Chapter 1555 - Sparring (Part Two)

"They're playing badminton," Lian Nishang explained. "It's a ball game from Australia. Equipment is scarce here, so only a few people can play."

Zhuo Yifan observed how the players' eyes followed the shuttlecock, running and leaping about. He thought: This would be excellent for training footwork—quite good for martial practice.

Yet the players were dressed all in white, which struck him as peculiar. He had noticed that in Lingao, people often wore white shirts and trousers; young women wore white socks, and some even wore white shoes. If they were in mourning, they did not look like it. He did not know what custom this represented.

As he watched, one player scooped the shuttlecock from below and sent it floating gently over the net. The man on the other side lunged but failed to reach it; the shuttlecock dropped to the floor.

"I won!" A delighted cheer came from beyond the net—a young woman's voice. Zhuo Yifan was startled. He had seen the player's short hair and a pair of bare, tanned legs running about—quite conspicuous—and assumed, since a man was on this side, that the other was also male.

The man shook his head. "Getting old, getting old." He tucked the paddle under his arm, took the towel from around his neck, and mopped his brow. The woman ducked under the net, jogged over to a nearby table, and fetched a bottle, which she handed to the man. "The Chief isn't old—still young!" She also draped a large towel over his shoulders.

Seeing those slender, smooth, bronze-tanned legs right in front of him, Zhuo Yifan hastily looked away, inwardly cursing: Shameless!

Lian Nishang paid no mind; she led him toward a side corridor. But the young woman had sharp eyes and spotted Lian Nishang. She waved and called out, "Lian Nishang! Lian Nishang!"

Lian Nishang stopped and greeted her. "Yang Min, what brings you here?"

The woman grabbed a large towel, wrapped it around herself, and came over. "I accompanied the Chief to inspect the venue for the school's Spring Cultural Festival. The Chief said the floor here was good and wanted to get in a game, so we played a set."

Zhuo Yifan noticed she wore a white cotton crew-neck jersey, damp with sweat and clinging to her body; she seemed to have nothing on underneath. Her chest was impressively pronounced—and still heaving with each breath. His face heated; he dared not look any longer.

"And who is this young master?" Yang Min asked with a mischievous smile as she noticed Zhuo Yifan.

"His name is Zhuo Yifan. He's a physician." Lian Nishang was unconcerned. "He knows a bit of martial arts; I brought him here to spar."

"He doesn't look like one..."

It was unclear whether Yang Min meant he didn't look like a "physician" or didn't look like someone who "knows martial arts." Fortunately, her attention was fixed on the "Chief," and after a few words, she hurried back. Only then did Zhuo Yifan and Lian Nishang slip away.

When he heard her mention "Chief," Zhuo Yifan's heart leapt. Notes on Pacifying the Shorthairs had said that Fake Shorthairs addressed True Shorthairs as "Chief." So this man playing badminton with Yang Min was a true Shorthair transmigrator! Seek and ye shall find—what luck!

To confirm, he asked deliberately, "That gentleman is...?"

"A classmate of mine from the Arts and Sciences Academy," Lian Nishang said absently. "She's now working as a personal secretary for a Chief."

"So the man playing just now is an Australian transmigrator?"

"I suppose so." Lian Nishang said carelessly. "She was lucky—selected by the General Office. Almost no one from our year was chosen."

Zhuo Yifan's pulse quickened. According to Notes on Pacifying the Shorthairs, a "personal secretary" was essentially a True Shorthair's concubine or chamber maid. That meant True Shorthairs frequented this place—a major discovery!

He could scarcely contain his excitement. He quickly stole several more glances at the "True Shorthair," who was now lounging about drinking tea, and committed the man's face to memory.

Lian Nishang had no inkling of what was running through his mind. She led him down a corridor, took a key from her pocket, and unlocked a door.

Inside was a large room with a thick straw mat covering the floor. Two doors led off from one wall.

"Change first, then we'll spar..."

Zhuo Yifan thought: Why change clothes just to practice? He said, "I don't need to."

"I do." Lian Nishang smiled and disappeared through one of the smaller doors. In no time at all, she emerged again—now dressed in a white shirt and trousers.

Zhuo Yifan had noticed that everyone in the gymnasium wore white. Though he knew the Shorthairs did not treat white as mourning, it still felt unsettling, vaguely inauspicious. Seeing Lian Nishang now in her white sparring outfit, waist cinched with a red sash, he sighed inwardly—what bizarre customs!

Lian Nishang asked, "What is it? Don't I look good?"

Zhuo Yifan realized his expression had given him away. There was no point in hiding it. "It just looks a little strange to me..."

