Chapter 29: Killing Intent (4)

Sen froze in place. He had learned a lot about how to behave properly over the last few years. Yet, here he discovered a gaping hole in that education. He felt confident that there

was

a proper response to Ma Caihong’s words. He just didn’t know them. He did know that staring at her with his mouth hanging half open wasn’t the thing to do. He closed his mouth and tried to think of something.

“I’m, I’m sure that isn’t necessary,” he fumbled.

Caihong gave him a soft smile.

“Jaw-Long said you were a kindly young man. I assure you, though, it is quite necessary. I fear I made a rather poor first impression. I said things that,” she hesitated, “that should not have been said in front of another’s student. There is an old quarrel between your master and me. I let that old disagreement rob me of my manners. So, I beg your forgiveness.”

She punctuated those words with a bow that was almost certainly far deeper than it should have been. His mind raced for the proper response. Should he dismiss the need again? Should he accept? He just didn’t know. He also knew that he had to say something. Sen went with the decision that seemed least likely to end in disaster.

“I, of course, I forgive you.”

Even to Sen’s ears, that last sounded more like a question than a statement. To her credit, Ma Caihong seemed to understand that Sen didn’t know what he was supposed to do. She straightened and gave him a nod.

“My gratitude,” she said, before growing more serious. “That said, I meant what I said to Ming. This mountain is no place for one at your level, not alone at any rate. I’m not even sure that I’m comfortable with that town at the base of the mountain. I cannot, will not, send you out there simply to die. To that end, I must know what you know. Show me what he has taught you.”

Sen pondered that for a moment. He reasoned he could just start at the beginning, but he doubted she meant to see him practice forms that Master Feng considered basic. Instead, he started with the things he had learned in the last six months. There were some hard, aggressive forms that focused on punches and kicks. Then, there were the forms he preferred, the ones that focused on redirection and maintaining your circle. Ma Ciahong said nothing as he worked through them, just watched. When he finished, she pursed her lips.

“He has taught you the jian, has he not?” She asked.

“He has.”

“Show me, if you will.”

Sen paused, then shrugged. “A moment. I must retrieve a practice blade from inside.”

Ma Caihong blinked. “You don’t have a storage ring?”

“No, Ma Caihong.”

Sen was sure he heard her mutter something about “that damn man” before she waved a hand. A jian appeared in her grip. She tossed it to him. A second wave and she held a jian of her own. Sen weighed the blade in his hand for a moment before he unsheathed it. The balance was slightly different than the practice blades Sen normally used, or the blade Master Feng had given him that he periodically used. Still, it was close enough that he wouldn’t embarrass himself with it. He set aside the scabbard.

“Will we spar?” He asked, feeling more confident on this familiar ground.

She thought briefly and said, “Forms first.”

Sen nodded, took his stance, and began. He marveled sometimes at how different it all felt. At first, everything with the blade felt unnatural. He’d had to think so hard just to get the movements in the vicinity of right. He’d been graceless, fumbling his way through every cut and thrust for months. Now, the motions flowed like water, each motion sliding into the next like they were puzzle pieces designed for that very purpose. Thrusts transformed into blocks, blocks transformed into parries, some sweeping, some abrupt, but always they flowed. Behind it all, though, deep in Sen’s mind, he cultivated. The qi swirled into his dantian like a river of power, of purpose, of life itself. Sen’s body slowed to a stop, the blade in a ready position before him. He opened his eyes, even as he tried to recall when he’d closed them. The look Ma Caihong gave him was complicated. She seemed pleased, sad, and unnerved.

“Well, Ming didn’t stint on your jian training, did he? I guess he never was one for half-measures. Very well,” she said, raising her own blade. “Come.”

Sen had never fought anyone but Master Feng, so he wasn’t sure exactly what to expect. His master had warned him that there were countless sword styles out there, so one should never rush to attack an unknown opponent. Sen took a defensive stance and waited. Ma Caihong lifted an eyebrow.

