The Yang Family Cataclysm

Year eighty-five of the Kunlun Era, autumn, the eighth month.

"The True King's iron cavalry rode the palace steps, his armored host bidding farewell across ten thousand miles of passes. The great road bore the imperial mandate's martial splendor; the cloud-dragon's lone carriage answered the will of Heaven. That poem, now—that's about the day the Wrathful King entered the Capital, riding high and proud."

The boy perched on the stool listened, rapt. He had heard the story many times, but a young man with hot blood in his veins will always thirst after those crowning days of clashing steel and warhorses.

The old man telling it wore a kindly face, smiling as he spun the tale out slow and easy. "But though the Wrathful King had taken the Capital, the realm was still far from settled. You know why? Two things kept the Wrathful King uneasy, and when the Wrathful King was uneasy, so was the whole realm. You know which two things?"

"I know!" the boy answered. "Beyond the pass there were still the Sa Cult's hundred thousand barbarian troops, and on the wall itself there was the great general You Changbo, leading seventy thousand of the Great Wall's iron cavalry!"

"That's right." The old man drew a long pull on his pipe; the ember at the mouthpiece flared bright. "Once the Wrathful King took the Capital, he had the dragon throne torn out, raided the houses of the corrupt officials, and shared out the treasure. His army was raised from the heroes of the greenwood, men of the martial world, and they held to honor even among thieves—everyone kept to the rules, and no one troubled the common folk."

"Grandpa's making it up! If they didn't trouble anyone, why couldn't the Wrathful King sit still for even seven days—why'd he ride off to fight at the pass before he was even crowned?" A girl's voice came from the side room. The door was shut, but the house was small and her words carried clear enough. "It's a fairy tale to fool children—just powder and rouge to pretty up the Nine Great Houses!"

"Who asked you?" The boy flushed red with anger. "Grandpa's telling a story!"

"You've heard it a dozen times—you're fifteen! Grandpa, quit filling his head with ghost stories. Teach him a trade. He can't just eat rice and do nothing!"

"You're the one who eats rice and does nothing!"

"All right, now—do you want to hear the story, or do you want to bicker with your sister?" Grandpa rapped his pipe twice against the stool leg, tok, tok, a sign for the boy not to lose the thread. The boy was still smarting, but he swallowed it. "Go on, Grandpa."

"Even with that wholly heartless old dynasty wiped out, two great dangers still festered. For the sake of the common people, in less than seven days the Wrathful King left General Ma Wentao to hold the Capital and rode out himself for the Great Wall, the heroes of the martial world streaming behind him in a great tide. Now, in those days both the Barbarian King and You Changbo had their own schemes. The Barbarian King wanted the Wrathful King and the iron cavalry to bleed each other dry; You Changbo wanted to use the Wrathful King to break the barbarians and then snatch the easy spoils. But the Wrathful King, he saw it this way—"

"The Wrathful King was a hero, upright and true—he'd never stoop to such cheap tricks!" the boy cut in. "When the heroes reached the wall, they struck at You Changbo first."

"That's right. The Wrathful King was no skulking woman; of course he'd fight openly and fair. The heroes and the iron cavalry clashed, and the slain lay strewn across the field. The Barbarian King thought his moment had come and led his troops smashing through the wall, straight into the battle. By then the heroes and the cavalry had fought a full day and night and were spent, and the Barbarian King reckoned the prize was his for the taking. But who'd have guessed—You Changbo threw back his head and roared, 'Better to die a subject than live a slave! Better to lose a dynasty than lose a nation!'—and led the iron cavalry to join hands with the Wrathful King against the barbarians. Still, the barbarian host was mighty. You Changbo charged three times, took five arrows in his body, and was driven back all the same. The barbarians ringed the heroes in, and it seemed this fair land was about to fall into barbarian hands..."

Here Grandpa took a pull on his pipe and went no further. The boy knew that every time the tale reached a crucial turn, Grandpa would draw on his pipe—a deliberate pause, fishing for the boy to ask: "And then? What happened then?"

Grandpa chuckled and went on. "Then the Wrathful King's great general Ma Wentao came charging in, leading the heroes of Huashan, the Beggars' Sect, and the Hengshan Sect. These men had been in the south, fighting the old dynasty's broken armies. When the Wrathful King took the Capital and word spread that the emperor was dead, those broken armies had no one left to serve, and they surrendered in droves—which settled the trouble in the south, and freed those heroes to ride north and stand with the Wrathful King. With this fresh force in hand, General Ma left the Capital in the keeping of Abbess Dingwen, then the head of the Hengshan Sect, and led his men to the rescue.

"The relief came, and there was another grand slaughter, three days and three nights of it. The Wrathful King charged at the very front, cutting clear into the heart of the enemy host, and though he struck the Barbarian King dead, he was surrounded. Arrows fell like rain, stones flew like locusts. Li Shuliang, head of Huashan, braved it all and fought his way into the press—and in the end carried out only the Wrathful King's body. Ahh..."

At this point in the telling, the old man always heaved a long sigh, to mark his grief for the fallen hero.

"After that the barbarians withdrew beyond the wall, You Changbo died of his wounds, and what came next was thirty years of chaos and war. It wasn't until ninety-odd years ago, when the Nine Great Houses held the Kunlun Council, that the world took the shape it has now. These days, heroes follow the rules."

Yang Yan took it up. "I know—you take a master and learn the arts, you join a sect, you get a Hero's Warrant. And once you've got the Warrant, you can settle scores as you please and right wrongs across the land."

Grandpa said, "Bah. All it really gets you is the right to piss wherever you like."

Yang Yan snorted out a laugh.

Grandpa went on, "Anyway, the Kunlun Council laid down the rules of the martial world. The Nine Great Houses all walk by those rules, and the hundred-odd gangs and sects beneath them walk by them too."

That said, the old man found his tobacco gone. He tapped out his pipe and fished a fresh pinch from inside his robe. "Story's done. Time to practice." He spoke around the tobacco as he packed it.

"I'm going to see what good things Ma's cooking tonight!" The boy sprang up and bolted for the kitchen.

The kitchen was small—a stove, a long table, and just enough room left over for one person to turn around. Madam Yang stood at the stove, a faint sheen of sweat at her brow. The pot was throwing off thick white steam; she lifted the lid and a rich aroma rose to meet her. She spooned up a little broth and tested it carefully against her lips, and the corner of her mouth curved despite her—whether pleased with her own cooking or savoring the thought of her family tasting this soup, who could say.

"Maaa—" The boy burst in.

Madam Yang knit her brows, exasperated, though the doting was plain in her eyes all the same. "Yan'er, how many times has your mother told you—stay out of the kitchen. Haven't you heard what Master Meng said—" One hand on her hip, the spoon in the other, she fixed her wide, almond eyes on Yang Yan as he made to step inside.

"I know, I know—'the gentleman keeps clear of the kitchen.'" His black hair hung down his back, half of it gathered up with a simple band. He had inherited his mother's looks and was strikingly handsome, yet with nothing soft about him; a pair of clever, glinting eyes shone bright. Everyone who saw him said his eyes were like stars, uncommonly fine.

