The Heavenly Sword & the Dragon Sabre – Chapter 20 – Part 6

Yin Tianzheng heaved a sigh. A shadow of melancholy crossed his face, and he said slowly, “Since the death of my youngest daughter, I have had no wish to take up blade or jian again. But to face the Wudang xia bare-handed would be presumptuous and disrespectful.” He pointed at a cultist wielding an iron rod. “Lend me your iron rod.” The Ming Order cultist held his waist-high wrought-iron rod horizontally in both hands, stepped before Yin Tianzheng, and bowed respectfully as he presented it. Yin Tianzheng took the rod, gripped it with both hands, and bent it. With a sharp crack, the iron rod snapped in two.

A murmur of surprise ran through the onlookers. None had expected the old man, after so many bouts, still to command such astonishing strength.

Mo Shenggu knew Yin Tianzheng would not strike first. He raised his jian and launched a move called “Hundred Birds Paying Homage to the Phoenix”. The jian-tip trembled ceaselessly, and in an instant it seemed to multiply into dozens of points, covering the enemy’s middle section without thrusting home. The move was formidable, yet still a courteous swordplay. Yin Tianzheng sealed with his left-hand fragment of rod and said, “There is no need for courtesy, Seventh Xia Mo.” His right-hand fragment swung across in a slanting strike.

After several passes, the onlookers grew stirred. Mo Shenggu’s jian moved with light and nimble grace, its gleams flashing like a rainbow. In the opening and closing of his thrusts, he was at once ethereal and weighty, the manner of a true master. The two iron fragments in Yin Tianzheng’s hands were clumsy and heavy to begin with, and his moves were yet more sluggish. He struck with his rod here, smashed with it there, seemingly without method. Yet those with understanding saw that his great wisdom lay cloaked in simplicity, his supreme skill concealed in awkwardness. He had reached a pinnacle of the martial art. His footwork shifted slowly, while Mo Shenggu leapt high, crouched low, darted east, dodged west. Within the space of a single cup of tea, he had unleashed over sixty ferocious and peerless killing strokes.

After several dozen more exchanges, Mo Shenggu’s swordplay grew ever swifter. The Kunlun and Emei Orders were both famed for their jianfa, and disciples of those schools, watching Mo Shenggu’s jian give rise to so many variations, admired silently, “The Wudang swordplay truly lives up to its name. We are seeing something today.” Yet no matter how he shifted, hacked, or thrust, he could not breach the defences Yin Tianzheng held with his two iron fragments. Mo Shenggu thought, This old man has already beaten three masters from Huashan and Shaolin, and matched Fourth Shixiong blow for blow in neili. I am the fifth to face him, and I have long enjoyed an unfair advantage. If I cannot beat him now, how shall the shimen’s honour be preserved? Suddenly he gave a clear whistle and his jianfa changed. The long jian in his hand seemed to become a supple ribbon, soft, sinuous, drifting without pattern. It was the Wudang Order’s seventy-two-move “Coiling Finger Soft Sword”.¹

By the time the onlookers had counted a dozen or so moves, they could not help crying out in approval. Yin Tianzheng could no longer hold his ground through plain defence. His figure began to shift and weave, and he too unleashed his qinggong, matching speed with speed. Suddenly Mo Shenggu’s jian tore through the air, stabbing straight at Yin Tianzheng’s chest. Halfway to its mark the jian-tip trembled and curved, angling towards his right shoulder. This “Coiling Finger Soft Sword” drew entirely on deep neili to force the blade to bend, rendering its thrusts mercurial and nearly impossible to parry. Yin Tianzheng had never encountered such swordplay. He dropped his shoulder to avoid it, but with a faint ring of steel, the jian rebounded and pierced his left upper arm. Yin Tianzheng’s right arm shot out, and somehow it seemed to grow half a foot in an instant. He brushed Mo Shenggu’s wrist and snatched the jian from his grasp, whilst his left hand clamped down on the acupoint² at his shoulder.

The White Brows Eagle King’s Eagle Claw Grasping Hand was a wonder of the wulin, unmatched in the world. Mo Shenggu’s shoulder had fallen into his palm. A single squeeze of neili and Mo Shenggu’s shoulder would shatter, crippling him for life. The Seven Xias of Wudang were all aghast. They would have rushed to help, but it was already too late.

