Jun hunched motionless as footsteps approached the wagon. Lying wedged in the narrow space behind two storage trunks for the past hour had turned his legs numb, and the tarp he’d thrown over himself was stifling and smelled of wet horse. Moving his head slowly and infinitesimally, he peered past the corner of the tarp through the tiny crack between the two trunks. The blind flutist, Chang, was standing behind the back of the open wagon, wearing a wide straw hat and munching on a rice ball wrapped in lotus leaf.
“I think that’s it. Sifu, did we forget anything?” Ren’s voice called from out of sight.
Chang turned his head toward the wagon. For a moment, it seemed as if he stared through his blindfold directly at Jun’s hiding place. Even though Jun knew the man couldn’t see him, his pulse quickened, and he held his breath. Had he accidentally made some noise to arouse Chang’s suspicion?
Chang turned away and took a final bite of the rice ball. “No, daughter, I think we’re ready to go.” Tapping his long bamboo cane in front of him, he walked out of sight around the wagon. Minutes passed with Jun still peering through the crack; then Ren appeared briefly and shut the back of the wagon, plunging Jun into darkness. Voices and other sounds became muffled. The wagon began to move.
Jun let out a breath of nervous relief, throwing the tarp off himself and shifting around in the cramped space, trying to find a less uncomfortable position. He untied the cloth bundle on his lap that he’d stealthily packed before sneaking out of the house in the early hours of the morning. He ate a strip of dried pork and washed it down with a swallow of water from his flask. Along with a day’s worth of food, he’d brought with him two sets of clothes and two strings of copper yun, all the money he had. What he didn’t possess was the sponsorship of the Iron Core school or his father’s blessing, but the important thing was that he was on his way to Xicheng.
I’m sorry, Baba. Right around now, his father would be waking up and heating water for tea. Li Hon kept a stage performer’s late hours, so Jun was ordinarily out running and doing morning training before his father awoke. It would be many hours before his father noticed him missing. When he eventually checked Jun’s bed, he would find the note Jun had left on the pillow, rebelliously declaring that he was leaving Cheon to find a new school and master, so that in six years, he would have another chance to compete in the Guardian’s Tournament. It was yet another lie, but one so plausible and drastic that hopefully it would start Li Hon searching nearby instead of following Jun to Xicheng. The thought of how his father would feel upon discovering that his son had run away would’ve filled Jun with guilt if he weren’t still so angry.
You’ll feel differently once I’m the Guardian, Jun promised his father silently. Once he returned home victorious, his father would see that he’d been wrong all along, and he would forgive Jun for leaving. Jun would make sure his father moved into a nice house in Xicheng near the Guardian’s Residence. Or maybe a home in the country where the air was better. His father could retire from being beaten up onstage every day at the opera house. He would be nationally celebrated and honored as the father of the Guardian of the Scroll of Heaven, and then he would be glad Jun had disobeyed him. Our fortune won’t be snatched away this time. It won’t be like when the Aspects came to get Sai, Jun vowed. You’ll see that I have a destiny, too.
He was getting ahead of himself again. One thing at a time. First, he needed to get to Xicheng. He couldn’t remain a stowaway in the wagon for long, but he wanted to get far enough away from Cheon that Chang and Ren wouldn’t turn around and drive him straight back.
After what must’ve been several hours, the wagon stopped. Jun blinked and sat upright; he’d been dozing, his head nodding to his chest. He heard the muffled sound of Chang and Ren’s voices as they moved around outside. They must’ve stopped to eat lunch and rest the horses. Jun got to his feet slowly, hunched over because there wasn’t enough room to stand upright. Pins and needles shot through every part of his body that had lost circulation and he stifled a curse as his knee banged into one of the storage trunks.
The back of the wagon opened and Ren reached inside.
“Hi,” Jun said, squinting into the onslaught of sunlight.
Ren leapt backward with a shriek.
“It’s only me,” Jun called out quickly, belatedly realizing that she probably didn’t appreciate the shadowy figure of a man emerging from the back of her wagon.
