Malao shivered. He'd run in a big circle, and now he was right back where he'd started, near Cangzhen!
The soldier was headed in Malao's direction. Malao watched him closely. Heavy armor covered the man's body, and he carried a short wooden stick about as long as Malao's arm. Malao got a good look at the stick as the soldier passed through a pool of moonlight. The stick was nearly as big around as a monk's staff and was made from a very light-colored wood, white waxwood. The entire surface was decorated with intricate carvings that had been colored brown with a hot piece of metal. The soldier was still some distance away, but Malao knew exactly what those carvings were.
Monkeys.
Malao's upper lip curled back.
The warrior monks of Cangzhen Temple—or any temple, for that matter—were not allowed to have personal possessions. Personal possessions meant a tie to the greedy world of men, so the monks owned nothing and shared everything. However, within Cangzhen, weapons were an exception. Though they weren't supposed to favor any one more than another, Cangzhen's warrior monks almost always did. Malao's favorite was called a short stick, and the specific stick he preferred was now in that soldier's right hand.
Malao hugged his knees tight and began to rock back and forth. That soldier had helped slaughter Malao's friends and family and burn down the only home Malao had ever known. And now the soldier planned to walk away with a souvenir. Malao wasn't about to let that happen.
As the soldier passed under his tree, Malao focused on the rhythm of the soldier's strides. When the soldier's right arm went backward and his weight shifted to his left leg, Malao dropped from the tree like an anvil.
THUD!
Malao's feet smashed into the back of the soldier's left knee and the knee buckled, slamming to the ground. Malao grabbed the stick and flipped forward, twisting it out of the soldier's hand and leaping onto a low-lying branch. He grinned at the soldier and waved the stick.
“Get down here, you little monkey!” the soldier said, staggering to his feet.
Malao shook his head and scurried to a higher branch.
“Don't play games with me, monk. I see your orange robe. You better not make me climb up there after you.”
Malao turned to leap to another tree when the soldier raised his voice. “I said get down here!”
Malao stopped. If the soldier raised his voice any louder, reinforcements might come. Malao had no interest in fighting an entire garrison of soldiers. He needed to do something, fast. He zipped to the opposite side of the tree so that he was directly behind the soldier, facing the same direction as the man, and jumped straight down. He landed with one small foot on each of the soldier's shoulders.
The surprised soldier tilted his head up and grabbed on to Malao's robe. Malao slipped his stick under the soldier's chin, pressed his knee against the base of the soldier's head, and leaned back.
The soldier choked and teetered backward, letting go of Malao's robe. He swung his arms wildly, trying to knock Malao off his shoulders. Malao responded by shifting his weight forward.
The soldier toppled over, hitting the ground face-first. He struggled, but Malao held the stick firm until the man's body relaxed. Malao slid the stick out from under the soldier and rolled him over.
The soldier was breathing slow and steady. Cautiously, Malao rested one of his bare, dark-skinned feet on the man's nose and wiggled his toes. The man didn't flinch.
The soldier was definitely unconscious.
Malao giggled softly and slipped his stick into the folds of his robe. He paused and looked around. Cangzhen was close. He might as well check to see if any of his brothers had circled back. Perhaps he could even spy on Ying and “uncover some of his secrets,” as Grandmaster had instructed.
Grandmaster!
The last time Malao had seen Grandmaster, he'd been alone with Ying inside the burning practice hall. Those two would probably fight until only one was left standing!
Malao darted forward, silently following the soldier's tracks back toward Cangzhen.
Inside the smoke-filled practice hall, student and master stood toe to toe in a fight to the death. Flames rolled like waves over the rafters high above, casting shadows across Ying's carved face. His black eyes burned hotter than the fire overhead. He popped his knuckles one at a time.
Grandmaster stood solid as an eighty-year-old oak.
“You know the real reason I've returned, don't you, old man?” Ying spat.
“From the look in your eyes, I can tell,” Grandmaster replied.
“I hate you!”
“I know.”
Ying spread his arms wide like an eagle and began to circle Grandmaster. “Why did you raise me to be something I'm not?” he said.
“I thought it was best,” Grandmaster said in a calm tone. His head turned slowly, his eyes following Ying.