Madam Yang gave a helpless look and grabbed a handful of scallions onto the cutting board. "Well, since you know, off with you. Let Grandpa teach you a move or two, or go turn a few pages of a book—either will do." She sliced the scallions briskly, every piece neat and even.

Yang Yan leaned against the wall and pouted. "Grandpa doesn't have a move or two. He just teaches the same one over and over—'Withered Tree Sideways Branch.'"

"And Grandpa's stories are only ever the same few. How is it you never tire of those?"

"Grandpa loves to tell them. Somebody's got to listen, or he'll be lonely." Yang Yan grinned. "In a few years little brother can take over the listening for me."

Madam Yang tipped the cut scallions into a bowl. "Then you go practice 'Withered Tree Sideways Branch' a few more times and keep Grandpa happy. And stay out of the kitchen."

"Maaa—I can't even be bothered with the living's rules. Why would I keep the dead's?" Yang Yan suddenly straightened and walked right in. "You won't let me in, so in I'll come—and I'll chop and cook for you, too." He reached Madam Yang's side and made a grab for the cleaver in her hand.

Madam Yang turned her wrist deftly, slipping clear of his reach in a blink, half-annoyed and half-laughing. "I yield, I yield—I won't tell you to leave. Now stand back there and don't get in the way of my cooking."

Yang Yan flashed a triumphant grin and retreated to the doorway. Madam Yang took up the celery from the table and minced it fine. Watching his mother work, Yang Yan suddenly remembered something. "Ma—I've seen other families call in the neighbors for a baby's first month and first birthday, all noise and celebration. Why is it little brother turned one a few days back, and we didn't ask a single soul?"

Madam Yang started; a little celery spilled from the bowl. "Grandpa doesn't care for crowds," she said. "A moment ago you said you didn't like keeping rules, and now you're fussing over custom and ceremony? Aren't you contradicting yourself?"

Yang Yan had meant to press further, but she'd headed him off. He grumbled, "I just thought it was strange."

Madam Yang lifted the lid again and tasted. "This radish-and-spare-rib stew is your favorite. Go fetch your father home to eat—it won't be any good cold."

The smell alone nearly set Yang Yan drooling. "All right, I'm going now!" he called.

"Change your clothes first! You're soaked through with sweat—mind you don't catch a chill in the wind!" Madam Yang called after his back.

It's time we talked properly with the children's father about those matters, Madam Yang thought, watching the white steam billow up off the pot.

Back in his room, Yang Yan opened the wardrobe. "One, two, three..." He counted his robes off on his fingers. He didn't own many—five in all—but he counted only three.

One was on his back. So where had the other gone?

The missing one happened to be his favorite, the one his mother had had a tailor make to measure for his fifteenth birthday. It was a long robe of bluish-green satin, smooth and supple to the touch, embroidered with delicate sprays of bamboo, and he wouldn't bring himself to wear it except on important days. He remembered wearing it once for his little brother's first birthday a few days ago; he'd seen it still there the day before.

Then it struck him, and he stormed out of the room. That thieving little wretch, he thought. She must've stolen it!

Yang Yan strode to outside his sister's room, and a winding little song drifted to his ear: "For my sweetheart I'll keep a ledger of longing. Old longings, new longings, morning and night the entries pile up. Line by line, word by word, every one a clear account. The old longing's not yet paid off, and now a great new debt of longing's gone on the books."

The singing wasn't unpleasant—only there was no grief or grievance in it at all, even a hint of cheer, so you couldn't tell what she was getting at.

Yang Yan stopped at the door and cursed under his breath. "Squawking like a chicken—hurts my ears." He knocked, fast and furious blows.

The one inside paid him no mind and sang straight on: "Bring out the ledger of longing and we'll reckon it up—how much I've repaid you, and how much more I still owe in longing, I cannot say." She was bending the longing-tune brighter and merrier as she went.

Yang Yan simply lifted his foot and kicked the door open.

A girl of eighteen sat at a table, embroidery needle in hand, calmly stitching a flower, not the least bit startled. She said, "Little brother, why so rough? You really gave me a fright. Frightening me is one thing—but if you frighten little brother, that won't do at all."

Beside Yang Shanshan stood a cradle, the baby inside sleeping deeply, fine and lovely as a thing carved from powder and jade, a smile at the corner of his mouth as if he were lost in a sweet dream.

Yang Yan dropped his voice but not his fury. "Where's my robe?"

Yang Shanshan set down her needlework and looked at him with a smile playing on her lips. "I saw you hardly ever wore it, so I cut it down into new clothes for little brother. Come look—doesn't it suit him?"

"You—!" Yang Yan was too furious to speak. He stepped forward, and there in the cradle was his little brother, dressed in the very robe of bluish-green satin.

"Little brother, you still haven't answered—does it suit our little one or not?" Yang Shanshan smiled, radiant as spring in full bloom.

Yang Yan glared at her, seething. How many times now had this thieving little wretch bullied him—and he never knew what he'd done to deserve it. This time, with no new trick to hand, she'd set her sights on his favorite robe. Utterly hateful!

"Why so quiet? Can't bear to give your robe up for little brother's clothes?"

How he longed to drive a fist into that smiling face. Yang Yan forced down his anger. "I can bear it. Of course I can bear it. Where's the leftover cloth?"

Yang Shanshan hadn't expected that question. She'd meant to fob him off, but on second thought, the sight of the ruined robe might just rile him to bursting. "Hold on," she said. "I'll fetch it." She rose and drifted gracefully toward the cabinet.

Quick as a flash, while she wasn't looking, Yang Yan snatched a handful of something off the table and tucked it up his sleeve. Yang Shanshan soon came back carrying a robe full of holes and gaps and handed it over. "Here, take it. That's all that's left."

Yang Yan yanked the robe from her angrily, shook it open, and saw there wasn't enough scrap left. "Why's this all that's left?"

"Spoiled some, threw it out." Yang Shanshan rolled her eyes as if the question were beneath answering.

Wanting no more words with her, Yang Yan walked out fast, unwilling to linger an instant longer. Watching him fume without daring to speak, Yang Shanshan was quite pleased with herself.

Back in his room, Yang Yan flung the door shut, went to his desk, pulled out the drawer, and with a practiced touch worked his fingers along its underside, drawing a small wooden box from a hidden compartment in the desk. His father had cut that compartment specially while building the desk; the seam matched the grain of the wood so perfectly that, unless you knew, you'd never find it.

His father had told him that everyone has a few private things they'd rather not show, and that's when a hidden compartment comes in handy. He'd promised never to peek at what Yang Yan kept there—it would be a secret between father and son, so Yang Yan could set his mind at ease.

Yang Yan had had no thoughts about it then; he only reasoned that, by the same logic, his father must have a compartment of his own, so he asked, curious, what treasure his father kept hidden.

His father whispered in his ear, "Don't tell your mother—your pa's got a little wine money squirreled away."

Yang Yan couldn't help bursting into laughter. "Ma's so good to you—if you wanted it, how could she not buy it? What do you need to hide money for?"

