This Is Our Victory

CRACK!

The blood-death arrow detonated in the air five feet above Jin Myeong, who lay parallel to the ground. The profound energy riding the erhu's tone pinned the blast forward and nowhere else, denying so much as a single shard of iron to the space beneath him or the tent at his back.

Sound arts!

Still stretched in empty air, Jin Myeong recognized the technique the woman had just unfolded, and his mind snapped sharp as a drawn blade. It was sound arts without a doubt. The woman who had sent him that telepathic warning had poured true qi into the waves of her music—and with enough cultivated force to swat aside, as if it were nothing, an iron shaft loosed by the commander of the Blood Death Archery Corps. She was, beyond any further argument, a grandmaster at the absolute summit of the martial world. And a vanishingly rare one.

Carefree Pavilion!

The imperial palace kept no masters of sound arts. Another of the Pavilion's five grandmasters had revealed herself; there was no other explanation. He sat up at once, turned his head, and hunted for the erhu's owner.

There, in the right-hand corner of the tent, a woman sat with her eyes closed and the instrument in her hands. Those shut lids lent her a mysterious air. Other instruments rested near her—a pipa, a seven-stringed qin—and from the woman herself there rose a quiet, aristocratic grace.

She's young!

He had expected a withered crone. Instead he was looking at a woman who might, at a generous estimate, have reached her mid-thirties—and she was a master of the Transcendent Realm. Once more he felt the martial world's oldest truth settle into him: the world is wide, and people of strange genius are many.

This one thanks you, Heroine!

He sent the gratitude by telepathy at once. She was the only woman holding an erhu; she had to be the mistress of those sound arts.

Inner Attendant. Not here. Look ahead.

Ahead!

His head turned on reflex. A hundred yards off, at the forest's edge, a man in a scholar's robes came bursting through the air. He had torn his way out of dense woodland, yet not a hair was displaced, not a thread of his clothing frayed. He had taken his spring from branches no thicker than a finger—and the branches he stepped on did not break. An invisible sphere of hardened qi wrapped his body and shoved the atmosphere itself aside.

The old scholar was Peak Realm, Late Stage.

The commander!

Jin Myeong was certain. The old scholar was Gong Jeong-mun—the commander of the Blood Death Archery Corps, the man who had been waiting behind the black curtain. Was there another archery grandmaster alive who had reached Peak Realm, Late Stage?

Thud.

Gong Jeong-mun flew another ten yards, landed, and knew Jin Myeong on the instant.

"You!"

The largest tent would be the imperial party's. A young official stood blocking its wide-open entrance.

So the brat has a trick or two in him.

Among the Brocade Guards ranked in long files to either side, a single official in distinctive dress. In one hand he gripped an excessively long soft saber, and the beast embroidered on his black silk looked almost like a dragon. That he alone wore such clothing could only mean he was a man who could handle a blade. He was plainly one of the Emperor's personal guards, and the blood-death arrow loosed a moment ago had almost certainly been stopped by him. In other words, he was the hill that had to be climbed. Any thought beyond that was a luxury.

Tap-tap!

Gong Jeong-mun kicked off the snowfield. Snow or earth underfoot made no difference; he drew spring from every step and closed on the tent in a breath.

Before the five hundred guards could so much as react, Jin Myeong went out to meet him.

Was it loyalty that sent him?

Hardly.

I am not letting this chance slip.

Loyalty had nothing to do with it. A crisis like this was an opportunity, and the perfect one at that—a chance to set a period at the end of everything he had already accomplished. He could not win, of course. But if he gave it everything, he could take a blow or two and go down. The commander's target would be the Yongle Emperor; the man would not empty his full strength just to crush a minnow. Which made this the ideal ground on which to earn the merit of charging an invincible grandmaster without flinching, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠all in the name of shielding the throne.

The board was already set for him to win. Sa Hapji was inside the tent. So was Zhang Fu, Left Commander-in-Chief of the Central Military Commission. And, decisively, so were Hyundo, the Wudang Palm King, and the woman drawing music from the erhu. All Jin Myeong had to do was keep his life and put on a convincing faint. Perfect.

