The two walked in silence for a while, trying to absorb and reconcile what just happened. Wanxi finally broke the silence.

“I’m sorry to have deceived you,” he said. The words did not come easily.

“Do you consider yourself to still be a part of the Wudang Clan?” Mitugwa asked simply.

“Yes. With all my heart,” he replied.

“Then you have not deceived me. If our meeting with Master Bao has taught me anything, it is that we all have our own reasons for how we act. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be for you to be disconnected from your people.” The princess’ words were earnest. It was not an attempt to protect his ego.

“I want to return to them. I must return to them. Strong enough to defeat the chief,” Wanxi stated with resolve.

“Then, to me, you are falsely banished by a usurper. I don’t wish to brag, but as someone directly related to royalty, this kind of thing happens quite a bit. You are rightfully of the Wudang Clan! You just have to return with the proper force to reclaim your right.” Mitugwa smiled at him and jabbed his shoulder.

“I will happily accept your expertise, princess,” Wanxi returned. It felt good to know that she understood him, despite the shame he felt.

“You wanted to call me something like ‘Beautiful Dancing Woman’ earlier, right?” Mitugwa’s delivery indicated a level of irreverence to the ability to gain titles within the jianghu.

“I believe it was ‘Eminent Graceful Dancer.’ Please give me a tiny bit of credit,” Wanxi defended. He realized that he totally forgot to recommend that Mitugwa ask for less ostentatious clothes when talking to Master Bao! He’d have to remind her later.

“Yes, well, for you, I am thinking… how about: ‘Itinerant Sneak?’ Or ‘Wandering Trespasser!’ That’s a good one!” The girl was giggling.

Wanxi just rolled his eyes. He did have one name that was in the back of his mind for the last several months.

“I already have a name picked out,” he said as they entered the campus proper. “Yu Wanxi, Exiled Son.”

------

The day was beautiful and it was ending. The golden hour of picturesque and easy lighting was upon the mountain. The impermanence of each moment made it special and worth savoring. At the Master’s suggestion, the pair found their way over to the platform that they had passed earlier that overlooked the gorgeous vista of the surrounding area.

He Meili was still here, moving her large brush along the paper canvas with fervor. Around her were a dozen crumpled and wadded sheets of discarded paper. Such a sight was common for the perfectionist artist. Her hair was a mess. From the way that the strands stuck up in a frazzled, unkempt way, it was clear that she had spent plenty of time rubbing her head in frustration recently. Her simple white robes were stained with splotches from where she had either accidentally or purposefully applied ink.

The current painting was most impressive. The single tone was simple and elegant. The thick, bold lines tapered in such a way as to suggest cloud cover along the bottom of the painting, making the mountains on display even more majestic and ethereal. Trees dotted the landscape in a pleasing, naturalistic way. It was astonishing how the slightest offsetting and variation could make them appear, to Wanxi’s eye at least, realistic. Wanxi had attempted this kind of painting when he was still with his family, but he could never translate the image of his mind onto the paper. He found more success with calligraphy, which somehow felt akin to swordplay.

Meili stepped back, squinting and critically examining the painting. To Wanxi it was perfect as it was. The painter placed the brush on the small table next to her and produced a small object that she held in the palm of her left hand. She started to press it into the paint in several spots, which was still tacky enough to take the imprint of the object. The effect was interesting, providing a dappled texture to the terrain. She continued working on the painting, carefully analyzing areas to apply this new texture to.

As she pulled back a second time to examine her work, Wanxi got a better look at the object she was using. It was a jade comb. The frame of the comb was what she was using as a kind of stamp. The entire thing was jet black from the ink that had been applied and it was only because some of the teeth were spared that Wanxi was even able to identify the object.

He nudged Mitugwa, who was leaning against the railing, staring off into the expanse of the world beyond.

“That wouldn’t happen to be the jade comb you were missing, would it?” He whispered. He hoped he was wrong, that this was wishful thinking on his part.

The noble girl spun and gasped. She gave Wanxi a nod and the pair approached the painting girl with apprehension.