Yin Tianzheng sighed and said, “Once is enough. Can it be done again?” He released his grip. His right arm drew back, and he pulled free the jian. Blood gushed at once from the wound on his left arm. He stared at the jian for a long moment, then said, “I have roamed the jianghu for half a lifetime and never lost by so much as a single move in exchange. Remarkable Zhang Sanfeng! Remarkable Zhang Sanfeng the Perfected One³!” His praise of Zhang Sanfeng was admiration for the seventy-two moves of “Coiling Finger Soft Sword” the old master had devised, so marvellous that even he could not parry them.

Mo Shenggu stood rooted to the spot. Though he had won the first exchange, his opponent had deliberately withheld the killing stroke and left him unharmed. After a dazed moment he clasped his fists and said, “I am grateful to the Senior for his mercy!” Yin Tianzheng smiled and nodded, returning the jian to him. Mo Shenggu had devoted years to the study of swordplay, yet in the end his weapon had been plucked from his hand by the enemy. Overcome with shame, he did not even take the jian back. He bowed and withdrew.

Zhang Wuji tore a strip from the hem of his robe. He was about to step forward and bandage his waigong’s⁴ wound when a figure emerged from the Wudang ranks, his black beard sweeping to his chest: Song Yuanqiao, eldest of the Seven Xias of Wudang. “Allow me to dress the Senior’s wound,” he said. From his robe he produced a vial of wound-salve and applied it to Yin Tianzheng’s injury, then bound it with a cloth. The cultists of Tianying Order and Ming Order, seeing the righteous bearing of Song Yuanqiao, concluded that as head of the Seven Xias of Wudang he would surely not stoop to poison a man in public. Yin Tianzheng murmured his thanks and let the matter rest without suspicion.

Zhang Wuji was overjoyed. Song Shibo is dressing my waigong’s wound. He must be repaying him for sparing Seventh Shushu. The two sides will make their peace after all. But when Song Yuanqiao had finished the bandage, he stepped back two paces, flicked his long sleeve, and said, “Song would be honoured to test the Senior’s high skill.” This turn took Zhang Wuji utterly by surprise, and he could not help calling out, “Song Da…Song daxia, to fight him with relays is not fair!”

At these words every eye turned towards the ragged-clad boy. Save for the Emei disciples and a few others (Yin Liting, Song Qingshu, Yang Xiao, Cannot Tell, Zhou Dian), none knew who he was, and all were bemused.

Song Yuanqiao said, “The young friend speaks truly. The private grudge between the Wudang Order and the Tianying Order may be set aside for the present. What lies before us is a contest to the death between the six great schools and the Ming Order. The Wudang Order hereby challenges the Ming Order.”

Yin Tianzheng’s gaze swept slowly across the field. Yang Xiao, Wei Yixiao, Peng the Monk and the rest lay paralysed. The elite of Tianying Order and the Five Banners were all dead or wounded. His own son Yin Yewang lay prone and senseless, his fate unknown. Among the Ming Order and Tianying Order, save himself, not one remained who could withstand Song Yuanqiao’s fist or jian. Yet after five consecutive duels his own zhenqi was no longer steady, and the sword-wound on his left arm was severe.

In that brief pause, a squat old man from the Kongtong School called out loudly, “The demonic cult has been utterly routed. If they will not surrender, what are they waiting for? Great Master Kongzhi, let us go and smash the tablets of thirty-three generations of Ming Order Leaders!”

The Abbot of Shaolin Monastery, Great Master Kongwen, remained at the head temple on Mount Song. This campaign against the Ming Order placed the Shaolin disciples under Great Master Kongzhi’s command. Out of respect for the Shaolin Order’s standing in the wulin, the assembled schools had chosen him to direct the assault on Bright Peak.

Before Kongzhi could answer, a voice from the Huashan School cried, “What surrender? Not one of the demonic cult shall be left alive today. Evil must be rooted out utterly, lest the embers reignite and the jianghu suffer again. You demonic spawn! Those with sense will slit their own throats now, and spare the gentlemen the trouble.”