His father shook his head and told him he'd understand when he grew up and took a wife. Yang Yan shrugged and let it drop.

Yang Yan took the little box from the compartment and drew out a knotted, uneven ball of iron, just big enough to fill his fist; then he fished an embroidery needle from his sleeve, bent it forcibly with his thumb, and worked it into the ball. Look closely and the ball turned out to be made of a great many embroidery needles, snarled densely together, more than one could count.

His father surely never imagined he'd use that compartment to hide his rage at his sister.

Each time Yang Shanshan bullied him, Yang Yan, though furious, would mostly swallow it—on account of their respective places in the family and the urgings of his kin. But he always found a way to steal her embroidery needles and vent his anger.

Yang Yan tossed the iron ball up and caught it, picturing Yang Shanshan on her knees combing the floor for her needles, and his bitterness eased a little. Then he remembered the errand his mother had given him. He put the ball back in the compartment, didn't bother changing his clothes, and headed straight out—all his scuffling with Yang Shanshan had long since dried the sweat off him.

Yang Yan's father, Yang Zhengde, was a carpenter—skilled in his craft, fair in his prices—and whenever anyone in town meant to build a house, they generally called him in to do the woodwork. Now and then, seeing some poor family's roof leaking or furniture falling apart, he'd mend it of his own accord and take no silver for it afterward. The townsfolk all reckoned him a good man, if odd in his ways: he lived outside the town, kept to himself, almost never mixed with others, never called on anyone's home, and never invited anyone to his.

Yang Yan strode to where his father was working—a mansion going up in the eastern part of the city, sixty mu in extent, named Liuya Manor, four courtyards deep, plainly the seat of some wealthy house.

A crowd of workmen stood by the wall hollering back and forth, a great racket of it. Yang Yan knew his father wouldn't be among them, but to find out where he was, he had to ask. He called out a few times, all swallowed up in the din, until he had to bellow at the top of his lungs: "Anyone seen my pa?"

A workman with a cloth wrapped around his head shouted back without turning. "Your pa's still in the courtyard carving beams. Wait a while longer!"

Yang Yan looked toward the manor. He'd never been inside, never seen so grand a house, and curiosity got the better of him. He rounded the corner of the wall, found the main gate ajar, eased it open a crack, and peered in. All he saw was a patch of bare ground, a few trees, and some oddly shaped stones heaped in one corner—the garden, it seemed, was not yet laid out. He was about to go in and find his father when a thin, slight figure suddenly slid across his path.

"Little brother, you can't go in." Yang Yan knew that voice, and his belly burned.

It belonged to a fair, handsome young man with a sword at his waist, by name Qin Jiuxian—a guard this household had hired, and something of a half-foreman besides. Half a year earlier, Yang Yan had turned his ankle practicing the sword, and Yang Shanshan, grudging every step, had brought their father's lunch in his place; she and Qin Jiuxian had hit it off the moment they met. Qin Jiuxian was forever finding excuses to drop by the Yang home, and the family all saw it well enough. Hating his sister, Yang Yan naturally had no liking for Qin Jiuxian either.

"Who's your little brother? I'm here for my pa," Yang Yan said. "Don't get in my way."

Yang Yan made to push past, but Qin Jiuxian blocked him. "The master's orders—no one but the workmen goes in. Stop making trouble, child."

Just a hired guard—what's he so puffed up about? Yang Yan was thinking, when his eye fell on Qin Jiuxian's sash: bluish-green satin, smooth and silken to look at—wasn't that the very cloth of his own robe? Rage flared in him at once and he demanded, "Where'd you get that sash?"

"Your sister gave it to me. Handsome, isn't it?" Qin Jiuxian turned a full circle to show it off—and lost his balance, for Yang Yan had given him a hard shove.

"What are you doing?" Qin Jiuxian was bewildered. Yang Yan lunged, grabbed the sash, and shouted, "That's mine—give it back!" Qin Jiuxian flew into a rage and swore, "You tired of living?"

"That thieving little wretch! Give me back my robe, give it back! You thief—you stole my things!" Yang Yan cursed, refusing to let go.

Qin Jiuxian slapped him across the face. Yang Yan clung to the sash and very nearly tore it loose. Qin Jiuxian seized his wrists and wrenched them outward; the pain brought tears streaming from Yang Yan's eyes. "You don't know what's good for you!" Qin Jiuxian swore, and kicked him sprawling to the ground.

Yang Yan got up, and with the move "Withered Tree Sideways Branch"—fingers for a sword—jabbed at Qin Jiuxian's waist. But he had no real command of it, and Qin Jiuxian's foot sent him toppling again.

Twice thrown now, aching all over, Yang Yan was stubborn to the bone and rose once more. Qin Jiuxian swore, "Keep at it and don't blame me for hurting you!"

"Come on, then!" Yang Yan made to charge again.

"Yan'er." A familiar voice came. Yang Yan looked up and saw his father, Yang Zhengde, carpenter's tools in hand, frowning at the two of them.

Seeing his elder arrive, Qin Jiuxian drew back his hand. Yang Yan seized the moment and rushed him; Qin Jiuxian sidestepped. Carried too far by his own force, Yang Yan caught a foot on the steps and was about to fall when Yang Zhengde, quick-handed, scooped him up.

"What's this, flying into such a temper?" Yang Zhengde asked. Qin Jiuxian spread his hands to show he didn't know. Yang Zhengde looked to Yang Yan; the boy's anger hadn't cooled, and he only glared at Qin Jiuxian, breathing hard.

"Stop your temper now. Home with you." Yang Zhengde took Yang Yan's hand, and the boy didn't dare pull free.

"Will young master Qin come take a simple meal at our humble home?" Yang Zhengde asked. Reading the situation, Qin Jiuxian dared not accept. "No need, Uncle Yang. So your family knows martial arts after all," he said quickly, seeing Yang Yan still glaring, casting about for some topic to smooth over the awkwardness.

"In times like these, you could grab any dog off the street and it'd know a move or half a one. Looks pretty—all empty show, not worth a fart," Yang Zhengde said.

Qin Jiuxian nodded along, then felt something off, as though the words were a roundabout jab at himself. But Yang Zhengde was honest and earnest, and Qin Jiuxian was courting his daughter; surely he'd meant nothing by it. He nodded hastily. "Just so. Mind your step, Uncle Yang."

Yang Zhengde led Yang Yan home, the boy sulking the whole way. Then Yang Zhengde said, "Don't be angry. Once this job's done and I've drawn my wages, your pa will buy you a new robe."

Yang Yan's eyes went wide as he looked at his father.

"The moment I got to work and saw that sash of his, I understood the whole thing. Ahh—I don't know what feud you and Shan'er must've sworn in a past life, that you can't manage even a quarter hour together." Yang Zhengde sighed.

"That thieving little wretch!" Yang Yan said venomously.

"That's your sister." Yang Zhengde put on a stern face to scold him. "In a few years she'll be married off, and by then—who knows—you might even miss her."

Yang Yan gave a cold snort, plainly not believing it.

