Four additional competitors dropped out overnight, so there were only twenty-six candidates remaining when Jun arrived on the Island on the morning of the second day of the tournament. Although there were far fewer fighters, with matches scheduled in only two arenas instead of six, the number of spectators had swelled; even with the sky overcast and a chill in the air, every available patch of lawn in Warrior’s Park was occupied by people who had laid out blankets and brought food to enjoy between watching the matches. The Scroll still rested on its stand, guarded by soldiers. But the cushioned seats on the raised platform were no longer empty.
General Cobu and Guardian Yama sat watching the proceedings from either side of the empty space where the emperor’s sedan chair would be placed tomorrow. Even out of military uniform, Cobu remained straight-backed and attentive, his gaze as fiercely scrutinizing as if he were inspecting assembled troops. His signature red silk scarf was a spot of vibrant color against his stern black robes. An attendant brought the general tea and a trio of lotus buns on a delicate ceramic plate. Cobu took a sip from the porcelain teacup and nodded appreciatively.
One wouldn’t think this man enjoying his refreshment with such apparent blitheness had ordered the public whippings of two dozen people and the beheading of a man—the fellow Jun had seen atop the vegetable crate yesterday. Jun had heard the news proclaimed from a street corner by a town crier that morning, on his way to the Island.
He’d gritted his teeth, quelled his disgust, and hurried past.
In contrast to General Cobu, Guardian Yama reclined in his seat and looked to be faintly bored and impatient, as if there were more important things for him to be doing this morning than observing the selection of his successor. He didn’t look at or speak to the general, and he waved away the food and drink that was offered to him. Jun studied the man, wondering what was going on behind his inscrutable expression. Yama was only twenty-eight years old, but he seemed much older than his years, and not just because the tiny silver scales that began at his temples and disappeared behind his hairline gave him the appearance of premature graying. The Guardian exuded an air of impassive equanimity, as if nothing that happened today would or could excite him.
Why didn’t Yama seem to have any objection to Cobu taking over the Guardian’s Tournament and changing the rules to suit his own agenda? As the current Guardian, Yama had the ear of the emperor and was in a position to oppose Cobu’s warmongering and abuses of power, but he hadn’t done so. Did he not care what happened to the Scroll and the country after he was no longer the Guardian? Or had he struck some self-serving alliance with the general?
As if sensing Jun’s attention, Yama turned his head and looked down into the crowd, his gaze sliding over the remaining candidates, his expression detached but evaluative, as if he were gauging whether any of them would’ve stood a chance against him six years ago.
Jun dropped his eyes and made his way past the platform.
“Ghostface is out!” The gap-toothed bettor ran past, shouting the news.
A chorus of disappointed exclamations. “He lost?” someone exclaimed. “To who?”
“No, he won the fight, but his arm’s broken. No way he can wield a weapon in the coming matches.” The bettor sounded far too gleeful in his pronouncement. Perhaps he was on the side of the Red Scarves, but more likely he’d simply made some money out of the masked man’s misfortune. Jun wondered if he’d gotten the grim news straight from Doctor Lim.
He knew he ought to be preparing for his own match, but Jun hurried to the competitors’ pavilion. The masked fighter wasn’t inside. He didn’t seem to be anywhere else in Warrior’s Park either. Apparently, after winning his match, he hadn’t gone to Doctor Lim to seek treatment for his injury but had instead left the Island, disappearing as quickly and mysteriously as his namesake.
Whoever Ghostface was, he was Chang’s student. A candidate fielded by the Silent Flute Society to oppose Leopard and General Cobu’s bid for power. And now, despite going undefeated, he was out of contention. Leopard would have one fewer obstacle to the Guardianship. The field was being ruthlessly winnowed down; it wouldn’t be long now before the quarterfinals, when weapons were brought into the arena and the contests became even more deadly.
Had Chang anticipated the likelihood of this happening? Was that why he’d agreed to train Jun in the first place, so that in the event Ghostface failed, another of his students might win?
Focus. Sai’s voice in his head snapped him back to the moment.
Jun breathed deeply into his stretches, trying to put the swirling questions out of his mind and concentrate on his own warm-up routine. It was still early in the day, and he needed extra time to prepare his body, but right now it was mental steadiness he needed to reclaim more.
When his match was announced, Jun stepped into the Red Arena—only Red and Blue remained—and found himself facing a tall, ropy bare-chested man that the announcer introduced as Dauntless Wan of the Lightning Hands school. The man was a head taller than him, but what drew Jun’s attention right away was the patch of metallic bright-blue scales covering the top of Wan’s left shoulder.
