects, and insults. They were seized, beaten with whipping rods, and thrown roughly into the back of a wagon. Jun flinched at the sound of a heavy stick coming down across the shoulders of the man who’d been lambasting General Cobu from atop of the crate. The man collapsed amid a circle of blows and kicks, and when Jun glimpsed him again, he was being dragged limply away by two soldiers, his face a swollen purple mess.
The Silent Flute Society sympathizer who’d been sitting next to Jun at the soup stall abandoned the rest of his meal and made a beeline away from the commotion.
Jun’s shoulders were bunched up around his ears. His fists were clenched so tightly under the counter that his nails dug into his palms. It wasn’t a remotely fair contest between the soldiers and the unarmed civilians. Bullies were all the same, no matter if they were street toughs or if they wore the emblem of the Imperial Army. An honorable martial artist ought to stand up for the weak against the strong.
But it wasn’t Jun’s place to get involved. He was here to fight in the arena, not in the streets, and getting into an altercation with the military would surely get him disqualified from the tournament.
No one else interfered either. Shopkeepers retreated to the backs of their stalls, deliberately busying themselves with work. Bystanders averted their eyes and hurried away. The wagon drove off with the bound captives and the soldiers followed, nonchalantly waving nervous merchants and customers back to their businesses. Nothing to see here.
Slowly, the apprehensive stillness lifted; noise and motion flowed back into the street. Jun hunched over his bowl of soup. The smoked duck was some of the best he’d ever tasted, but he’d lost his appetite. “What will happen to them?” he asked the whistling chef.
“Hmm? I imagine they’ll be whipped in the market tomorrow and forced to publicly recant their statements. The fellow who spoke treason against the general—he might be cangued for a week, maybe even beheaded. With the Guardian’s Tournament going on, and war possibly on the way, this is no time to be voicing unpatriotic thoughts. So, how do you like the duck?”