East Emperor Temple!
A young Daoist priest was speaking with impassioned fervor, gesturing boldly. Dozens of young people were stirred as well, their spirits high and their ambitions blazing.
Anyone deeply versed in the martial world would surely have started at the sight of this crowd. Nearly every outstanding young martial talent of the younger generation of the seven southern provinces of the Central Plains was gathered in this temple.
The young priest speaking so loudly was Fang Jingru, hailed as the finest master of the seventeenth generation of the Way of the Celestial Masters. His Wind-Thunder Dharma Fan, people said, was already a match for that of his own teacher, Zhang Huofang, one of the four Celestial Masters of the age.
That cold-faced young man in the corner, hand resting on his sword, sneering without a word, was Zhou Yuchen, senior disciple of the Kongtong Sect. Alone, with a single sword, he had wiped out eighteen strongholds of the greenwood outlaws; his fame blazed, and he was quietly regarded as the foremost swordsman of the younger generation in the southern martial world.
A man with an antique, broad face and a mighty frame, majestic in every movement, full of authority, his face marked by deep indignation—his surname was Qin, his given name Han, his courtesy name Liaokong. He held the office of Left Martial Guard commandant, of the regular fifth rank, and rumor had it that he had long since trained his family's martial arts to a level that could match ten thousand men. He was one of the top three fierce generals of the army's younger generation.
Among these young people there were six or seven more whose martial arts, fame, family background, and birth were no less than those of the three. A force like this even the present Empress could not have gathered together. Yet on this day, for the sake of one man, they had cast aside all reserve. They had gathered at East Emperor Temple for no other purpose than a man—a man notorious through the whole world: the greatest lecher under heaven today, White Chrysanthemum.
They would not even balk at ganging up on him all together; they simply wanted this lecher who brought ruin to the common people dead.
If the lecher were to appear at this moment, at least fifteen or sixteen of the world's supreme techniques would come down on him, and he would die in at least seventy or eighty different ways. Even a grandmaster who forced his way in here would certainly come off badly.
Fang Jingru spoke in righteous wrath for the time it takes an incense stick to burn, then finally stepped down. Another outstanding young man rushed up and began a torrent of furious denunciation of the lecher White Chrysanthemum.
Once off the platform, Fang Jingru felt a slight chill and did not stay to listen. There were many people in the temple now; when he found the latrine and saw several men waiting there, he slipped away toward the back mountain instead, climbed over the wall, and, once he reached a place where no one was about, sought out a great tree that several men together could barely encircle. He was just about to unfasten his trousers and let himself go with abandon when he heard a delicate, sharp cry:
“You little lecher, you lecherous wretch, you're shameless!”
A black shadow leapt up, ten fingers hooked into claws, clutching at several vital acupoints across his body.
Fang Jingru was badly startled. Instinctively he thrust out a palm, and the Wind-Thunder Dharma Fan, the orthodox transmission of the Way of the Celestial Masters, roared with wind and thunder as it met the shadow's claw force.
The claw force split into seven strands. These seven streams of internal force blocked, grazed, drew, encircled, coiled, turned, and stuck fast, pulling Fang Jingru's wind-thunder true qi into the shadow's own body, drawing it into the Triple Burner meridian, shifting it along the Large Intestine meridian, and sending it back out through the Heart meridian.
Fang Jingru could never have imagined such strange and wondrous skill existed in the world. Struck by his own wind-thunder force rebounding upon him, he let out a stifled groan and nearly spat blood.
Just then the shadow flicked both hands, and seven or eight “hidden weapons” flew whistling through the air. He could not get his inner force moving, and the hidden weapons struck several of his acupoints. At once his body went rigid, and he could not move.
Fang Jingru was terrified beyond measure. He had always prided himself on his martial prowess—apart from those senior masters, there were few in the world who could match him, and even the finest talents gathered at East Emperor Temple today he did not take seriously. Yet now he had been subdued in a few moves, his life and death in another's hands.
A little girl of thirteen or fourteen casually shook a few beans onto the ground. These were what she had just used to strike Fang Jingru's acupoints. Irritably she kicked him and cursed again: “You wretched, mangy Daoist, absolutely filthy.”
The girl had a fresh, lovely face and a full, vivid beauty, and she wore magnificent brocade. Charming and noble in bearing, she was clearly the young miss of a great house.
Fang Jingru had no idea why this girl had ambushed him. He was frightened to the core, and the humiliation was hard to bear. Just then came a long whistle, and a deep, steady voice shouted: “What kind of demon dares run wild in East Emperor Temple?”
He recognized Qin Han's voice and was overjoyed. He wanted to call for help but was too ashamed to open his mouth.
A moment later came the sounds of forces clashing. He forced his head up to look, and saw the little girl puffing with anger, her little cheeks bulging, her hands flitting like butterflies weaving among flowers, dancing through the air as she unleashed one killing move after another.
Qin Han's strikes could not keep pace with hers. He took seven or eight moves, and then, in a moment of carelessness, her finger struck his shoulder. Blood and qi surged, and he groaned inwardly. “I already gave it everything just now,” he thought, “even using my family's supreme secret method to rouse my blood and qi, and still I am no match. Who is this girl? How can her martial arts be so astonishingly high? I fear she is no lesser than Wu-Hook Frost-Snow and Chess-Sword Linglong.”
Zhou Yuchen drew a deep breath. He had heard the sounds of fighting from this direction, and out of curiosity had followed them. He saw Fang Jingru with his acupoints sealed, and Qin Han, badly injured by a single finger strike, his face flushed red. He knew that he too might not be this person's match, so he fixed his gaze from afar on the girl, as beautiful as a sprite come down from heaven, and resolved to overwhelm her with internal force. While Qin Han kept her occupied, he would seize the chance for a surprise strike and kill this terrifying enemy within a few moves.
The girl suddenly turned her head and gave him a radiant smile, like a hundred flowers blooming at once, peaches and plums laughing in beauty. Zhou Yuchen's heart wavered for an instant, and his perfectly executed, fully powered strike opened a hairline flaw.
At once he felt numbness in his chest. The Kongtong internal force he had driven to its utmost suddenly poured out of him; he could not help spitting a mouthful of blood, and pitched to the ground.
The little girl pursed her lips in a soft scold, seeming resentful, angry, and a little wronged as well. Looking at the three outstanding young martial talents of the younger generation of the seven southern provinces sprawled every which way on the ground, she said to herself:
“Yu Nuer's first time down the mountain, and all I wanted was a target worth the trouble. Who'd have thought man's plans can't beat heaven's? I actually ended up trading blows with a bunch of small fry first.”
“My first strike was meant for that lecher White Chrysanthemum—take his head as a little gift to mark the end of my training. You've all ruined it.”
“So annoying.”
…Yu Nuer: My original character setting was Yang Yuhuan…
…Tang Xuanzong: Why is there a touch of green over Our head…
…Prince Shou: This is what they call the Son of Heaven's green…
Chapter 4