The dormitory room where the theft occurred was past the courtyard. This was one of the restful days at the school, yet there were still about a dozen students practicing their form in unison in the open space. It was the standard movement performed by many schools of the wulin. As the students moved, they mimicked the instructor; composing the eight gates of taichi, interwoven with the powerful and elegant stances. Their hands whirled and their limbs stretched out, then retracted, upward then downward, out then in.
The mastery of this movement was integral to the flow of internal energy that allowed fighters to perform powerful and superhuman feats. Instructor Xia compared the energy contained within to the flow of water. If water was allowed to pool, it could become rancid and poisonous. But when the rivers flood, they destroy everything around them. Yet irrigation canals could be carved to ensure the crops were always watered. And water could be poured from a pot to a cup. These things could be controlled through proper application and practice. These movement exercises trained the students to harness this latent power correctly.
Wanxi couldn’t help but notice that a few heads turned to follow their trek across the campus. Mitugwa’s notoriety and the gossip surrounding her meant that her actions were watched constantly. And now the Wudang swordsman was walking with her, clearly on purpose.
He tried his best to ignore this prickling feeling of being noticed. He hated being the center of attention. Being singled out. He had done nothing wrong. He was an honorable fighter and was assisting in solving a crime. No one could hold that against him.
If the Ryukyuan girl cared about this scrutiny, she didn’t show it. Her movement was just as graceful and confident as when she fought earlier.
They passed through the canopy walkway bordering the central courtyard. Here there was a statue of a bird carved out of willow wood and painted jet black. The bird’s wings were outstretched in front of it, like an umbrella. Its long neck folded back on itself, coiled, waiting to strike at the water where it patiently stood. The bird resembled the lake herons Wanxi was familiar with, but the dark color and strange hunting habits were totally foreign.
Instructor Xia had explained that legends speak of this mysterious bird, dark as night, hailing from a far-away land where many strange and powerful beasts roam. The white heron hunts patiently, acclimating itself to the waters, allowing the prey to come to it, before finally striking decisively. The black heron hunts patiently as well, but it is resourceful. The shadow that it casts over the water lures the prey into a false sense of safety, so they do not even know that they are being hunted. The lesson to be learned, according to Instructor Xia, was that patience must be supplemented with resourcefulness. It was difficult for Wanxi to balance the concepts of intentionally waiting and making his own opportunities. But he was happy for any chance to set aside patience for action.
The school of the Black Heron sect was laid out in a sprawling campus, with pavilions, courtyards, buildings, dormitories, platforms, and gardens, to say nothing of the surrounding mountainside where they came from. The sect had taken advantage of the spacious mountain and over several generations had been built into a winding and wild terraced complex. The first month at the school had tested Wanxi’s core leg muscles with constant uphill and stair climbs. He had become used to it in the year since he joined and rarely even noticed the ascents. Mitugwa, despite her grace, must have been still adjusting, as there was definite sweat on her brow.
The pair walked past one of the platforms nestled between buildings and walkways. These were scenic locations for duels and specialized training that required more space than was available in the courtyards. A girl was standing at the edge of the platform, hands braced against the railing as she looked out at the vista. Beside her were a few simple supplies: blocks of ink, a stone mortar, a brush, some short tables, an easel, and paper clipped in place. The girl’s short hair fluttered in the wind.
“Ah! That must be the artist He Meili!” Mitugwa remarked with enthusiasm. “I saw her ink wash painting of the swallow in the dining hall. It’s remarkable to have such talent.”
“She’s really fantastic,” Wanxi agreed cautiously, “but don’t try telling her that.”
Mitugwa turned with a quizzical expression. She cocked her head. The Wudang boy breathed in and chose his words carefully.
“She’s her own worst critic. Meili comes from a line of artists at Scholarly Pine Manor. She was raised with a brush in one hand and a needle in the other. But that kind of upbringing comes with a lot of competition.” Wanxi tried to sidestep any parallels between Meili and himself. “I don’t think she’ll ever be happy with her work. Which is a shame because it’s truly quite good.”
“Poor thing! Wait, needle?”
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“Well,” Wanxi laughed, “I suppose you can compliment her on one thing if you’d like. She also embroiders! But I think she considers it more of a hobby than anything else. I think you’d be safe to talk about that with her. Do you sew?”
“No, that was always something that we had, ahem, help with. Mother never trained me.” The Ryukyuan’s tone indicated that she had more on her mind for the topic, but chose to keep quiet on the matter.