At supper, Madam Yang saw Yang Yan's bruised and swollen face and asked after it; he only said a mad dog had bitten him, with a glare at Yang Shanshan. Yang Zhengde ladled a bowl of soup for Yang Yan, and Yang Shanshan clamored for one too. Yang Zhengde only sighed, while Grandpa laughed merrily.

Come night, Yang Yan tossed and turned and couldn't sleep, brooding on the afternoon, more and more aggrieved the longer he dwelt on it. That "Withered Tree Sideways Branch" had missed by mere inches—all because he never practiced. Unable to sleep either way, he got up. The room was too cramped to move in, so he softened his steps, went out to the courtyard, found a dry stick, and began to drill the move.

Over and over he worked at it, set on getting it solid, for then Grandpa would teach him the second move. He had little faith in Grandpa's skill, but in his eyes Qin Jiuxian was no more than what his father had said—"pretty to look at, all empty show." Learn two or three moves and he'd have him spitting teeth.

So he drilled for the better part of an hour, when suddenly he heard a thud, like something striking a window. He turned toward the sound—it came from the direction of Yang Shanshan's room. After a moment came another faint noise. Suspicious, he left the courtyard and circled around to the west side.

The moon was bright and clear, bright enough to see by, and he saw that the window of Yang Shanshan's room stood open; in the moonlight two figures walked one behind the other toward the woods. He knew them—it was that wretched Yang Shanshan and Qin Jiuxian.

In the dead of night, what mischief were these two up to now? A thought stirred, and once the pair had entered the woods, he crept after them.

He'd barely stepped into the trees when he heard the low murmurs of two heads bent close together. Yang Yan couldn't make it out, so he dropped down onto all fours and crawled slowly forward.

He heard Yang Shanshan ask softly, "When will you send for me in marriage?"

"Once the mansion's finished, I'll go to your father and ask. Right now he's a workman and I'm a guard—I'm afraid people will talk."

"Mm..." A low sound from Yang Shanshan. Just then the moonlight was blocked by the boughs, his view blurred, and Yang Yan being far off besides, he could only just make out two figures locked together, rubbing close. He caught faint words: "What is there to talk about? You're full of excuses." "As Heaven and Earth are my witness... mm..." "...truly?"

The panting and moaning grew louder and louder, and Yang Yan felt his face burn and his heart race, his head gone hot and muddled, not knowing what was happening to him—until he heard Qin Jiuxian say, "I hold the Hero's Warrant. To violate a daughter of the people, all under Heaven would put me to death... how could I dare..." Only then did he sense something amiss and made to hurry off; but turning too sharply, he made a sound, and heedless now of being seen, he bolted.

Qin Jiuxian started in fright; Yang Shanshan hurriedly straightened her clothes. Seeing a figure dart away through the woods, she gasped, "Could that be Father?" Qin Jiuxian feared it was Yang's father too and didn't dare rashly give chase; he and Yang Shanshan left the woods.

In the moonlight, far off, a boy's figure could be seen running hard away.

......

Early the next morning, Yang Yan was listless and at breakfast didn't dare meet Yang Shanshan's eyes. When Madam Yang asked, he only said his wounds had pained him in the night and he'd slept poorly; finishing his meal, he begged off to catch up on sleep.

He'd just returned to his room, lost in wild thoughts, when Yang Shanshan knocked and came in. Seeing his sister, Yang Yan started. But Yang Shanshan, against all her habit, spoke gently. "Little brother, let's strike a bargain."

Yang Yan knew what she was scheming, and now that he finally had something on her, he shot back at once, "Sneaking off to meet a man in the dead of night—aren't you afraid Pa will break your legs?"

Yang Shanshan gave a snort. "He's about to send for me in marriage. What's there to fear?"

"Then I'll go tell Pa!" Yang Yan had just stood up when Yang Shanshan barred his way. "Don't go stirring up trouble."

I'll stir up all the trouble I please, Yang Yan thought. He'd caught his chance at last, but how to take his revenge he hadn't yet worked out, so he only said, "Who told you to ruin my clothes!"

"It's just a worn-out old robe. I'll make it up to you, all right?" Yang Shanshan said. "Young master Qin's coming by later. I'll take you out, and whatever clothes or trinkets you want, I'll have him buy you the lot. Good enough?"

Yang Yan had been about to snap back, then thought better of it: why not use this to get even? He nodded. "Don't you go back on it!"

"Look how eager you are," Yang Shanshan said. "I said it, so I won't go back on it."

Past noon, Qin Jiuxian did indeed come. Yang Yan watched him crane his neck about outside, and knew he had a guilty conscience; only after Yang Shanshan gave him a sign did he step in. Qin Jiuxian made his greetings and said he meant to take Yang Shanshan into the city; Yang Shanshan said she'd bring Yang Yan along to widen his horizons.

This rather astonished the Yang elders.

"Is the sky about to rain red?" Grandpa peered at the heavens, much troubled.

"If you take your brother off and sell him, even my own daughter won't be forgiven," Yang Zhengde said gravely.

"What's this rough lad even worth?" Yang Shanshan retorted. "I'd have to pay someone to take him off my hands."

Yang Zhengde answered, "My son here is bright and quick. You can't see his worth, but others would fight to dote on him."

"You two, father and daughter, quit your prattling," Madam Yang put in. "Go early, come back early."

The three of them went into the city. The whole way, Yang Shanshan kept up her flirting with Qin Jiuxian while Yang Yan trailed silently behind, his mind full of plans for how to fleece this pair of shameless lovers.

At a nod from Yang Shanshan, the three came to a small cloth shop, and the moment Yang Yan opened his mouth he called out, "Bring out your finest cloth!"

The shopkeeper brought out several satins; Yang Yan picked through them, satisfied with none, and pointing at Qin Jiuxian's sash, asked, "Have you any cloth like this?"

The shopkeeper glanced at it. "That's top-grade silk. I've none in stock. You'd have to go to Baoqing Store two streets over—they've more and better goods there, only the prices aren't cheap."

At the name Baoqing Store, Qin Jiuxian's brow furrowed, and Yang Yan caught it. "Many thanks, shopkeeper. We'll patronize you another day," Yang Yan said, and left.

Yang Shanshan hurried after. "Why'd you stop looking?"

"You think those shabby scraps will fob me off?" Yang Yan said. "We're going to Baoqing Store."

The three reached Baoqing Store, the largest silk house in the city, cloth of every kind set out in dazzling array, along with all manner of accessories—hairpins, headdresses, waist-pendants, jade belt-hooks, the lot.

It was the first time Yang Yan had set foot in so grand a shop, and it opened his eyes; he couldn't keep from touching this and fingering that. Seeing his shabby dress, the manager said quickly, "Young master, don't go handling things. Break something and you'll have to pay for it."

Without so much as a look at him, Yang Yan said, "Manager, you've eyes but can't see Mount Tai. The great hero Qin is right here—haven't you noticed?" Qin Jiuxian, much embarrassed, could only offer the manager a polite smile. Yang Yan went on, "Manager, bring out your finest cloth."

The manager hesitated, then fetched two bolts from the back room; one glance at their texture and luster showed they were first-rate.

