“Training?” Jun repeated with hopeful confusion. “You’re … going to train me?”
“If we’re taking you with us all the way to Xicheng, it had better be worth our while,” Chang declared. He tapped his cane on Jun’s shoulder. “I made you take that test this morning because I wanted to confirm something. You have the most innate energy I’ve ever sensed in a fighter. Dragon’s Breath flows through you like whitewater rapids down a fast river. But you’re not fully harnessing or controlling it. When you become emotional or stressed, it surges and overflows for a few seconds, but you can’t call upon or sustain that level of intensity, am I correct?” Chang took Jun’s open-mouthed silence as an affirmative. “I can teach you to control your Breath. That is, if you’re actually serious about winning the tournament.”
“Sifu,” Ren interjected as if she were going to protest again, but she didn’t go on.
Jun scrambled to his feet and bent into a low, grateful bow. “Sifu Chang, I don’t know what to say. You won’t regret this, I promise. I’ll train hard, and I’ll help you and Ren in any way I can, before I’m Guardian and afterward.”
“We’re agreed, then.” Chang’s smile grew. “I’ve no doubt you’ll keep your word.”
Jun shrugged out of his shirt and threw it aside onto his pallet. The nap in the wagon earlier that afternoon had refreshed him, and despite the fact that the sun had gone down at the end of a long day, he didn’t feel the least tired; he could run or spar or do whatever Chang had in mind.
Chang handed him paper, a brush, and an inkstone. “What’s this?” Jun asked.
“For writing, obviously,” his new instructor replied. “From now on, record everything you eat and when you eat it. Write down when you go to sleep, when you wake, and how many hours you slept. Also, make notes about how you feel each day: any pains or injuries, upsets of your head or stomach, and your state of mind, whether it’s good or poor.”
“Why? Why do I have to do this?” Jun exclaimed.
Chang smacked him on the arm with his bamboo cane. “Do you always question your masters so rudely? No wonder you weren’t the top student at your old school.” He sounded stern, but his mouth was curved up in good humor. “Do as I say. You can start right now.” He pointed at one of the low tables. Jun noticed that Ren was busily arranging a blanket on her father’s pallet and not looking at them but biting her lip as if stifling the urge to laugh.
Reluctantly and with great skepticism, Jun knelt on the mat in front of the table. He inked the brush and recorded what he’d eaten for dinner, and then, because he knew Chang couldn’t read what he wrote, he added, I was in a good mood until I was forced to do this.
“Dragon’s Breath is never static,” Chang declaimed. “It’s constantly ebbing and flowing, day to day, even minute to minute, all around us and inside each person. Even small details like what time you wake in the morning and what you ate for your first meal will affect your body and mind, and thus your effectiveness as a fighter. The first step toward understanding yourself is observation.” The flutist paused, evidently satisfied with how wise that last bit had sounded, even to himself. “Are you done writing? Good! Get up.”
Jun leapt back to his feet, hoping they would begin training for real now. Chang asked Ren to fetch something from the wagon for him, which she did quickly and without hiding her amusement. She returned with a thick, dented plank of wood, which Jun had seen them use earlier that evening, slotting it perpendicular into a crosspiece to stabilize one of the large painted backdrop screens. Chang took the plank and held it up. “Break this board.”
Jun smiled and took a ready stance, hands closed into fists. The intense body conditioning of the Iron Core style involved plenty of exercises like this; he’d had to break boards and clay tiles with his shins and elbows and head before. It was a bit worrisome that Chang was starting at such a basic level, though. Was he underestimating Jun’s abilities? Did he actually have anything new to teach him?
“Ah, but not like that.” Chang took hold of Jun’s right arm and straightened it. He made Jun open his hand and hold it out, fingers pointed straight ahead of himself. The flutist gripped the plank and positioned it so Jun’s outstretched fingertips rested lightly against the worn wood. “Now, don’t move your feet,” Chang said. “Break it from there.”
“But…” Jun frowned. Standing upright with his hips and shoulders sideways, his posture open and his arm nearly straight—it felt wrong.
Chang grinned at his confusion. “You’re thinking you can’t generate enough power standing like this, and from such a short distance to your target.”
“Short distance? There’s no distance,” Jun pointed out. “I’m touching the board.”
“Not true. There’s the distance to be crossed when your hand goes from being open to being closed. A distance that’s the length of your fingers.” Chang lowered the board for a moment and stepped forward to tap Jun in the center of his chest. “As for power, it’s in there, that beautiful, shining reservoir of Breath you showed me earlier. All you have to do is summon it and unleash it into this wooden plank.” Chang repositioned himself as he had before.
Ren was sitting on her pallet but leaning forward, watching him with a doubtful interest that made Jun feel like a poor student called up to the front of the classroom.
Jun pressed his fingertips skeptically against the rough wooden grain. He focused on a spot ahead of him, visualizing where his fist would land, on the other side of the barrier, right in front of Chang’s chest. He took a deep breath, settled onto his back heel, then drove forward, closing his hand and slamming his knuckles into the wood.
Jun winced as the impact reverberated up his arm. The board shuddered but remained undamaged. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ren wince along with him, though her smile was too smug to be entirely sympathetic.
“Good try, good try.” Chang patted Jun on the shoulder. “You used perhaps ten percent of the energy you’re capable of summoning from a standstill, not bad for a first attempt.” He held the board out for Jun to try again.
Jun gritted his teeth and pressed his fingers to the wood. He envisioned shoving against the ground through his back heel, channeling all his force up through his hips and shoulders, into the motion of his closing fist. With a determined shout, he struck the board again. The impact rocked Chang back slightly, but the thick board stayed offensively intact.
“What do you think has more Breath flowing through it?” Chang asked. “You, or this piece of dead tree? You do, of course! Your energy is alive and in flux. The strength of the board is fixed and unchanging. But it doesn’t get tired or angry, it doesn’t fear pain or anticipate failure, it doesn’t have a mind or organs that must be kept healthy.”
Another two attempts left Jun sucking furiously on his knuckles and scowling. “How is this going to help me in the Guardian’s Tournament?” he complained. “None of my opponents are going to stand still in the arena and let me punch them from an inch away.”
Chang set the board aside. “You’ve trained for years to be stronger than most men. Yet I’ve heard stories of peasant women lifting an overturned horse cart to save a child pinned underneath. Even among the best fighters, very few can access all the power they possess, much less control it when they do.” The sifu tapped his temple. “I can see all the Breath you’re not using yet. Imagine what you could do with it.”
With Ren’s assistance, Chang made his way over to the middle pallet and laid down, settling his head on the sheepskin blanket with a satisfied sigh. “That’s enough for tonight. We practice again in the morning.”
Jun scowled at the unbroken plank of wood beside his pallet, then at Chang’s back turned toward him. His own voice and Sai’s spoke as one. Just what have you signed up for?