Jun took a ready stance with his guard up, thinking hard. Wan was the first breathmarked opponent he’d faced in the tournament. What might the man’s ability be? His martial name was too generic to offer much of a clue.
“You don’t have a chance.” Old Man Zhang’s words leapt to Jun’s mind unbidden, as did the memory of the gangster’s ruined knee. “There will be fighters who have advantages you can’t match.”
He would’ve liked Sai’s voice to pop into his head to disagree or at least offer some encouragement, but it didn’t.
The gong sounded to begin the match. The beginning of the fight was typically Jun’s best chance to seize the advantage with speed and aggressiveness, but this time, he paced slowly around Wan, waiting for the other man to attack first. Would Wan use his breathmark ability right out of the gate in the hopes of ending the fight quickly? Or would he use his special gift only at an opportune moment to catch Jun by surprise?
As Jun was running possibilities through his mind, Wan threw three startlingly fast attacks to the head in a row. Jun evaded the first two jabs but Wan’s speed and impressive reach forced him onto his back foot; the cross shot connected with his cheek. A bright burst of pain exploded in Jun’s head. He reeled, and Wan planted a powerful kick square into his chest.
Jun was thrown stumbling halfway across the arena. He fell, landed on his rear, and rolled backward, clambering quickly but unsteadily back to his feet. He couldn’t hear the noise of the crowd through the ringing in his head, but with shock he glimpsed Ren’s face among the crush of spectators along the sidelines.
She was here today, as she’d promised, watching him.
All the confusion and resentment that had strained their conversation the previous evening fled his memory like water out of a bucket. Whatever soreness remained from her secrets and his anger, it wasn’t enough to change how he really felt about her. Her presence here now jolted and calmed him at the same time. She was leaning slightly forward, quiet, but her expression was urgent and intense, as if she were trying to tell him something.
“Breathmarks aren’t a guarantee of anything.” Her words, raised in defiance to Zhang, and again as a confession as they sat on the roof of the Gate of Flowers Inn outside the city walls. She’d cleared his mind of doubt that night and seeing her now did the same. “Marked or not, every one of us has Breath enough to will our own destiny into being.”
Chagrin flooded into Jun, and with it, angry determination. What was he doing? He’d ceded the initiative out of fear.
Wan had an advantage in height and reach, that much he knew and could adjust for. The Lightning Hands school, from what Jun had heard, was a boxing academy known for its rapid battering chain punches and kicks. In combination, Wan’s physique and his training gave him the formidable ability to deal multiple hits on opponents while keeping them at a safe distance.
Buoyed by how quickly he’d gained the initial momentum, Wan advanced, crossing the arena and closing the gap between them in a few strides. Jun didn’t give him another chance to go on the offensive. Staying at the outer range of his own reach was too dangerous; he needed to be either farther away or, preferably, much closer, where Wan couldn’t use his fists and feet to their full devastating effect.
As Wan’s first jab shot toward him, he dropped low and barreled forward, letting the attack fly over his head. Wan’s second blow grazed the top of his shoulder, but by then Jun had already closed in on him. Being shorter than his opponent had its advantages; Jun’s fists were at the perfect height to land two solid blows into the kidneys and then a low uppercut to the abdomen.
Wan’s long body folded forward with a grunt of pain, bringing his head down to Jun’s level. Jun seized the taller man around the back of the neck in a viselike clinch, preventing him from rising again to his full height. Wan swung heavily for Jun’s head and body; his knuckles smacked into Jun’s ears and his ribs, but Jun clung as tight to him as a baby monkey; his opponent didn’t have the space or angle to land a damaging enough blow to make him let go.
Exhaling and contracting his torso with each impact, Jun began slamming his knees into Wan’s sides, going for the lower ribs. Their locked bodies heaved with effort, but Jun’s hits were accomplishing more than Wan’s. He knew from Master Chang that he didn’t need to constantly expend full effort in order to keep fighting. He didn’t allow his grip to slacken, but he remained aware of his Breath and kept it burning at a level he knew he could continue for a long time.
Wan could not say the same. Worn down by Jun’s sharp knees pounding his sides, he tried to escape by bodily lifting Jun from his feet in an attempt to throw him. Jun hooked his legs around Wan’s waist and fell backward, dragging them both to the ground. Wan pushed upward, trying to get enough space to rear up and pound Jun in the face, but his stiff resistance was his undoing. Jun grabbed his arm, dragged it across his own body and swiveled hard on the ground, pinning his opponent’s locked arm between his legs and bending it backward.