“Jun?” Ren gaped at him in disbelief, lowering her raised fists as he climbed awkwardly over the storage trunks and other obstacles in his way. “What in Dragon’s name are you doing in there?”
Jun jumped down from the back of the wagon and spread his hands, giving her what he hoped came across as a rakish, winning smile and not an awkward pleading grimace. “I needed a ride to Xicheng.”
Her mouth fell open. “You … couldn’t have just asked instead of scaring me half to death?”
Jun lowered his face apologetically. “Sorry. I couldn’t let anyone see me leave. I didn’t tell my father.”
“Ah, our stowaway has finally decided to show himself!” Chang came up beside his daughter, grinning at Jun. “I’ll bet it feels good to be out of there. It can’t have been a comfortable ride.”
Ren spun toward her sifu. “You knew he was there the whole time but didn’t say anything!”
Chang shrugged. “Our passenger seemed very determined not to be discovered. He held his breath and went still as a mouse when I passed by this morning. It didn’t seem charitable to undo all that effort.” Chang scratched his chin. “Besides, I was curious to see how long he would last back there.”
Jun’s face warmed with embarrassment, but he bowed politely and gratefully toward the flutist. “Uncle Chang, I’m sorry I tried to deceive you. I don’t mean to cause any trouble. Please let me travel with you to Xicheng. I don’t mind the back of the wagon. As long as I don’t have a tarp over my head, I’ll be fine.”
Chang’s smile grew. “And what do you intend to do once you get to Xicheng?”
Jun straightened importantly. “I’m going to compete in the Guardian’s Tournament.”
Ren crossed her arms and gave him a skeptical look. “So you didn’t win the match yesterday.”
“I did!” Jun exclaimed, his face growing hotter. “I almost knocked out the top student. Master Song was going to make an exception and send both of us to compete, but my father won’t let me go.”
“So you’re running away instead of respecting your father’s wishes,” Ren inferred bluntly. “Why should we give you a free ride all the way to Xicheng just so you can be a disobedient son?”
Jun winced. “My father doesn’t understand how important this tournament is to me. And to him. He came from the East, where martial arts only ever brought him misfortune, so he doesn’t see that if I win the Guardian’s Tournament, things would be so much better for us.” He turned to Chang, hoping for more sympathy. “My father’s been suffering from a cough that hasn’t left his lungs for months, but he doesn’t rest or spend money to see a doctor. If I was Guardian, he wouldn’t have to work or worry about money.”
“You’re talking as if you’re going to win the tournament when you can’t even get in,” Ren pointed out incredulously. “Without the sponsorship of your school, how’re you even going to pay the entry fee?”
Jun untied his cloth bundle of belongings and took out the two strings of coins—all the payment he’d earned in the last few months from working at the opera house, plus the extra money his father kept stashed in an urn behind the woodpile in case of emergencies. “I know it’s not enough, but…”
Chang took the strings and counted the money, his quick musician’s fingers deftly skipping over the hanging coins. “Young man,” he said with a regretful shake of his head, “it costs six hundred copper yun just to register for the Guardian’s Tournament. This is barely half of that, not even accounting for the cost of food and lodgings along the way.”
Jun’s spirits sank at the unsurprising verdict, but he’d climbed into the wagon knowing full well he’d have to earn, beg, or borrow more money over the coming month. Jun dropped to his knees in front of the flutist. “Uncle Chang, you’ve known me—well, at least you’ve known of me—for years. I’m a friend—or, ah, good acquaintance of your daughter. In an entirely respectful and appropriate way,” he added hastily, his ears burning as Ren gave him a narrow-eyed look. “What I’m saying is, you can trust me. Please let me work for you. I’ve been helping my father at the opera house for years, so I’m an experienced stage assistant. I can pack things, lift heavy items, clean and mend props—anything you need.”
“We’ve been traveling and performing without help for years,” Ren reminded him.