"This is Shu brocade, top-grade—three hundred cash the foot." At that price Qin Jiuxian's face changed on the spot. "We don't need cloth as fine as that, surely?" Seeing his expression, Yang Yan was privately delighted.

Yang Shanshan said, "Don't go robbing him blind. Whatever you ruined, that's all you'll be paid back."

"You're the one who said whatever I want, you'd buy. And I like this cloth," Yang Yan said.

Yang Shanshan wasted no more breath on him and, pointing at Qin Jiuxian's sash, asked, "Have you any more cloth like this?" The manager took a look. "We've just sold out of that satin. There won't be more until next month's shipment."

"I can't wait that long." Yang Yan's temper rose. "If you've none of this cloth, you'll make it up to me—or else we go home!" He turned to the manager again. "Have you anything better? Bring it out and let's see."

The manager said, "There's Su brocade with Su embroidery, five hundred cash the foot. It's in the back room."

"Fetch it out and let me see," Yang Yan said.

Qin Jiuxian said, "Little brother, don't go too far!" Yang Yan rolled his eyes at him and paid no heed. Qin Jiuxian said, "Once we're family we're all one, and out of regard for you as my future brother-in-law I let you climb all over me. It's just a worn-out sash—you'd squeeze me for tael after tael of silver over it?"

Yang Yan said, "That was the robe my mother gave me. You couldn't afford to repay it!" Qin Jiuxian made as if to strike him; Yang Yan threw out his chest, not yielding an inch, and with Yang Shanshan standing by, Qin Jiuxian had to swallow his anger.

Seeing the situation past mending, Yang Shanshan hauled Yang Yan outside and scolded, "You don't know what's good for you!" Yang Yan said, "I don't, and what of it? Give me back my clothes!"—and made again to grab Qin Jiuxian's sash.

Yang Shanshan flew into a rage and slapped him across the face. Yang Yan staggered back a few steps, his eyes reddening, and cursed, "You thieving wretch, you dare hit me!" Yang Shanshan swore back, "Hit you I did. So what? Get out!"

Yang Yan turned and walked off. Qin Jiuxian made to chase him, but Yang Shanshan grabbed him. "Chase him for what?" "If he tells about us—" Qin Jiuxian was still staring after Yang Yan.

"He's my brother—I know him! He won't tell." Yang Shanshan scolded, "A few feet of cloth and you carry on like it's cut from your own flesh! Go home and get ready—come to my house tonight and ask for my hand. Stall again and I'll drag you off to the Chongren branch hall!" With that she stormed off too.

Seeing his customers had all scattered, the Baoqing Store owner poked his head out and asked, "Are you wanting to propose, sir? I've fine cloth for wedding clothes—care to look?"

Qin Jiuxian rewarded him with a sour look.

Away from Baoqing Store, Yang Yan, stewing in his anger, turned a corner, sat down on the ground, and brooded, cursing Yang Shanshan and her lover without cease.

He didn't really mean to tell his parents about last night; that had only been bravado. He knew the rules well: to violate a woman was a grave crime all under Heaven would punish, reported to the local sect, the offender seized at once; and if he fled, a warrant would go out, and wherever among the Nine Great Houses he hid, someone would come for him. Qin Jiuxian was as good as his brother-in-law now. Telling his parents would only upset them—at most they'd scold Yang Shanshan a few words, and that was no revenge at all. But once Yang Shanshan was married off, wouldn't all these years of grudges go forever unavenged? No. He had to make her suffer something.

He turned it over and over and could think of nothing good. Yang Shanshan was strong-willed. He'd once tried catching frogs and little snakes to frighten her, and she'd stamped them all dead underfoot; in the end it was he who couldn't bear it and moped for days. He'd thought of wrecking her cosmetics box, of spoiling some of her little things—then remembered how hard his parents worked for their money, and that anything broken would have to be made good.

Was he truly helpless against this thieving wretch? Yang Yan was musing dully when a sudden clamor broke out—someone nearby was putting on an opera to thank the gods. With no notion in his head, Yang Yan got up and followed the crowd to see the fun.

At the stage, he remembered how his parents had taken him to the opera when he was small; back then he hadn't understood the lyrics and had only thought the painted leading ladies pretty in their bright colors. Watching now, he naturally followed it better than he had as a child.

The piece on stage was a reworked excerpt, "Lin Chong's Night Flight." He'd never read Water Margin—this was the first he'd heard of the story—but he gathered the gist: a stout fellow named Lin Chong, brought to ruin by the schemes of the marshal Gao Qiu, from the burning of the forage depot through to Lin Chong learning his wife was dead and resolving to take to Mount Liang.

He heard:

"I had hoped to win a marquisate ten thousand miles off, like Ban Chao— yet they cast me as a Red Turban traitor, made of me a lord-betraying Huang Chao; so now I'm a falcon slipped its jesses, a sly hare loosed from the snare, a dragon tearing through the net. To save a nation in peril, who will cut down the false? To wield the law's just blade—where is a Gao Yao to be found? Only these graying temples, this beggared baggage of mine— yet I'll turn the very stars in their courses, set sea to boiling and mountains to quaking."

The performer's voice and bearing were superb, all fierce passion, and they stirred in Yang Yan a knot of grief he could not smooth away. He cast Lin Chong as himself and his sister as Gao Qiu, and felt Lin Chong wronged exactly as he was.

He heard further:

"My mother, my wife—on whom can they lean now? Here my own fortune, foul or fair, none can foretell; there their lives or deaths are past all reckoning. It frightens me till the sweat pours down, as if scalding water were poured over me; it sears me till my heart within burns like fire! My young wife—where is she now? The old hall stands emptied of its dead, and the toiling love of parents I can never repay. I cry aloud—say, how shall a hero's spirit be quenched? How shall the hero's spirit be quenched?"

Again he felt Lin Chong's grief, and felt it deep.

So Yang Yan listened on, all the way to Lin Chong taking to Mount Liang, and the audience rose, applauding and cheering, and he clapped and cheered along. He wanted to hear more, but found the crowd thinning, and asked in surprise, "That's it? It's over? Isn't he supposed to kill Gao Qiu?"

Someone answered, "That's all. Want to know the rest, go read Water Margin."

"Water Tiger Margin?" Yang Yan quietly noted the title, puzzled. "Lin Chong's a fierce tiger; if he's gone up the mountain, it ought to be a Mountain Tiger Margin. How's it a Water Tiger? And how would a tiger come to be by the water?" No matter—one day he'd find this book and read it. To see Lin Chong kill Gao Qiu, now that would be deeply satisfying.

Like in plight as he was, he couldn't very well kill his sister. Having heard one excerpt, Yang Yan still had no clear plan for revenge, and could only drift here and there about the streets. As it happened he wandered up to a smithy and peered inside, where sabers and swords were laid out, along with household goods—kitchen cleavers, hatchets, and the like. He halted, struck by a sudden notion, and asked the smith, "Have you any little scissors?"

"I do, all kinds. What are you cutting, lad? Hair? Cloth?"

"Cloth," Yang Yan answered. "Small ones, not too big."