“Meili, I must say, that is a beautiful painting,” Wanxi offered, cautiously. He had seen the girl react poorly in the past to simple smalltalk when in the middle of her work.

“I am in the middle of a breakthrough. Do not disturb me.” The disheveled girl frantically scanned the canvas. Her right eye was twitching.

“Oh, you see, you might not be aware of this, but that comb you have in your hand that you are using happens to belong-” Mitugwa began but was cut off.

“I said: do not disturb me.” Meili was at the border between firm and aggressive. Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward and pressed the handle of the comb into another patch of wet paint.

“Mitugwa, perhaps we should wait until Meili has completed her painting. We can always talk about this later tonight,” Wanxi tried to be diplomatic.

“Are you serious? That is MY comb! Meili, did you take that comb from my room? We have been looking everywhere for it and-”

Once again, Mitugwa was cut off. But this time, it was because in the blink of an eye, a needle attached to an almost invisible piece of sewing thread struck the girl in the stomach, right above the naval. Wanxi’s eyes widened as he recognized what had just occurred and its importance. The needle pierced directly on the midpoint of the Conception Vessel Meridian! This was similar to the Gate of Life pressure point in that it regulated the flow of qi from the mind to the body. If it were disrupted, by a skilled combatant or careless physician it could cause serious, even permanent harm!

He watched as Mitugwa’s knees began to shake and gave way. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she crashed to the ground, slamming hard onto the viewing platform. Wanxi recoiled in horror, drawing his sword in self-defense. Without any mental recognition of what he was doing, his training took over as his arm automatically began waving his sword back and forth in front of his body. There was the plinking of metal on metal as Meili’s right hand furiously pushed and pulled at a dozen different threads, each looped into a razor sharp needle. Her fingers waggled as every time a needle was deflected, it was instantly pulled back and sent back out a moment later.

“Meili, what is wrong with you?!” Wanxi shouted, spinning his arms to maintain the flow of the jian. His other hand held his scabbard, which he used as a secondary defense against the onslaught of thread and needle. Meili, for her part, had not even looked in his or Mitugwa’s direction this entire time. She was still staring intently at the painting as she shot out and manipulated her weapons from a range.

The girl gave a frustrated grunt and casually tossed the jade comb onto the table where her inkwell and brush were resting. It clattered unceremoniously onto the wood and rested, propped against the handle of the brush. She finally looked at Wanxi, her eyes bitter and focused. Her right hand never ceased moving throughout all of this, the constant clinking of needle on sword filled the air.

“I told you not to disturb me. And now my masterpiece is ruined! The ink cannot be undried!” She brought her left hand into her ink-stained robes and Wanxi prepared for the worst. In a flash a barrage of needles shot out from her second hand, now equipped with more of the same threaded weapons. He swung his sword in a wide arc, bringing it horizontal. His scabbard joined parallel. The moment he felt the first slight reverberation hit the weapon, he brought both down like a curtain. He caught most of the new needles using this washboard defense, but several struck his exposed knuckles on his left hand, forcing his muscles to involuntarily loosen and release their grip on the scabbard.

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Wanxi brought his sword upward and twirled, kicking his leg out behind him, spinning his body in a corkscrew side-flip. While airborne he took the brief moment of repositioning to breathe, inhaling and inflating his chest. It felt right to be in the air. He always loved the acrobatic and gymnastic maneuvers that his father taught him when he was growing up. It felt natural for him to move with a light step and bound about with ease. He landed atop the easel, resting with one foot on the wooden apex of the back support. Exhaled and slashed downward, severing the strings of half a dozen needles that had followed him. The slim pieces of metal whizzed past, over the ledge, falling down the mountainside.

Meili spun in a full rotation, bringing about the needles in her hands into a kind of tornado. Wanxi studied their movements and her movement as best as he could. The teeny pieces of metal were almost impossible to follow, when moving in a straight line, let alone when they were being pushed and pulled and raised and lowered and rotated. There was a mesmerizing quality to the dance that Meile was performing, as her fingers furiously twitched and her arms gesticulated in a wave-like way. It was impossible to approach someone with a cocoon so perfectly defended like that. Any movement towards her would be punished in any number of ways.