Wan struggled mightily, cursing and trying to extricate his trapped limb. He even tried to bite Jun’s leg but couldn’t quite reach it with his teeth. His chest heaved with desperate exertion. Jun gritted his teeth and applied more pressure, threatening to break the man’s arm.
If Wan’s breathmark ability could spare him from defeat and reverse the trajectory of the fight, now would be the time for him to use it. Was it possible, Jun wondered, that Wan had unbreakable bones, like Savage Ma? What then?
“I yield,” Wan panted. Again, louder, so everyone could hear, “I yield!”
Jun released him and got to his feet. Amid shouts of elation and groans of disappointment from the packed sidelines, the two opponents bowed respectfully to each other and Wan turned away unhappily to leave the arena.
“What is it?” Jun asked. When Wan looked back at him in confusion, Jun pointed to the blue scales on the man’s shoulder. “Your breathmark ability. What is it? I never figured it out.”
“Ah.” Dauntless Wan rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at the ground with embarrassment. “I can fall asleep immediately, whenever I want, and for exactly as long as I want. And I only need about three hours of sleep a day. It’s a useful ability, because I have more time for training, but it’s not of any help in the arena. I fight bare-chested because the sight of dragonskin intimidates people.” He gave a despondent shrug. “It doesn’t always work.”
“It almost did today,” Jun admitted. “Your breathmark is a gift that anyone would be happy to have, but it was your fighting skill that got you this far.”
Another round of applause erupted from the audience as Wan exited the arena—appreciation of a far different tone from the bloodlust after Leopard’s victories. Other competitors standing outside the arena brought their fists up and bowed in salute to the contestants for a battle well fought and fairly won.
The arena announcer was a stout, ruddy-faced man in a courtly, ostentatious winged hat that artificially added a head’s worth to his height. “The victor, moving on to the next round, Li Jun of Cheon!” he bellowed with raised arms.
“What’s his martial name?” The shout came from the gap-toothed man, who’d starting betting on Jun instead of against him. “He ought to have a proper martial name!”
“I don’t have one,” Jun admitted. Fighters were usually bestowed their monikers by instructors or peers. Calling oneself “invincible” or “fearless” seemed too boastful, even for Jun. He bowed and began to leave the arena.
Ren’s voice rang out behind him as clear and arresting as it did from the stage during her performances. “We should give Li Jun a martial name,” she declared to everyone still in the vicinity of the arena. Jun turned around to see her walking to the spot he’d just left, turning to face the crowd for support. “After the way he’s fought, he deserves a bold name he can proudly take all the way into the finals!”
Nods and shouts of agreement followed Ren’s public suggestion. Just as he had been in the field when Ren had leapt atop the woodpile, Jun was too astonished to know how to react. Ren seemed able to turn on her magnetic stage presence at any moment, to instantly command attention. She was facing away from him toward the other spectators, encouraging them to shout out suggestions.
“The Pride of Cheon!”
“Fist of Fury!”
“Young Star Warrior!”
Jun’s face grew hot. It was flattering to see the growing excitement on his behalf, but he didn’t like any of the ideas. Perhaps he really should have chosen a martial name for himself beforehand; thanks to Ren, he was about to be saddled with something ridiculous.
Ren nodded in agreement with the last person who’d spoken. “Li Jun is only sixteen, born under the Red Star. He’s the youngest competitor at the tournament, and even though he doesn’t have a breathmark, he fights as if divinely inspired by Dragon himself.”
What in the name of the Blessed Consort is she doing now? Jun tried to catch Ren’s eye and cut her off before she got too carried away, but it was too late; Ren strode up next to the announcer and swept an arm out dramatically. “Call him … the Little Dragon!”
It was staggeringly lofty, even by the ostentatious standards of typical martial names. Jun opened his mouth to protest, certain that he wouldn’t be the only one to do so and that Ren’s preposterous suggestion would be rejected with derision. Instead, dozens of people pumped their fists and shouted approval. Jun had seen Ren transfix an audience many a time, but never like this. It seemed that she had somehow uncorked their emotions and loosened their tongues.
Jun glimpsed, over the heads of the crowd, General Cobu watching the unfolding scene with unnerving intensity, his stare heavy on Jun. Even Guardian Yama was sitting forward, his interest roused like that of a sleepy reptile opening its eyes.
The announcer blinked in befuddlement at the young woman who’d appeared next to him, but buoyed by Ren’s encouraging smile and the energy of the crowd, he turned back to the arena and pointed to Jun. “The victor, Little Dragon Li!”