“Even more importantly,” Jun went on in an inspired rush, “I’d be your security guard. The roads to Xicheng are going to be packed with thousands of people going to the Guardian’s Tournament. There are bound to be bandits and highwaymen and unscrupulous villains hoping to prey on vulnerable travelers.” He jabbed a thumb back toward his own chest. “I’m a good fighter, the top student of the Iron Core school. With me around, you won’t have to be concerned for your safety while journeying.”
The flutist and his daughter regarded him with amused expressions. Jun waited in suspense; did they not believe him? Chang chuckled. “I like this fellow,” he abruptly declared to Ren. Turning back to Jun, he said, “Thinking ahead clearly isn’t your strongest suit, but I admire your initiative. The truth is, although she denies it, Ren and I could use an extra hand. And the crowds along the way to Xicheng and in the city itself will be so large that I expect we’ll make enough coin to pay an assistant.”
Jun leapt to his feet in grateful excitement and began to thank the flutist, but Chang cut him off with a raised hand. “However! If you’re to be our security provider, I need to know that your martial arts skills are all that you claim. So it’s only fair that I ask you to pass a test.” He drummed his fingers thoughtfully against the handle of his bamboo cane. “You can join us if you’re able to pull the blindfold off my face.”
Jun blinked. “What?”
“You heard me,” said the flutist. He handed his cane to Ren and gestured Jun forward casually. “You only have two minutes to do it, though. Ren, would you kindly light a joss stick to keep time?”
“Sifu,” she exclaimed, “why should—”
Chang cut off her protest. “Let the young man have his chance.”
“Wait,” Jun protested, bewildered. “How is this a test of my fighting skills?”
“An adept martial artist would have the speed and agility to do it easily, no?” Chang took off his wide straw hat and tossed it aside, then made a slight adjustment to the blindfold to ensure that it was secure around his eyes. Jun wondered morbidly what they looked like under the cloth, whether they were scarred or deformed. He’d never asked whether the flutist had been born blind or had lost his sight due to an accident or disease. He glanced over at Ren questioningly and mouthed, Is he joking?
“Oh, he’s serious,” Ren assured him out loud. She sounded both amused and exasperated, as if her father had told a witless joke that she’d already heard twenty times.
“So…” Jun said to Chang. “If I can grab your blindfold, you’ll hire me and take me to Xicheng?”
“On Dragon and his Blessed Consort,” Chang promised, hand on his heart.
Jun’s excitement won out over his dubiousness. “All right,” he said.
Ren sighed and stalked to the front of the wagon, which was parked in a flat clearing bordered by elm trees along the side of the dirt road, affording plenty of room for Chang’s unusual test. Returning with matches and a joss stick, she sat down in the shade on a nearby rock and lit the incense. “Two minutes.”
Jun took several steps toward the flutist, who remained exactly where he was, relaxed and waiting, hands open at his sides, his head slightly cocked and smiling. Jun circled to the man’s left, then lunged.
His grab for the trailing tail of fabric closed on air; Chang pivoted swiftly out of the way in the final moment. The flutist struck Jun on the side of the head with the heel of his hand, making Jun’s ears ring.
“Hey!” Jun protested, rubbing the sore spot on his head indignantly. “You never said hitting was allowed.”
Chang snorted. “I never said it wasn’t.”
Jun shot a wounded glance at Ren, who gave him an apologetic look, as if to say, Sorry, he’s like this. She folded her arms with a sigh; it seemed apparent she didn’t think much of Jun’s chances.
Fine. If the blind man wanted to show off his apparently excellent hearing and reflexes, then Jun would have to be sneakier. Crouching down, he picked up a rock from the field. This time, he approached the waiting man quietly, like a stalking cat. When he was within reach, he tossed the rock behind the flutist. It landed in the grass with a distracting thud, and Jun made his grab.
Chang didn’t turn toward the sound of the rock, not for an instant. He slid his head out of Jun’s reach, then jabbed stiff fingers into Jun’s side, right into a pressure point under his smallest rib.
Jun had trained for years in the Iron Core style and had taken plenty of impact in sparring and conditioning, but he folded over, clutching at the radiating pressure-point pain. “Dragon’s flaming balls,” he wheezed.
