The Heavenly Sword & the Dragon Sabre – Chapter 22 – Part 4

Even as the words left her lips, Zhang Wuji had already dashed to within arm's reach. Ding Minjun thrust her jian out with a ring of steel. Zhang Wuji's left hand shot forward, snatched the long jian from her grip mid-strike, and flung it straight at Miejue. She swung her own blade and severed the incoming jian in two, but the force behind Zhang Wuji's throw was so tremendous that, though the blade shattered, the shock still numbed her wrist. Zhang Wuji did not pause. His left hand reached, seized, and threw in one unbroken motion: reaching, snatching, hurling. Among the Emei disciples who had come to the Western Regions, not one was anything less than a first-rate fighter in the Order, yet the moment he extended his hand for their jian, not a one of them found so much as a sliver of room to dodge. He took every blade as it came, and dozens of long jian spun through the air, gleaming white, flashing steel, flying one after another at Miejue without ceasing.

Miejue’s face was grim as frost. She parried each incoming jian and cut it apart, stroke by stroke, until her right arm grew heavy and sore. She switched the sword to her left hand at once. Her left-hand swordsmanship was hardly different from her right, but the broken jian still spun and tumbled through the air, some veering wide with such force that onlookers were driven back step by step. In a matter of moments, every Emei disciple stood empty-handed, all except Zhou Zhiruo, whose jian he had not touched.

For Zhang Wuji, it was repayment for the guidance she had offered him just now. He had not meant to set her so conspicuously apart. She herself had foreseen the trouble of it and darted forward to attack, hoping to draw his notice with a few strikes, but Zhang Wuji’s footwork was simply too swift, and he was avoiding her on purpose, staying more than five feet from her body at all times. Zhou Zhiruo’s cheeks flushed crimson. She did not know what to do with her hands or her feet. Ding Minjun laughed coldly. “Zhou shimei,¹ he really does treat you differently from the rest of us.”

By now Zhang Wuji was weaving between the Emei disciples as though they were not there, treating them all as insubstantial, each dao-stroke aimed at Miejue’s vital points. She had been forced into a position where she could only endure and had no means to strike back, and a quiet dread was growing within her. Yet Ding Minjun’s voice kept reaching her ears, “You watch your shifu take this boy’s savage assault and you won’t go to her aid? You hold a jian in your hand and you stand there without moving. I daresay you are hoping the boy will best your shifu.” A thought flashed through Miejue’s mind: Why has the boy left Zhiruo’s weapon alone, of all people? Could the two of them truly be in secret collusion? I shall see. She called out in a clear voice, “Zhiruo, would you dare betray your shifu and forsake your ancestors?” With that, she drove her jian straight at Zhou Zhiruo’s chest.

Zhou Zhiruo was aghast. She dared not raise her jian to block and cried, “Shifu, I …” The word “I” had barely left her lips when Miejue’s jian-tip was already at her breast.

Zhang Wuji did not know that Miejue’s thrust was no more than a test, to see whether some private understanding truly existed between them. Once the blade reached her breast, she would withdraw of her own accord. But he had seen with his own eyes the ruthlessness with which Miejue had struck Ji Xiaofu² dead, and he knew that when this woman punished a disciple, she allowed no mercy. Without time for further thought, he leapt forward, swept Zhou Zhiruo into his arms, and flew back some ten feet.³

Miejue had only just reversed the positions, turning from defence to attack. Her jian quivered and drove straight at the small of his back. Zhang Wuji’s neili was indeed the stronger, but he had never truly trained his qinggong. He could not match Wei Yixiao, who could cradle a person in his arms and yet lose not a fraction of speed beneath his feet. Hearing the wind of a strike behind him, he had no choice but to swing his dao back. A sharp clang, and the treasured dao in his hand snapped clean in two. Miejue’s jian drove on. Zhang Wuji reversed his grip, channelled his force, and hurled the broken half of the blade back at her, putting nine tenths of his strength into the throw. Miejue’s breath caught in her throat at once. She dared not raise her jian to deflect. She threw herself flat. The broken dao screamed over her head, the wind of its passage scorching her face. Zhang Wuji saw his chance. Without setting Zhou Zhiruo down, he surged forward, his right hand reaching out, his palm sweeping through the air in a strike. Miejue dropped to her right knee and raised her jian to slice at his wrist. Zhang Wuji changed from palm-strike to grappling-hook in a single fluid motion. His hand reversed, caught, and already the Heaven-Reliant Sword⁴ rested lightly in his grasp, taken clean away.