Sixty meters. Forty-five. Thirty. The distance between Gong Jeong-mun and Jin Myeong shrank without pause.

Those watching—the five hundred Brocade Guards holding the tent—let the heat rising in their chests spill out as awe.

"Young as he is, the Peerless Inner Attendant is a man this officer ought to take as his model."

"Who else would set life and death aside and step forward like that?"

"The Inner Attendant must have been so enraged that a rebel dared insult His Majesty's dignity, he could not stand idle!"

"The Peerless Inner Attendant is a true loyal subject."

"That man is the greatest loyal subject in all of Great Ming! Now I understand why eunuchs have received the Son of Heaven's favor since ancient times."

Praise for Jin Myeong broke among the guards. Had he heard it, he would have thought, You people are misreading me again—but he did not hear.

"Stop the rebel!"

"Ha!"

The space Jin Myeong had left, right before the tent's mouth, filled at once with guards who raised the edges of their golden sabers and braced the blades with their left hands. A wall of golden steel rose across the entrance.

"Your Majesty! Come out!"

Gong Jeong-mun shouted as he ran, watching it happen. Most of the men who had followed him would already have been tangled up by eunuchs and guards. At this distance, unless his opponent was Transcendent Realm, he was confident he could break through anyone at all.

Harrowing screams tore from the rear. Those vicious Brocade Guard bastards never screamed to begin with, so that told him nothing. Eunuchs' voices were thin and sharp—and those characteristic piercing shrieks were almost inaudible, which meant the ones dying were mostly his own. The only choice left was to die taking the enemy with him.

"Insolent whelp! If you wish an audience with the Son of Heaven, kneel before this Gonggong!"

"Arrogant!"

Five zhang now between Jin Myeong and Gong Jeong-mun. In the open ground between tent and forest, the two of them collided.

"This old man has no time to waste on the likes of—!"

Whoom!

The iron bow, swollen with hardened qi, cleaved the air—and found no impact. Jin Myeong, who had never meant to meet him head-on, vanished as if the ground had swallowed him, right before Gong Jeong-mun's eyes.

"There's no ti— you brat!"

Cheonyang Biyeon came out of his rear and drove for the throat.

Clang! Cha-cha-chang! Ting-ting-ting!

Startled, Gong Jeong-mun wrenched his charging body aside and swept the assault off with iron bow and blood-death arrows together. The young official's movement art was as fast as any Grand Director's. An eight-foot Cheonyang Biyeon married to the Sunflower Water Form: swiftness piled upon swiftness. Borrowing that footwork, the saber flashed east and flashed west, appearing and vanishing like a phantom, hunting only Gong Jeong-mun's vital points.

But Gong Jeong-mun was Peak Realm, Late Stage—a grandmaster among grandmasters who could already glimpse the Transcendent Realm. The old saw that archers were weak in close quarters became meaningless at that height. Ten thousand currents, in the end, run into one.

Clang-clang-clang! Cha-chang! Ting!

Wherever Cheonyang Biyeon appeared, Gong Jeong-mun merely turned his body in place and blocked it, swept it, sent it aside. If anything, he used the depth of his internal energy and the iron bow's sheer weight to bounce Jin Myeong's attacks away one after another. Then, in a single motion, the bow laid sideways scythed for Jin Myeong's head.

Whoooom!

The broadly swung iron bow split his official cap and shattered the pin that held his topknot.

A rustle.

Long black hair, falling to his chest, scattered through the heavy snow. Against that pale face the dark strands glittered as they streamed between the fat, descending flakes.

Damn old man. He's terrifying. If I take one of those wrong, they won't even find the bones.