Wanxi looked down at the fallen princess, using this moment to assess if he should take her and retreat. He was surprised to see her arm twitching and foot tapping against the wood of the platform. He instantly understood what was happening. He could stay and fight.

Wanxi hopped down from the perch on the easel with a frontflip and brazenly turned his back to Meili, looking directly at the painting. He lifted his left leg up to his chest and brought his sword behind his back, intercepting a flurry of needles. Several struck at his side, but none at seriously vital locations. He continued moving, limiting his profile, using his sword to protect the most important qi pressure points along his spine.

“Meili, I think you have,” he spoke in halting cadence as he shifted and moved, the constant dinging of rebounded metal filling the air along with his words, “outdone yourself! Just exquisite work here. The use of brushstrokes is masterful. And the subtle texturing is truly a highlight.”

There was a roar behind him. Wanxi lept to the left, overtop of the side table, his free hand grabbing the comb as he skimmed above it. Meili brought all of her needles in front of her, slashing the painting into ribbons. Her hands were in front of her, crossed in order to make such a brazen all-out attack. Wanxi flipped, tucking his legs into his chest and landing in a crouch. He forced all of the energy he could muster into his feet. It was less than he would normally have. The myriad pinpricks the artist had made into his skin has closed a number of smaller qi pathways. But it was enough. He launched himself forward, bringing his sword down in a clean arc. He spun, following the momentum all the way through, severing the needles from their threads.

At the same time, Meili was plummeting to the ground herself, having had her legs kicked out from under her by the grounded Mitugwa. She fell hard, her eyes shocked and her mouth agape. The moment she collided with the wooden floor, Wanxi was standing above her, the tip of his sword resting against her neck. She thrashed and whined, sounding like a toddler throwing a tantrum as he held his sword in place. He had no intention of harming her, but he needed her to understand who had won this combat.

After a straight minute of fury and struggle, slamming her fists against the ground in protest of the injustice of the world and cursing Wanxi and the Wudang, Meili finally settled down. By this time, Mitugwa was on her feet. She was taking deep breaths and steadying herself, all the while tapping her foot and moving her hand to a hidden rhythm.

“So, Meili,” Wanxi held the blackened comb out in front of him, “you took this from Mitugwa’s room and you have been using it as an artistic tool. How about that! All this time I thought that Chi Shao hid under your bed, but it looks like there were TWO thieves!”

“I saw it in your hair last week. It had the exact texture I was looking for. I wanted to impart a subtle dappled effect to the shadows to simulate them better. I intended to return it once I perfected my painting.” Meili sounded indignant. Like she was the one in the wrong here.

Mitugwa stretched hard, bringing her arms above her head and then back down again in a satisfying sigh. She looked at the scattered discarded remains of one of the previous attempts. She uncrumpled it and spread it out as best as she could. To Wanxi’s eyes it looked completely identical to the painting that had just been slashed to ribbons. But clearly Mitugwa saw something deeper in them as she took a good hard look at the trashed work.

“I can see that your work was improving. The effect is not convincing here because you applied too much force. But the piece that was on the easel had a subtle and restrained technique. I liked it!” She was still studying the painting in her arms.

“It was still not perfect. I wasn’t happy with any of them,” Meili said with disgust.

“Were you happy that you were improving with each painting?” Mitugwa lowered the painting and looked over its edge at the grounded girl.

“Yes but-” She was cut off.

“The mountain of knowledge is like a person trying to learn with a shovel and a bucket. You dig out a bit at a time and eventually you have a hole in the mountain,” Wanxi attempted to paraphrase Instructor Xia. He would have to work on his wise-lecturing skill.

“What? What does that mean?” Meili looked back and forth, frantic in her confusion.

“It means that you should be happy that you are getting better with each attempt.” Mitugwa glanced back down at the painting and then around her at the other balls of paper canvas. She put one hand on her hip and sighed. “Wanxi, give her the comb.”