“Not eager to strike the first blow?” She asked.

“Master Feng says that striking the first blow gives you the initiative,” offered Sen.

“That’s true.”

“He also says that initiative is only valuable if you can survive the initial exchange. I do not know you. I do not know your style. Taking the first blow won’t help me.”

“There is wisdom in that,” said Ma Caihong. “But sometimes, you must strike the first blow, for it may be the only one you get.”

Sen weighed that comment and struck first. It was a short, sharp, rising slash. Ma Caihong parried it and nearly sent the blade flying from Sen’s grip. He spun with the momentum and borrowed the strength of the blow to send a downward slash at her. That one she met with a rising block. Sen felt like he’d slammed the sword down on a wall of stone. His arm hurt from the impact. He quickly stepped back, resuming his defensive stance.

“Is that all?”

“You’re stronger than I am. You’re faster. If there were a true fight, you’d have already killed me.”

“True enough, and not the point of this exercise. Thank you for the reminder.”

Ma Caihong launched her own attack. It wasn’t something Sen had seen before. It started out like a low thrust before it abruptly swung upward as though to pierce his skull. Yet, where her motions before had been overwhelmingly fast and powerful, this one came in at a speed that Sen could manage, if only barely. He slid back and used his own blade to slide her jian off course. He took the opportunity to make a quick slash at her arm. He succeeded in slicing through the fabric of her sleeve, but there was no blood. She disengaged and gave the sleeve a thoughtful look. Then, she smiled.

“I deserved that,” she offered. “There’s a reason your master probably never showed you that move. It’s more show than substance. It can work, but you really need your opponent to be disoriented.”

Settling back into a stance, what followed was more like what Sen had come to expect from sparring. Ma Caihong kept him right at the very upper limit of his ability, but she never fell back on speed or strength to simply overcome his moves. Thrust met dodge, slash met parry, and from time to time, a move would meet a block. Sen hated doing that, but it couldn’t be avoided. He supposed he would hate it less if he didn’t know he was damaging a blade he didn’t own. Then again, if Ma Caihong truly cared, she probably wouldn’t have given it to him in the first place. Despite his training, he struggled at first to understand Ma Caihong’s style. It employed much more misdirection than his own. Her moves would seem to transform mid-strike from one thing to another. He had to force himself to hold his responses until he was sure she was committed. It drew on every ounce of discipline he had to make himself wait. When it was over, she was nodding to herself.

“I suppose that wasn’t really necessary. Ming knows how to train someone with a blade. I guess I was just curious to see if he’d lost a step with it,” she said, giving Sen an amused look. “He clearly hasn’t. You adapted fast to my style. Most people your age can’t make themselves wait until they know. They’re overeager or overconfident, so they miss the true strike. Did he teach you to be patient like that?”

Sen thought it over before he shook his head. “No, not exactly.”

“If not him, then who?”

Sen hesitated. He didn’t really want to talk about it. Still, he had lived in her home for years now. He supposed that he did owe this woman something. If not her, he owed Uncle Kho more than a little.

“Before I came here, I lived on the streets. You’re hungry a lot when you live on the streets. It’s a bad thing, being hungry. It can make you mean. It can make you stupid. If you want to eat, though, you

have

to be patient. You have to be able to wait until it’s safe to go behind the shops and dig for the food they throw away. That taught me to be patient. Master Feng, he taught me to apply it to other things.”

“I see,” said Ma Caihong.

Sen thought she might ask him more about it, but she didn’t. In fact, she just stood there for most of a minute, her face a frozen mask. Finally, she shook herself out of whatever thoughts she had gotten lost in and looked at him.

“Alright. I assume you know that this little excursion that Ming wants you to take is about killing intent.”

“I do,” said Sen with a nod.

“Well, let’s see it. Show me your killing intent.”

“Okay. It’s just, that is-,” Sen blinked a few times.

“What?” Demanded Ma Caihong.

“How exactly do I do that?”