The smith handed him a tailor's shears. Yang Yan looked them over and said, "Still too big. Have you any smaller?" "Smallest I've got is this one," the smith replied.

Yang Yan pouted and asked again, "What about smaller scissors—none at all?" The smith thought a moment, then produced a pair of nail clippers the size of half a palm. "These are for trimming nails. See if they'll do?"

Yang Yan weighed them in his hand and asked, "Can these cut through cloth?"

"Coarse hemp would be a struggle. They won't cut brocade or satin cleanly."

"How much?" Make do with them, Yang Yan thought.

"Fifteen cash," said the smith.

Yang Yan felt in his pocket and found only five cash. His face fell, and he handed the clippers back. "Never mind."

The smith said, "Aren't you the Yang carpenter's boy—Yang Zhengde's son? When Squire Tao was building his house I did the ironwork, and I saw you bring your father his meals." Surprised the man knew him, Yang Yan nodded that it was so.

The smith pressed the clippers back into Yang Yan's hand. "My cousin's wife is a widow with a child to raise, and when her eaves fell in, it was your father who patched them up. I've never forgotten that kindness. These nail clippers are a gift to you." He took them back once more. "Let me hone them for you a bit."

Yang Yan accepted the gift, thinking his hope of revenge served. Seeing the light failing toward dusk, he reckoned it was time to head home. He left the city and walked into the woods. Past the woods lay his home, a lone house standing solitary; the rare visitors who came all said it was easy to find.

Yang Yan walked among the trees, the orange daylight on the verge of dimming. As he went, he wondered what besides the radish-and-spare-rib stew there might be for supper.

Musing on it, he caught the scent of radish, and his spirits lifted; he broke into a run and dashed in one breath to his own front door.

The moment he pushed it open, he heard a clash and clamor of blades.

Silver light and blood—that was the first thing Yang Yan saw. Blood on the swords and sabers, on Grandpa, on his father, on his mother, and on the men in green and the men in blue.

Before Yang Yan could grasp what was happening, he heard his father's cry, torn from the depths of him.

"Yan'er—run!"

Yang Yan came to himself in an instant, and everyone's movements seemed to quicken. He saw his father, sword in hand, locked in close combat with a swordsman in green, already cut in many places; Grandpa and his mother had drawn swords too and were pressing another swordsman in blue from both sides. His father's cry to run kept bursting in his head, but it was too late—his body had gone weak and sour as if soaked in vinegar, and he couldn't move at all.

The man in blue threw off Madam Yang and Grandpa and rushed at Yang Yan. Grandpa flung himself forward to bar the way. The man in blue whipped around and swung a level cut—a stroke cunningly aimed, made expressly for an enemy giving chase from behind—and Grandpa, frantic to shield his grandson, had no time to dodge.

A head was sheared clean off, level and smooth, and because the stroke had come so fast it flew on in the direction of his run, rolled along the ground, and rolled to a stop before Yang Yan.

Still wide-eyed, as if urging Yang Yan to run.

Yang Yan thought he would scream, would cry out for Grandpa—but he didn't. It was as though something had clamped down over him, and no sound could get past his heart.

Then a tremendous force struck him in the chest, and his sight went black as he fell backward.

......

He lay senseless he knew not how long, and when Yang Yan opened his eyes again, before him was still his own home, the place he knew better than any, the surroundings he knew better than any.

Only the instant he opened his eyes, he saw his father, mother, and sister lying on the ground, hands and feet bound behind them. He struggled a little and found his own hands bound behind him too; and he saw that little brother's cradle had been set in the hall as well.

The tables and chairs had been shoved against one wall, baring an open space in the middle, where the man in green and the man in blue stood. The man in blue was in his mid-twenties, lean and tall, with a garlic-bulb nose that caught the eye; the man in green was past thirty, eyes flashing with hard light, yet half a head shorter even than Yang Shanshan.

Besides these two, there was a third, one Yang Yan hadn't noticed before.

A middle-aged man, past forty, wearing a far-traveler's cap, a small mustache on his lip, a cloak black without and red within over his shoulders, his face cold as frost and wholly without expression—seated in the very chair Grandpa loved best. The tables and chairs of the room had all been heaped about in disorder, yet around this man alone everything stood as neat as ever. His hands were folded, he spoke not a word, and only watched, quietly.

"Who are you? Why are you doing this to us?" Yang Yan roared.

"Yan'er, don't speak!" Yang Zhengde scolded hurriedly, then turned to plead, "Spare them, they've nothing to do with this! They can't take revenge! You know the rules—a feud reaches no further than three generations, and they're the fourth. They can't take revenge!"

Yang Zhengde finished and simply kept kowtowing. Madam Yang, eyes brimming, kowtowed along with him. Yang Shanshan, terrified, sobbed without pause, only murmuring over and over, "You've got the wrong people, you must have the wrong people..."

Yang Yan went on cursing them at the top of his voice. "You killed Grandpa, you killed Grandpa! You butchers, I'll have your lives! Your lives!"

"Shut your mouth, you mongrel!" The man in green kicked Yang Yan sprawling to the floor. Yang Yan kept cursing all the same, and Yang Zhengde couldn't quiet him.

The man in green casually smashed a bowl on the table, grabbed up a handful of shards, jammed them into Yang Yan's mouth, and forced his jaw shut. The shards split his mouth and pierced through his cheeks; unable to open his jaws, his mouth filling with blood, he could only make a strangled huffing sound.

The man in green laughed. "What did you say? I can't quite hear you—speak up!"

The man in blue said, "Since you knew the rules of the martial world, you should've done away with yourselves long ago. Why live on and bring ruin down on your offspring—drag us into hunting you all these years? See what a great face you've got—even the sect master has come for you." As he spoke he glanced back at the middle-aged man in black robes, a question in his eyes.

The man in black robes was still expressionless, neither pity nor the thrill of vengeance in his gaze—if anything, the look of an outsider.

The man in blue lifted his sword. "Which one to start with?" he said, and looked at Madam Yang. Knowing she could not be spared, Madam Yang gave Yang Zhengde a bitter smile. "Zhengde—in the next life let us be husband and wife again."

Yang Zhengde had time only to cry "Wife!" before the man in blue's sword opened Madam Yang's throat; blood sprayed out, spattering the table and floor.

Yang Shanshan shrieked. Seeing his mother die so wretchedly, Yang Yan felt a knot of rage choke his chest, fit to burst, and yet with no way to loose it he could only writhe and strain with all his strength; the ropes cut his wrists and ankles to bleeding, and he never felt it.

The man in blue raised his sword toward Yang Zhengde. "Now it's your turn."

The man in black robes gave a soft cough, and the man in blue's shoulders shot up as if a blade had fallen across his back.

In a low voice the man in green said, "Kill the small ones first."

Only then did the man in blue recollect himself. He said to Yang Zhengde, "Three of them. You keep one; the other two die. Which do you keep?"

Watching his beloved wife die so cruelly, and hearing this question, Yang Zhengde was struck dumb for a moment, then asked in a trembling voice, "What... what did you say?"

The man in blue said, "A feud reaches no further than three generations; the slaughter can't take a whole household. Grandpa here's being good to you—I'll let you choose. Which do you keep to carry on the line?"