“Huh? Really?” Wanxi asked, surprised.

“Yes. Meili, I am going to make you a deal. First of all, please never steal from anyone here again. I would have happily lent you the comb if you had just asked. Secondly, I am giving you this for one more week to practice with. At sundown seven days from now, I will take the comb back. Finally, I want to hang your latest work on my wall, regardless of how you feel about it. In return for all of this, I will not report you to Master Bao.” She had a judicial, regal manner to her. It seemed that this kind of negotiation was something she was experienced with.

“I refuse,” Meili stated flatly. “I cannot guarantee that my work will be of a quality that I am comfortable displaying by then.”

Wanxi tossed the comb onto Meili’s stomach. He looked at his hand and realized it was now covered in ink. He smiled at the downed girl, the gap in his smile on full display. He chuckled.

“You really are quite the character! I don’t think Mitugwa is looking for something perfect, right?” He wanted to do some kind of pose but he also didn’t want his ruqun stained with ink, so instead he held an awkward open stance. His sword was still rested on her neck.

“No, not at all actually. I hate it when something is perfect. It takes all the fun out of it. I will simply consider it a study piece.” She tossed down the painting. It floated to the ground and rested for a moment. She kneeled next to Meili and brought out one hand, suggesting she wanted to help her sit up. Wanxi withdrew his sword.

“Well,” Meili eyed her suspiciously, “I suppose… so long as it is imperfect then… Fine. One week from today you will own one of my study pieces.”

There was a moment of consideration. Finally, she took the comb in one hand and the princess’ hand in the other, and stood.

The wind picked up, for only a brief moment, and caught the edge of the discarded painting. It fluttered for a few beats and then lifted up into the air, twirling and spinning and flying far away over the edge, over the mountain.

---

Little Bird called out and raised a hand. A moment later, a bowl of rice went spinning in her direction, flying through the air. She caught it with ease and began eating the rice with her chop sticks. Or as Wanxi liked to put it, she began inhaling the rice. A life of living on the streets made it impossible for her to eat food in any other way. Any food that wasn’t in your stomach was food that someone else could take.

“Sho howdya gknow dat Mitagwahawa rahamgramabrahqibrah?” Wanxi had managed to learn this particular specialty dialect some time ago that his friend used when she ate.

“Well,” Wanxi grabbed at some of the mushrooms that were on the platter in front of him, placing it on his rice, “I saw that her foot and hands were moving at the same pace. I recalled that she had brought up the idea of redirecting the lines of energy from earlier in the day. I figured that if she could manage it, then she would be able to help out at a critical moment. So I bought time by complementing Meili’s artwork.”

“Which is ridiculous, as it was subpar and amateurish. I have barely even begun to master the techniques I was attempting. I would be laughed out of Scholarly Pine Manor if I displayed that.” Meili sulked into her food, her disheveled hair over her shoulders, still untidied from her day of painting.

“Come now! If there is no seed, a sprout cannot arise!” Great Compassion, his arm in a sling and his face cleaned, sat beside her. He furrowed his brow. “Do not make me lecture you on the twelve links of dependent origination again!”

“Please, I would love to listen to one of your lectures sometime, sir, but you’ll have to forgive me if I stop to ask questions!” Mitugwa laughed and grabbed a piece of steamed cabbage and dipped it in dark vinegar before eating it.

“It would be my pleasure, noble Mitugwa!” He looked over at Wanxi. “You would be more than welcome to join, should you seek enlightenment.”

It took every ounce of self-control to stop himself from saying something sarcastic or confrontational. The Wudang boy poked at a piece of chicken on the platter in front of him.

“Maybe. Fine. But only if you show me how to do that palm slam you did!” He brought out his hand in an imitation of the monk and laughed.

He was pleased that his friends were here seated at this table with him, talking and laughing with him. Master Bao had spoken the truth. It mattered not where they originated from. It mattered that they were here today, together. This was the superior technique. The truth of the Black Heron.