That reversal, from hardest force to softest touch in the span of a single heartbeat, was already the seventh and highest level of the Great Shift of Heaven and Earth.⁵ Miejue’s martial arts were formidable, but at the instant the other’s fierce palm-force arrived at her body, she could no longer disentangle the sudden shift to a grip so gentle.

Zhang Wuji had won, but against so dangerous an adversary as Miejue his caution was extreme. He dared not relax for an instant. He pointed the Heaven-Reliant Sword at her throat, wary of yet another stratagem, and stepped slowly back two paces.

Zhou Zhiruo twisted in his arms. “Put me down!” Zhang Wuji started. “Ah, yes!” His face flushed scarlet as he set her down at once. A faint, delicate fragrance reached his nose. He felt the softness of her hair brush against his left cheek and could not help glancing sideways at her. She was blushing, equal parts shame and embarrassment, and though her expression was one of fear, there was something else in her eyes, a gleam of happiness.

Miejue rose slowly to her feet. She said nothing. She looked at Zhou Zhiruo, then at Zhang Wuji, and her face grew ever greener.

Zhang Wuji reversed the sword and offered it hilt-first to Zhou Zhiruo. “Miss Zhou, would you return your honoured school’s treasured jian to your shifu on my behalf?”

Zhou Zhiruo looked at her shifu. Her expression was distant, neither granting permission nor forbidding it. In a single heartbeat a multitude of thoughts crowded through her mind: The situation today is already past all awkwardness. Young Master Zhang has treated me thus, and shifu will surely take it that he and I have some private understanding. From this moment I shall be a cast-out of the Emei Order, a renegade whom the wulin⁶ despises. The world is vast; where shall I find a place to belong? Young Master Zhang has been kind to me, but I never betrayed my shimen for his sake. Then she heard Miejue’s voice, sharp and savage: “Zhiruo! Kill him with a single stroke!”

Years ago, Zhou Zhiruo had accompanied Zhang Sanfeng to Mount Wudang. Zhang Sanfeng, observing that there were no women on the mountain and that her presence would cause no small inconvenience, had written a letter of introduction and sent her to study under Miejue. She was quick-witted by nature, and the early tragedy of losing both her parents had forged in her a fierce diligence. She trained hard, improved swiftly, and earned her shifu’s deepest affection. Throughout those eight years and more, every word and every gesture of her shifu’s had been as scripture to her. She had never once entertained a thought of disobedience. Now, hearing her shifu’s sudden command, she had no time to think. She took the Heaven-Reliant Sword without hesitation, raised it, and thrust at Zhang Wuji’s chest.

Zhang Wuji simply could not believe she would strike at him. He did not dodge. In an instant the jian-tip was at his breast. Only then did he start in alarm and try to evade, but it was too late. Zhou Zhiruo’s wrist was trembling. She thought, Am I truly going to stab him to death? Half-conscious, her wrist turned a fraction. The jian veered slightly. A soft shhk, and the Heaven-Reliant Sword had pierced through Zhang Wuji’s right chest.

Zhou Zhiruo gave a cry of horror and wrenched the jian free. The tip was crimson, and blood gushed from Zhang Wuji’s right breast as though from a spring. A great clamour of alarm went up from those around them. Zhang Wuji pressed his hand to the wound. His body swayed. His expression was most peculiar, as though he were asking, Did you truly mean to kill me? Zhou Zhiruo said, “I … I …” She wanted to go forward and examine the wound, but in the end she did not dare. She turned and fled, her face hidden in her hands.

That a single thrust should have found its mark astonished everyone. Xiaozhao’s face went the colour of ash. She darted forward and caught Zhang Wuji, her voice shaking. “You … you …” Zhang Wuji, mistaking her for Zhou Zhiruo in his dazed state, said, “You … why … why did you stab me …” The thrust had gone a hair wide and missed his heart, but his right lung was badly pierced. The words left him and he could draw no breath into his lungs. He bent double in a fit of violent coughing. In his grievous state, his eyes could not tell Xiaozhao from Zhou Zhiruo. Blood poured from the wound and soaked half of Xiaozhao’s outer robe crimson.