“Ah, well, maybe you should ask for some lessons! It can’t be that hard, right? It certainly can’t be as difficult as wielding a sword!” Wanxi mocked drawing his weapon and assuming a fencing pose, clashing with some unseen assailant. The laughter behind him gave him satisfaction that he had managed to turn an awkward subject around.
And then there was laughter from the side.
“Perhaps the spirits will fear a sword that does not exist, Amituofo.” Wanxi’s playful and cheery demeanor turned sour. He turned to see the shaved-head and smug face of Great Compassion. The Shaolin monk adept brought one hand up and nodded in greeting. The Wudang fighter withdrew his play-fighting pose and returned the greeting with a fist in his palm.
“And perhaps the unenlightened will fear the words of a self-righteous man,” Wanxi retorted with an acidic tone.
Great Compassion confidently strode up to the Wudang fighter, a carefully orchestrated smile on his face. Not too heavy, not too subtle. Just enough to give off the impression of friendly demeanor and fool those who had no interactions with the insufferable monk-in-training. He got close enough to invade Wanxi’s personal space without touching him, still holding that one-hand-raised pose.
“The unenlightened would be wise to hold their tongues around their superiors.” Great Compassion smelled of incense, no doubt having spent the day in meditation or reading one of the incomprehensible sutras the Shaolin loved to lord over the populace. “Would you consider yourself unenlightened, Wudang child?”
“I must be unenlightened. I lack the wisdom to see how the most-honorable Shaolin temple could be so devoid of love and caring that they consider you to be a paragon of compassion.” Wanxi was nose-to-nose with the adept. This was not the first time that these two had found themselves in this position. In fact, it seemed that whenever Wanxi did anything mildly embarrassing or offbeat, Great Compassion was there to chide him.
The Shaolin were a monolith within the jianghu, with dozens of temples devoted to the practice of martial arts in addition to the study of the sutras. Their size and power were equalled only by the Wudang, who found equivalent success in the world as a secular institution. The two groups were consistently vying for power and reputation and it had developed into a fierce rivalry. The Shaolin temples claimed that the Wudang encouraged violence and deviation from the noble eightfold path. And despite their sermons against ownership of worldly possessions, the temples always seemed flush with the resources to allow their adherents to live opulently. Neither seemed interested in bowing down or out to the other.
“My name comes from The Perfection of Wisdom in Eight-Thousand Lines Sutra and you know it.” Great Compassion closed his eyes and started chanting from memory. “Wise Bodhisattvas, coursing thus, reflect on non-production, and yet,while doing so, engender in themselves the-”
Wanxi found himself making faces at the monk while he spoke.
“Both of you stop it!”
Wanxi broke off in a huff while Great Compassion finished reciting the verse of The Perfection of Wisdom in Eight-Thousand Lines Sutra that he had started. He opened his eyes and brought both hands together, bowing in the direction of Mitugwa.
“My apologies that you had to see the outburst of our emotional friend, Sidaki Mitugwa. You are an honored noble guest. And I apologize for taking up time on your mid-day stroll. Amituofo.” With the same level of feigned composure and goodwill as when he arrived, he left.
Wanxi sulked against one of the posts of the gallery. He felt embarrassed from behaving like that in front of others, sure. But really, it was the injustice of being targeted by someone who seemed to have nothing better to do than poke and prod. Would Great Compassion have any interest in Wanxi if he wasn’t a member of the Wudang? Was it just the feud between the two sects spilling over into the Black Heron school? Or was it some deeper philosophical rift between the teachings of the swordsmen and the monks? Wanxi wasn’t a clown, but he was allowed to lighten up the mood and be friendly! It was unfair to be chided like this.
He raised his head and watched He Meili still studying the landscape over the railing. Despite the outburst nearby she was singularly focused on the task of analyzing the view. She was admirable to have such a deep level of concentration. The Wudang fighter wished he could be a little more like her in that way. He sighed and faced the girl he swore to assist earlier.
“You don’t have to say anything. I’m just glad it didn’t come to blows.” She was giving a gentle, understanding smile. “You know, my father once got in a shouting match like that with a colleague of his over some silly thing. I don’t know who acted first, all I remember is them rolling around on the ground, fighting. They were both so badly beaten that they were purple all over. I thought my father would have the man arrested. By the time I left my homeland, the man and my father were inseparable and the best of friends!”
Wanxi snorted. The idea of being friends with someone like Great Compassion was ridiculous.
“Well, I don’t know about the ‘best friends’ bit. But the idea of beating him to a pulp is tempting.” The boy smirked and forced a laugh. And after a moment to compose himself, the two continued on to the dorms.