Yang Zhengde looked at Yang Yan and Yang Shanshan, then at the infant in the cradle, his gaze wavering, and couldn't help glancing once more at the man in black robes. The man sat as calm as before, seemingly waiting too for him to decide.

The man in blue said, "Or tell me—which to kill first?"

Yang Zhengde said, shaking, "I... I..."

Front of the hand or back, it was all his own flesh; Yang Zhengde's heart was wrung, but how could he ever decide?

The man in blue said, "Can't pick? Then I'll pick for you." He leveled his sword at Yang Yan. Yang Yan was not the least afraid; his mouth full of blood, he could no longer speak, but his eyes stayed wide, as though they would shoot out fire.

The man in blue turned his sword toward Yang Shanshan. "Or this one?"

Yang Shanshan shook her head and screamed, "No—don't kill me!"

The man in blue pressed again. "Decided yet? Which one do you keep?"

Knowing pleas were useless, Yang Zhengde set his teeth and made up his mind. "Keep the youngest!" he said, and turned his face aside, not daring to look at Yang Yan or Yang Shanshan.

The man in blue laughed aloud. "Hear that? Your own pa doesn't want you!" With that his sword swept up; Yang Yan saw only a fountain of blood leap from the cradle, heard a single thin wail, "Waah—!"—and then no sound at all.

The man in blue laughed. "Delightful! Delightful!"

Yang Yan's mind went blank, his only thought, Little brother's dead? Little brother too? The little brother he'd hardly held more than a few times—dead, just like that? He couldn't see into the cradle and clung to the hope of some last miracle; heedless of the blood masking his face, he twisted his body to drag himself closer for a look. The man in blue watched him come, and when he'd nearly reached the cradle, drove a kick into his belly. Yang Yan tumbled across the floor, howling with pain, able only to produce a choked sob, two streams of tears bursting forth at once. With his mouth crammed with porcelain shards and his cheeks one mass of wounds, his tears mixed with blood and wet the ground.

Suddenly the courtyard gate creaked open. Everyone looked—and it was Qin Jiuxian. Qin Jiuxian came bearing a live wild goose, and no sooner had he pushed the gate than this ghastly scene met his eyes.

"Jiuxian, save us!" Seeing her beloved arrive, Yang Shanshan cried out for help. For the first time Yang Yan placed such a vast hope in his future brother-in-law, praying Qin Jiuxian would cut these three villains to a thousand pieces.

Qin Jiuxian dropped the goose and made to draw his sword—but the man in green flashed to him in a streak. The man in green's sword was faster; Qin Jiuxian's blade was barely clear of its scabbard when a fierce pain shot through his arm, already opened in a long gash, blood pouring forth, his sword clattering to the ground.

That one wounding, that one sight of blood, and the rash courage of a moment ago vanished without a trace. He dropped to his knees, threw his arms around the man in green's leg, and wept and sniveled, crying, "Master, spare me! I didn't know, I saw nothing!" He was but a newcomer who'd only just received his Hero's Warrant, with next to no real combat behind him and never having taken a life; faced with this life-and-death struggle, he'd lost his nerve before the fighting even started, his legs gone soft beneath him as he knelt and begged.

The man in green looked at Qin Jiuxian with contempt. Yang Shanshan, who had been crying out to her lover, froze where she was, mouth agape, at a loss for words, her eyes sliding from hope to despair and at last, amid Qin Jiuxian's pleading, losing all focus.

Yang Yan's heart turned colder still, as if plunged into an icy well.

The man in green looked to the man in black robes, who gave a slight wave of his hand, and the man in green drew back the sword-tip he'd held at Qin Jiuxian. As if granted a pardon, Qin Jiuxian cried out, "I won't tell, I won't tell a soul!"

He dared not even spare Yang Shanshan a glance, and scrambled out in a panicked, stumbling crawl.

The man in blue smiled at Yang Shanshan. "That's your sweetheart? So useless—you'd be better off with me."

Yang Shanshan suddenly twisted around, knelt on the ground knocking her head down over and over, weeping and pleading: "Master, let me come with you! I beg you, spare me, and I'll serve you! I'll make you feel so good!"

Yang Yan and Yang Zhengde could scarcely believe their ears. Yang Zhengde said, trembling, "Shan'er, you... what are you saying?"

Yang Shanshan said, "You only ever favored little brother! I don't want to die, I don't!" Then she turned to plead with the man in blue. "My father's cast me off. I've always hated that little brother of mine. I don't want to die together with them!"

Shocked and horrified, Yang Yan, who in this moment would sooner die than show weakness before his enemies, could never have imagined that to save her own skin Yang Shanshan would offer such shameless terms. It was as if Yang Shanshan had become a fourth accomplice, joining in the slaughter of his own family.

Yang Zhengde cursed savagely, "To violate a woman, to ruin her honor—all under Heaven would punish it! You can't do this!"

"It's my own will, my own will!" Yang Shanshan begged. "Spare me, and how would I ever dare bring a false charge against you?"

The man in blue swallowed and looked to the man in black robes with a questioning gaze. The man in black robes made no sound, plainly consenting—it seemed there was no act of torment against the Yang family he would oppose.

Overjoyed, the man in blue was about to step forward when Yang Zhengde gave a great roar: "Even as a ghost I'll never let you go!"—and sprang up to hurl himself at the man in blue. The man in blue, on the point of taking his pleasure and fearing to be hindered, ran his sword clean through Yang Zhengde's chest. Yang Shanshan cried out. The man in blue kicked Yang Zhengde off the blade, swearing, "Tired of living!" Yang Zhengde collapsed to the floor, his face streaming tears, and though his breath was failing, he never stopped his cursing. Not wanting his sport spoiled, the man in blue stabbed him again and again in the chest and belly; blood ran across the floor, and after a while he fell silent.

A wild rage surged through Yang Yan; his head felt as though it had swelled tenfold all at once, the world spinning in chaos. There was a fire in his chest, yet his stomach clenched tight; he wanted to vomit but could only retch dryly, which jarred the broken shards in his mouth so that they pushed out one by one through his cheeks. But he felt no pain—he felt only heat, hot and hotter, that fire spreading, searing him from inside out. He only gasped in great mouthfuls of air, his eyes flung wide, letting the heat vent through his eyes and his mouth, until threads of blood crawled across both eyes.

The man in blue swore a few times, then turned and asked the man in green, "How about we finish that boy off first?"

The man in green said, "Are you a fool? If the boy's dead, what's she serving you for?"

The man in blue said, "Brother Shi Jiu thinks of everything—ha!"

The man in blue cut the ropes binding Yang Shanshan, and she hurriedly stripped off her clothes, baring a pair of snow-white breasts. The man in blue pulled down his trousers and said in a commanding tone, "Use your mouth." He forced her head down, a satisfied look on his face.

The man in green, Shi Jiu, hauled Yang Yan up and laughed. "Still a virgin, eh? Look now—dead, you'll never get the chance."

Yang Yan didn't want to look, but he didn't turn his head away.