“No need for that kind of language,” Chang admonished him. “You’re not giving me much reason to be confident in your abilities, if you can’t even beat an old blind man.”
Chang wasn’t even that old—no more than forty-five, Jun guessed—and Jun was beginning to doubt if he was even blind. He’d moved so quickly and nimbly and struck so precisely. No degree of sensitive hearing could allow him to do that. Was the blindness actually an act that the flutist had been keeping up for all the years that Jun had known him? But why?
Ren held up a finger and called out, “One minute down.” Remembering that she was watching made Jun wince harder than he had from the jab to his ribs. He didn’t think he could live down the humiliation of Ren seeing him fail at her sifu’s whim and being sent unceremoniously packing back to Cheon.
No more time for subtlety. Jun dove for Chang straight on, aiming to tackle him around the waist and take him to the ground. The man wasn’t going to be able to dodge if Jun was pinning him to the dirt.
Chang leapt away from Jun’s headlong rush with the spring of a cat. He seized Jun’s reaching arm by the shoulder and elbow and let the younger man’s momentum send him stumbling forward. For good measure, the flutist snapped a whiplike kick into Jun’s chest as he went past.
The impact knocked the air out of Jun’s chest and any remaining doubt from his mind. Chang was no mere blind traveling performer. He was an expert martial artist, and he was toying with Jun. Not only did he seem to know where his opponent was at all times, he anticipated where Jun was going to be, casually exhibiting the sort of hyperaware fighting instincts that Jun had summoned during the most intense part of his match against Yin Yue. Except that Chang wasn’t even trying hard.
Jun backed up and drew in a deep breath. No more holding back. He’s a fighter, so fight him.
With thirty seconds remaining, he attacked Chang with his single greatest weapon: explosive speed. Ignoring the blindfold completely, he let loose a cyclone of hits that turned his fists and feet into blurs. He wasn’t trying to hit hard, just fast, delivering a flurry of blows as if Chang’s torso were the wooden training post he battered every day at home.
The flutist’s face lost its mild, unconcerned smile as he was forced onto the defensive for the first time. He gave ground, retreating down the field as he expertly parried and blocked Jun’s attacks—but not all of them. Chang grunted, no longer fighting without effort, as several blows connected. Although the older man countered immediately with swift knuckle punches and palm heel strikes, Jun barely felt their impact. He was soaring on adrenaline, his energy roaring like a furnace, the fear of losing pushing him more deeply into his own body, as it had in the final minutes of his fight the previous night.
Jun saw, again as if it were happening in slow motion, Chang’s weight tilt back a fraction too far. The opportunity yawned open. He drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, snaking his arm under Chang’s armpit. His fingers closed on the edge of the blindfold from behind.
As expected, Chang tipped backward and the cloth slid off his head, but to Jun’s surprise, the man threw his legs up and wrapped them around Jun’s waist like a monkey. Chang twisted violently in the air as they fell together and, when they hit the dirt, the force of the rotation flipped Jun over onto his back like a tortoise. Chang landed on Jun’s chest, his fist flying toward his opponent’s face.
“Time!” Ren shouted, leaping up from her place on the log and brandishing the burnt joss stick.
The fist stopped an inch in front of Jun’s face, which was turned aside in anticipation of the blow. Jun shot his arm up into the air triumphantly, clutching the cloth in his hand. “I got it,” he panted. “I got it in time.”
Chang huffed. “You cut it awfully close, but a deal’s a deal,” he agreed with a pleased, if grudging, tone to his voice. He rolled off Jun and got to his feet, holding out a hand to help the younger man up.
Jun didn’t move. Instead, he stared up at the flutist’s face in astonishment. Chang’s uncovered eyes were indeed sightless—milky and without focus. But surrounding them were small scales, running up to his temples and meeting over the bridge of his nose, as black as the man’s hair but shiny with an iridescent olive-green hue. They would give Chang’s face the masked look of a raccoon dog, if the effect weren’t so reptilian.
“Great Dragon.” Jun gaped. “You’re breathmarked.”