Among the onlookers, whether from the six great schools, the Ming Order, or the Tianying Order, not a soul spoke. Zhang Wuji had just now defeated the finest fighters of school after school. His martial prowess was extraordinary, and his bearing generous. Friend and foe alike had admired him in secret, and now, seeing him let Zhou Zhiruo’s jian pierce his chest without so much as a dodge, they were all aggrieved on his behalf. They saw the blood pouring from his breast, the wound clearly grave, and each one of them wondered whether the thrust had been fatal.

Xiaozhao helped him slowly to a sitting position and called out in a clear voice, “Does anyone here have the finest wound powder?”

From among the Shaolin monks the Divine Monk Kongxing⁷ stepped swiftly forward. He drew a packet of powder from his robe and said, “My order’s Jade Spirit Powder⁸ is the supreme remedy for wounds of the body.” He reached forward and tore open Zhang Wuji’s robes at the chest. The gash ran deep, several inches, and he hastened to apply the Jade Spirit Powder. But blood surged forth and washed the powder clean away. Kongxing was at a loss. “What shall we do? What shall we do?” he said in distress.

He Taichong and his wife were yet more anxious. They believed they had already swallowed the Golden Silkworm gu poison, and if this man died of his wound, the two of them would have no one to lift the poison and would not survive either. He Taichong rushed to Zhang Wuji’s side and demanded, “How is the Golden Silkworm gu poison to be cured? Speak, quickly!” Xiaozhao wept. “Go away! What are you fussing about? If the young master does not pull through, we all die together.” Under ordinary circumstances, how could He Taichong, the Master of the Iron Zither,⁹ a man of his standing, be spoken to in such a manner by a green-robed bondmaid? But in his desperation he went on pressing: “How is the Golden Silkworm gu poison to be cured?” Kongxing said angrily, “Master of the Iron Zither, if you do not step back at once, this old monk shall have to be discourteous.”

Just then Zhang Wuji opened his eyes. He concentrated for a moment, then extended his left forefinger and sealed seven acupoints in a ring around the wound. The bleeding slowed at once. Kongxing was greatly pleased and applied the Jade Spirit Powder without delay. Xiaozhao tore a strip from her own robe and bound the wound tight. She saw that his face was as white as paper, drained of every trace of colour, and a nameless dread and anguish seized her. Before she could stop herself, she threw her arms about his neck and cried, “You must not die! You must not die!”

By now Zhang Wuji’s mind had cleared somewhat. He guided his neili in a silent circuit within his body and felt it blocked the moment it reached his right chest. His only thought was: So long as a single breath remains in me, I will not let the six great schools murder the Ming Order’s people. He circulated his zhenqi through the left side of his chest and belly several times. Seeing Xiaozhao weep so bitterly, he said, “Xiaozhao, do not be afraid. I shall not die.” Xiaozhao’s heart eased a little. She released her arms and checked her tears. “If you die, I shall die with you.”

Zhang Wuji gave her a faint smile, then turned to face the crowd. “If anyone of the Emei or Wudang Orders finds my mediation unsatisfactory, I invite them to step forward and test me.” When those words left his lips, everyone present was aghast. They had just watched Zhou Zhiruo’s thrust lay him low, and still he was issuing a challenge.

Footnotes

1. 师妹 – shīmèi. Female junior fellow disciple of the same shimen. Shī means teacher. Mèi means younger sister. ↩

2. 纪晓芙 – Jǐ Xiǎofú. A senior Emei disciple, put to death by her own shifu Miejue for refusing to obey her order to kill Yang Xiao, with whom she had borne a daughter, Yang Buhui. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩

3. 丈 – zhàng. A Chinese unit of length, roughly ten feet. ↩

4. 倚天剑 – Yǐtiān Jiàn. Literally Heaven-Reliant Sword. One of the two legendary weapons of the jianghu, forged from the remains of the Iron Casket Secret Compendium. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩

5. 乾坤大挪移 – Qiánkūn Dà Nuóyí. The Great Shift of Heaven and Earth, the supreme secret art of the Ming Order. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩

6. 武林 – wǔlín. The martial forest; the community of martial artists and their affairs. ↩

7. 空性 – Kōngxìng. One of the four divine monks of the Shaolin Order, forthright and simple in temperament. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩

8. 玉灵散 – Yùlíng Sǎn. Literally Jade Spirit Powder. A celebrated Shaolin remedy for wounds. ↩

9. 铁琴先生 – Tiěqín Xiānshēng. The Master of the Iron Zither, the epithet of He Taichong, zhangmen of the Kunlun School. See Wuxia Wiki. ↩