Jin Myeong hauled the Sunflower Water Form higher. Gong Jeong-mun was a different creature from the rabble. Peak Realm, Late Stage, was seasoned skill and consummate mastery itself, and he was fully prepared for speed. Jin Myeong's internal energy was not particularly inferior—but the keenness and density of the hardened ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠qi were another matter entirely. The razor edge of projected hardened qi, and the density of qi compressed and then compressed again into a pellet, could only be answered by arts of the same caliber. And the hardened qi was launched and withdrawn with speed besides.

Damn it all. What is everyone doing?

Impatience bit him. There were four people around that tent who could handle this commander: Sa Hapji, Commander-in-Chief of the Brocade Guards; Zhang Fu, Left Commander-in-Chief of the Central Military Commission; Hyundo, the Wudang Palm King; and the sound-arts grandmaster. And not one of the four had so much as twitched.

If I eat one of those clean, I'm finished.

Inside, the Yongle Emperor and the others of rank already knew Gong Jeong-mun had come. The women among them felt the fear—then, watching the unshaken faces of their husbands, began to find their composure again. The erhu played on without a single note disturbed, as if the world beyond the canvas did not exist, and that unbroken line of sound did its own quiet work on their nerves.

Then Zhang Fu, who had been sitting with rage boiling off him, came to his feet.

"Your Majesty. This old general will go and put the rebel on his knees."

He, too, had recognized Gong Jeong-mun as commander of the Blood Death Archery Corps.

"Do not intervene. Sa Hapji."

The Yongle Emperor, eyes still on the Go board, lifted a hand and stopped him.

"Ha!"

"Withdraw the Guard. A rebel comes to meet Us, and you would have Us hide?"

"No, Your Majesty! Open the entrance!"

"Ha!"

Sa Hapji and the Brocade Guards offered no argument. A three-meter mouth yawned in the golden wall, and the space beyond it filled with Jin Myeong and Gong Jeong-mun—Jin Myeong vanishing and reappearing in afterimages, Gong Jeong-mun spinning like a top to meet him.

"There is music, and there is a sword dance. As diversions for a great nation, are they not perfectly suited?"

The Yongle Emperor was taking his ease in a manner that would have made Jin Myeong's insides seize had he known. Of course, from the sound of what the young man was doing, His Majesty had also judged he would not go down cheaply. And Sa Hapji had just been ordered to protect the Crown Prince; his staying put was only natural.

Meanwhile the musician—Li Ying, the Heavenly Sound Immortal—kept her playing unbroken as she found Hyundo among the cluster near the tent's mouth.

True Man. Did you not say he was a child you cherished? The young Inner Attendant is not yet Gong Jeong-mun's match.

Immortal, that brat has yet to show his real ability. Sly little devil.

Hyundo was grinning as if he hadn't a worry in the world. That palm force which had shattered the Ten-Step Brocade—he knew perfectly well it existed. And the brat was not using it.

Kneel if you want an audience with the Son of Heaven? If you said that to make this Daoist laugh, you succeeded.

He knew better than anyone that this was not a fellow who would stake his life on loyalty. Hyundo had seen through it at a glance: Jin Myeong, as always, was trying to put a period on a dazzling performance and wring every last drop of merit from it.

His true ability, you say?

That one's real trade isn't the blade. It's the empty palm. Same as this humble Daoist. A eunuch swinging a sword? Even fingernails would be too good for him, the insolent brat.

As their exchange made plain, neither Hyundo nor Li Ying had any intention of stepping in yet. Jin Myeong's ambitious little scheme was coming apart.

Damn old fossils!

When no one moved, the thought that the situation had gone sideways scattered his focus for a heartbeat.

Whoooom! Taaaaang!

The iron bow, swung to the place he was predicted to dodge, met Cheonyang Biyeon filled to the brim with true qi. The shock drove Jin Myeong backward; in midair he flipped his body.

A throb of impact ran through the wrist that held the saber. He had nearly lost it.

"You—brat! Not bad, I'll grant you—!"

Whoosh! Whoooom!

Having seized the momentum, Gong Jeong-mun began to whirl iron bow and blood-death arrows in both hands like a windmill, meaning to cut off any circling to the flanks. The broadly sweeping pressure from left and right forced Jin Myeong into a scrambling retreat.