Yin Tianzheng quietly mustered his neili. The sword-wound on his left arm reached the bone, and pain throbbed through it in waves. He knew well that Song Yuanqiao had studied longest under Zhang Sanfeng and had inherited the full mastery of that peerless martial artist. Even at the height of his own vigour, a bout with him would have been uncertain. How much more so now? Yet of all the Ming Order’s experts, the rest were dead or wounded. He alone remained to hold the line. Nothing was left but to spend this old life. Death he did not fear. What he grieved was that a lifetime of renown should end this day.

Song Yuanqiao spoke. “Senior Yin, the debt between the Wudang Order and the Tianying Order runs deep as the sea. Yet we will not take advantage of a man in distress. That reckoning may wait. The six great schools have come here for the Ming Order. All the jianghu knows the Tianying Order broke away from the Ming cult long ago and set up its own banner. Why should Senior Yin wade into these muddy waters? I urge you to lead your cultists down the mountain.” For the matter of Yu Daiyan, the Wudang Order and the Tianying Order had forged a grievous enmity, known to every school present. To hear Song Yuanqiao now plead for the Tianying Order astonished them all, yet they soon understood: Song Yuanqiao was a bright and upright man who would not stoop to seize an easy advantage.

Yin Tianzheng laughed aloud. “I am grateful for Song daxia’s kind intention. I am one of the four Guardian Kings of the Ming Order. Though I have since raised my own banner, how can I abandon our old bond and stand aside while the Ming Order faces disaster? Today I shall die, and that is all. Song daxia, pray begin!” He stepped forward, his palms raised before his chest, the two white brows trembling faintly, every inch the formidable elder.

Song Yuanqiao said, “Since that is your wish, forgive the liberty.” He raised his left hand, pressed his right palm against it, and thrust out with a move called “Inviting Palm”, a courtesy form used by juniors when engaging a senior in the Wudang Order’s fist techniques.

Yin Tianzheng saw him bend his back and bow slightly, as if in salutation, and said, “No need for ceremony.” He circled both hands and sealed them at his chest. By the principles of fist combat, Song Yuanqiao should have darted forward with an outstretched arm. He did extend his arm. That was correct. But he did not close the distance. His punch landed fully ten feet from Yin Tianzheng’s body.

Yin Tianzheng was startled. Could the Wudang fist art be so formidable that he has mastered the art of striking the ox across the mountain? He dared not be careless. Drawing on his neili, he swept out his right palm to meet the blow. But his palm met nothing. The air before him was empty. No force arrived. He was greatly puzzled. Song Yuanqiao said, “I have long heard of the Senior’s profound skill. My shifu himself often speaks of it. But the Senior has now fought several men in succession, whilst I am fresh. For us to trade blows on equal terms would be most unfair. We shall compare technique alone, not strength.” As he spoke, he kicked out a leg. That kick too fell short, landing a good ten feet from his opponent, yet the footwork was exquisite, the angle so strange as to beggar belief. Delivered at close range it would have been devilish to defend. Yin Tianzheng cried, “Fine footwork!” He turned defence into attack and charged in with a punch. Song Yuanqiao sidestepped and returned a palm.

In an instant the two men were trading fist and kick in close measure, yet always a full ten feet apart. Though no blow landed, every exchange a feint, men of their calibre knew in their own hearts which move had gained and which had lost. Each was utterly intent, daring not slacken for a moment. It was as fierce as any brawl at arm’s length.

Among the onlookers were no small number of martial adepts. Song Yuanqiao pursued the way of softness overcoming hardness, his fists and feet swift indeed. Yin Tianzheng fought wide and sweeping, his moves rooted in hardness, yet he was not a heartbeat slower. They answered each move with a counter, shifting now to defence, now to attack, seeming to practise their forms in separate spheres. In truth they were battling beyond all measure.

Footnotes

1. 绕指柔剑 – Ràozhǐ Róujiàn. Literally Coiling Finger Soft Sword. One of the Wudang Order’s seventy-two sword techniques, relying on pure neili to bend the blade so that the jian-tip shifts unpredictably. ↩

2. 肩贞穴 – Jiānzhēn Xué. An acupoint on the shoulder, used in dianxue to disable the arm. ↩

3. 真人 – zhēnrén. Literally true person. A Daoist honorific title for a master of the highest attainment. ↩

4. 外公 – wàigōng. Maternal grandfather. ↩