"I know. Newcomers from the mainland all think we're wearing mourning. I can understand why it makes you uncomfortable." Lian Nishang said, "But in a way, mourning wouldn't be wrong either. Anyone who came from the mainland to Lingao—if they counted seriously—which family wouldn't have years of grief to observe?"

Zhuo Yifan found her words too extreme; he did not agree. He changed the subject. "Fists and feet, or swordplay?"

"Let's start with fists and feet. It's been ages since I practiced with a sword," Lian Nishang said.

Though Zhuo Yifan specialized in swordplay, his unarmed skills were also considerable. After all, once a sword was drawn, it rarely returned without blood. That was fine in the wilds, but in towns and markets, injuring or killing an opponent in a fight—though his sect and family could smooth things over as long as no powerful houses were offended—was always troublesome. So whether with fists or blades, the rule was to leave room and never strike to kill.

But the moment they engaged, Zhuo Yifan realized her style was utterly unlike anything he had encountered. Her reactions were lightning-fast, almost instinctive; no flourishes at all—every move direct and practical. Yet her movements were cunningly clever; she slipped away from each of his attacks and maneuvered with remarkable agility. Her attacks were vicious, every one aimed to end the fight in a single blow.

Zhuo Yifan had initially felt a trace of condescension—after all, she was a woman, and however fine her technique, she would lack strength. He had not expected her to be so unexpectedly swift, entirely unlike any martial art he knew. He grew serious.

Once he fought in earnest, the difference between lifelong training and learning on the fly became clear. He was a young master by birth, true, but he had not been coddled in women's quarters; he had trained since childhood. His strength, flexibility, and explosive power far exceeded ordinary people. Before long, he had gained the upper hand, pressing Lian Nishang back with a flurry of punches and kicks.

Lian Nishang's face reddened. She fought back desperately, trying to reverse her disadvantage. But a woman's strength was limited; as time wore on, she could no longer hold out. A sweeping kick caught her calf; her stance wavered and she went tumbling.

Zhuo Yifan pulled back. He saw Lian Nishang roll the moment she hit the ground, tumbling far away before springing to her feet—her reactions were quite sharp.

"I concede," Zhuo Yifan said, cupping his fists.

"You're amazing!" Lian Nishang walked over. Her hair was disheveled, her breath somewhat ragged, her chest rising and falling. Her sash had loosened, her collar had come undone, revealing a small patch of wheat-colored skin at her throat.

Zhuo Yifan did not dare look. He averted his eyes. "A mere trifle. Not worth mentioning."

"Don't be modest." Lian Nishang's eyes gleamed. "Your skill is considerable." She tucked in the hem of her shirt. "Do you know swordplay?"

"A little."

"It's been ages since I practiced. Let's try." Lian Nishang opened a nearby cabinet and drew out two swords. She tossed one to him.

Zhuo Yifan caught it. The weapon was light in his hand. The scabbard was plain wood—nothing special, as one might expect for practice swords stored in a gym. But when he drew the blade, his eyes lit up: the steel was excellent, patterned like the finest Japanese katana; a flick of the wrist set it humming, light yet resilient. Examining it closely, he saw the edge was unsharpened—a pity, he thought. Such fine steel, if only it were honed, would make a superb blade.

"Truly a fine sword."

"Fine? It's just a practice sword." Lian Nishang was indifferent. Zhuo Yifan glanced inside the cabinet—besides these rapiers, there were Japanese-style blades of various lengths and some foreign-looking weapons. All for practice, no doubt.

"Quite a collection."

"All just training props." Lian Nishang drew her sword. "En garde."

This bout was even more one-sided. Zhuo Yifan, having exerted himself in the unarmed fight, was on guard from the outset. He attacked with a flourish of sixteen flashing points. In an instant, Lian Nishang was overwhelmed—before two or three exchanges, she had been struck several times.

Zhuo Yifan quickly stayed his blade. "My apologies, Miss! Are you all right?"

Even an unsharpened sword hurt when it hit. Lian Nishang rubbed her arm. "I'm fine. Your swordplay is superb!"

"I was fortunate to meet a master in my youth. A bit of childhood training, kept up since." Zhuo Yifan sheathed his sword. "One must have some skill for self-defense when wandering the jianghu as a physician."

"How is business here?"

"I've only just arrived; I'm not sure how to go about it..." Zhuo Yifan had already heard from Huang Zhen about the "licensing" process; he betrayed no slip.

Lian Nishang put her sword back in the cabinet. Hearing his words, she turned with a laugh. "You really are a good liar."

"What do you mean?"

"You're no poor physician—what poor physician dresses so finely?" Lian Nishang pointed, smiling, at his fan. "That fan alone is worth four or five taels of silver."

(End of Chapter)