Ha…!

Now it was a genuine crisis. He could no longer swear he would keep his life. An eight-star Sun-Moon Claw and a six-star Bright Sky Hand could not beat this man. Gong Jeong-mun was someone Jin Myeong could not defeat until his achievement in the Sunflower Manual had broken seven stars.

There was no choice. Simply giving ground would be admitting disloyalty in front of everyone. He would have to deliver the greatest shock he could manage, then get out. From here on, it was a gamble.

In a single instant, Cheonyang Biyeon and the Jeongeumshin vanished from his hands.

Thuk. Thuk.

Borrowing the art of seizing objects through empty air, both weapons plunged into the snowfield.

"This old man is not one to grant the likes of you ten seconds—!"

Jin Myeong had thrown his weapons away. A gleam rose in Gong Jeong-mun's puzzled eyes—and then a very small sound reached his ears.

Rumble. Rumble. Crack. Crackle.

Thunder. Lightning.

That sound—no, that scene—drew Hyundo's attention, and Li Ying's.

That's it! The brat's ass is on fire. Look, Immortal. He's thrown the blades. Now he'll use his palm arts, I expect.

So it seems. But the Sun-Moon Claw will not be enough. He would be better served borrowing the keenness of a treasured blade…

Li Ying thought that Jin Myeong, having set his weapons down, meant to use the imitation Sunflower Manual. A foolish choice, surely. Better to add the power of hardened qi to the edge of a divine weapon; the saber work he had shown so far had not been poor.

No, no. That brat is a master of palm arts. Same as this Daoist.

The Inner Attendant?

That's what I said. I never asked how, but he's learned something besides the Sunflower Manual. At any rate, Immortal, if you knew how sly that brat is, you'd be astonished.

Is that so? He is an Inner Attendant favored by the Grand Director; I suppose there is no great concern. But it is peculiar. I hear a small sound from him. A thunderclap, perhaps…?

Hyundo had not heard it. Li Ying, a grandmaster ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of sound arts, had: the distinctive noise that rose when the Extreme Heaven Palm was invoked. Having lost her sight, she had been given sound arts in its place, and a hearing developed far beyond the ordinary.

Thunderclap…?

Yes. Small—but it sounds like thunder. Or a lightning strike…

In different corners of the tent, Hyundo and Li Ying both tilted their heads. Hyundo especially, who had heard nothing at all.

Thunderclap… thunderclap? This Daoist didn't hear it, so it must be a very small sound. Palm arts and a thunderclap…

The two words drifted through his mind, and his consciousness moved to check whether that pairing was stored somewhere in memory. Thunderclap. Palm arts. He turned them over for a moment—and his eyes flew open.

Hyundo stared at Jin Myeong with a look of utter shock. It was a fact so stunning he could scarcely believe it. In the same instant he guessed the secret—

Whoooooosh!

The pressure of air driven out by the impact swept forth in a gale. It was an aftermath so tremendous that the five hundred guards holding the tent had to throw up saber-screens to stop it, and the snow driven back by that force boiled up in a dense white storm, blotting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the view of everyone of rank.

Then the snow that had surged toward the sky settled once more. In the slowly clearing landscape, Jin Myeong and Gong Jeong-mun stood facing each other. And just as every eye locked onto that scene—

"Director Jang!"

"Jang Jinmyeong!"

From the forest, Gongsun Dajing at the head of the Brocade Guards, and Zheng He leading the eunuchs, came back into view.

Thud.

One of the two men standing between tent and treeline went down.

"Khrr…!"

The other staggered and dropped to one knee.

And with that—and with the return of the Brocade Guards and the Eastern Depot, their work in the forest done—among people frozen in shock—

Click.

The Yongle Emperor, a white stone between his fingers, set his last move down with absolute resolve. With that single stone, Zhu Gaochi's great dragon on the board met its end.

At last, the curtain rose on the final act of the Mount Baohua Blood Incident—the greatest event of the eighteenth year of Yongle.