He would remember these three men's faces—he had to remember them! Even if he roasted in hell for ten million years, he would come back and take his revenge!

No—he no longer feared hell, because this place was hell!

He gripped tight the nail clippers he'd carried back from the smithy. He'd hidden them up his sleeve, meaning to snip through that sash when Qin Jiuxian wasn't looking—the sight of Qin Jiuxian had reminded him of the clippers. They had not been taken from him in the search. Soundlessly he worked them from his sleeve, and while Shi Jiu was fixed on the live show before him, he cut through the ropes on his hands, little by little.

He would strike back. Knowing full well these men were masters of martial arts, he would strike back though it killed him—he would drive these nail clippers into every one of his enemies, and into Yang Shanshan too!

What had stood between him and Yang Shanshan before had only been the quarrels of brother and sister. Only in this moment—this moment—did he truly, bitterly hate Yang Shanshan; he could no longer even tell whether he hated these men more, or this shameless sister of his.

The man in black robes seemed not to have noticed Yang Yan's movements either. Just a little more, just a little more, and he'd be free of his bonds and avenge them all!

Yang Shanshan, both hands braced at the man in blue's groin, eyes shut, seemed to be serving him with all she had. The man in blue propped himself on his sword with his left hand while his right kneaded ceaselessly at her chest, saying, "Brother Shi Jiu, come over too—this little slut's wild enough, we'll do her together... oh..." He let out a soft groan, plainly relishing it.

All at once the man in blue screamed in agony, and Yang Shanshan raised her head, her mouth full of blood. She had clearly long since laid her plan: her right hand snatched up the sword from his grip, and her slender neck drove straight into the blade-tip; then she wrenched her head violently aside, and her severed throat sent blood blossoming across the air.

Through the spray of blood, Yang Yan saw Yang Shanshan's falling figure, and her blood-blurred face seemed to be smiling at him.

Yang Yan could not believe it. He didn't understand—couldn't understand why the sister who a moment ago had wanted only to live on in shame had suddenly chosen death. With his feet still bound, he could only kneel on the ground, his mind in utter turmoil. The man in blue rolled about in agony, screaming without cease; Shi Jiu stood stunned at the sudden turn. But all Yang Yan saw was blood.

Blood, everywhere blood—Grandpa's blood, his mother's blood, little brother's blood, his father's blood, and the blood of Yang Shanshan, whom only a moment ago he had hated with all his heart.

The blood of his whole family.

In that same instant, the ropes on Yang Yan's hands came apart. By reflex he clenched the clippers tight, and with all the hatred burning in him, drove them with all his strength into Shi Jiu's belly.

Shi Jiu never dreamed the boy could break free and strike back; with a wet thud the clippers sank into Shi Jiu's stomach. Unhappily, the clippers were no proper killing blade—the point sank an inch and then was stopped by the muscle. Yang Yan wrenched at them with all his might, churning the blade in the flesh, and Shi Jiu let out a yell; the agony robbed him of reason, and in a fury he roared, "Let go!" and slashed his sword at Yang Yan.

Yang Yan's eyes flew wide, braced to die—but the sword halted dead before his brow.

At some point unmarked, the man in black robes had come to stand between him and Shi Jiu, the index and middle fingers of his right hand pinching Shi Jiu's blade, his other hand pressed to Yang Yan's shoulder.

Yang Yan felt in that palm a boundless force, crushing down so that he couldn't budge a single finger, until he could barely keep his grip on the clippers. He would not give up his one weapon and held on tight, but in the end he could not resist; his hands went slack and he slumped to the floor.

The man in black robes glanced at Shi Jiu, one eyebrow giving a faint twitch, as if in question. Shi Jiu said hastily, "I'm sorry, sect master, I... I lost my temper for a moment... I didn't mean to... I broke the rules." Then, clutching his belly, he retreated to one side.

The man in black robes looked at Yang Yan and said mildly, "You have a good sister."

It was the only thing Yang Yan heard him say all that day, in a northern accent. The man in black robes then gave a light push, and Yang Yan slid back several feet until he struck the wall hard, his sight went black, and he passed out.

......

That faint lasted he knew not how long, and when Yang Yan opened his eyes again, before him there was only red.

Red like blood.

He remembered everything that had happened before he lost consciousness, but for some reason he felt calm—unexpectedly calm—as if none of it had happened at all.

Grandpa's body without its head, his sister's body bared, his little brother in a cradle steeped in blood, no longer crying, and his father and mother lying on the ground.

He saw it all, and yet felt so calm; he felt that all the grief and pain of his life had been poured out empty.

Heedless of the pain in his mouth and through his whole body, he writhed and struggled, picked up the nail clippers, and cut the ropes from his feet.

He stood up. He didn't fall weeping over his parents' bodies, nor try to bury them, nor even fetch a cloth to cover his sister's nakedness. He didn't take a single step nearer the dead—only, little by little, little by little, picked the broken bowl-shards from his mouth where they had pierced through his cheeks, and washed the wounds with water.

It hurt, but Yang Yan felt no hurt. He wanted to wash the blood from his eyes, but that redness would not wash away. He did not know that his eyes had filled with bloodshot threads that would never fade; what he had witnessed the day before had not only changed his mind but injured his eyes.

From that day on, Yang Yan saw the whole world in red.

He thought of the hidden compartment his father had left him, so he went to his father's room to search, and at last, beneath the desk, found a compartment exactly like his own. From inside it he drew out a wooden drawer, and in the drawer lay a golden token, weighty when he lifted it—a good three or four taels—the front cast with four characters, "Xianxia Sect Leader's Token," the back a design of rosy light and drifting clouds, quite finely wrought.

How had his father come by something so precious? And why had he hidden it here?

Besides the token, the compartment held a sheet of paper, old and yellowed, almost crumbling at a touch, on which was written "Yuefeng Gambling House"; at the lower right was drawn a gaunt, withered face, and beside it, scrawled crookedly, the character for "old." The downstroke of that character was thick at the upper right and thin at the lower left, and the dagger-shaped element beneath it ran a vertical line straight through—looking, all told, like a knife.

He went back to his own room and took out the ball of embroidery needles he kept in his own compartment.

He did not know who those men were, nor why they had spared his life.

He did not know those so-called "rules."

Still less did he know why Yang Shanshan, who had bullied him since he was small, would in the end be willing to die for him.

And that faint smile of hers before she died...

But he knew what he had to do, and he would remember this for the rest of his days!

He bundled up his clothes, tucked the ball of needles and the token safely against his chest, and splashed the kitchen's cooking oil across the floor.

He lifted a torch and turned for one last look at this home.

"My mother, my wife—on whom can they lean now? Here my own fortune, foul or fair, none can foretell; there their lives or deaths are past all reckoning. It frightens me till the sweat pours down, as if scalding water were poured over me; it sears me till my heart within burns like fire. My young wife—where is she now? The old hall stands emptied of its dead, and the toiling love of parents I can never repay..."

Yang Yan flung down the torch, let the flames swallow the little house, and under cover of dusk left the home he had once had.

"I cry aloud—say, how shall a hero's spirit be quenched? How shall the hero's spirit be quenched?"