WUXIA ALL UP IN YOUR FACE!!!

[benchilada]

Aw yeah, boys and girls.

The Mo Lan Devils are back!

For those who need the story up until now:

Part One
Part Two
Part Three (complete with reference shots)

A quick note: This was written at 3am after 2 hours of sleep and is still unedited. Be gentle. Writing kung-fu fights is hard.

And now...

            Burilgi was faster than he looked, which is saying very little, since he looked as slow as the summer sun. Swift Wind shot forward, but Cunning was faster, and his Lightfoot took him past the sword and past the Mongolian’s arm. He buried his forehead in the man’s chest with all of his strength.

            On any normal man, this blow would have winded him, or at the very least staggered him, but to a man mountain such as Burilgi, it was nothing but a tap.

            “Ho ho!” he shouted, “it is clear that I will not win on speed, just as you will not win on strength! I am too used to the massive weight of Steer Cutter in my hand, but with sufficient force, even gentle Swift Wind should be able to cut through you!”

            With that, he swung his sword down the front of his own torso, in an attempt to catch Cunning on the crown of his head…but it was not to be, as Cunning had already ducked, and was monkey-swinging between the Mongolian’s legs. When he was behind Burilgi, he held his table leg high and brought it down upon the bull-like neck.

            Again, any normal man would have had trouble standing after such a blow, but the Mongolian only grunted and took a single step forward. He turned to face Cunning, who had tucked the table-leg into his belt and was holding only the wine urn.

            “That was well struck, little man. Now, it is my turn.”

            Burilgi’s grip on Swift Wind had changed, and he no longer wielded it as one would a cleaver, but instead began to thrust it as one would a straighter, stronger weapon.

Cunning smiled at this and lifted the urn.

            In a single deft movement, he had caught the tip of Swift Wind in the jug, and with a flick of his wrist, bent the flexible sword downwards. He smiled at the Mongolian, looking like the fox that has just clenched its jaws on the chicken. The tip of the sword still in the urn, the sword bent over 90 degrees, Cunning gave the pot a gentle push, letting physics do the rest of the work for him.

            Swift Wind bent back with great force and speed, past its natural state, until it swept upwards, smashing the wine jug squarely across the Mongolian’s nose. The ceramic shattered upon impact, some pieces cutting bare flesh and others sticking in his long beard.

            The smile had left Burilgi’s face, and he used his free hand to check his wounds. As he looked at the blood on his palm, his forehead furrowed and his nostrils flared.

            “This is the famed fighting style of Cunning? Standing on a man’s shoulders? Ducking between his legs? A table leg to his neck? A wine urn across his face? You fight me without a weapon only to shame me, not to win. That is why your blows may sting my pride, but mine will cut your flesh!”

            With that, he advanced, rotating his wrist and twisting his forearm, Swift Wind turning like a small cyclone. He lacked style and finesse, but he was beginning to understand how this sword was to be used. As it snaked forward, Cunning smiled and withdrew the table leg.

            As the swirling sword made its approach, Cunning thrust forward the table leg, bending his wrist and arm to match the movements of Swift Wind. He quickly spun the sword around his own weapon and caught the blade’s edges deep in the wood. With a mighty jerk of his arm, Cunning pulled the weapon from the Mongolian’s hand. The strength of his pull hurled the tai chi sword across the room, where it stuck in the wall, its shuddering metal singing.

            “That is how Cunning wins,” smiled the young man. “With his namesake.”

            Behind the Monglian, A-ri struggled to pull Steer Cutter from the floor. When he had freed it, he called to his master.

            “Burilgi!” he shouted. “Your sword!”

            The Mongolian said nothing, merely held out his hand, palm facing his servant.

            “No. I am not certain I can win this fight. Tell me, Cunning, how is it that your scrawny frame has defeated my strength and fortitude?”

            Cunning smiled as he walked backwards to where Swift Wind still bounced slightly. When he reached the sword, he pulled it from its makeshift scabbard and held it, point first, at the Mongolian.

            “Take up Steer Cutter,” he said, “and I will explain.”

            Burilgi tilted his hand, so that the palm now faced up, and A-ri threw the massive, nine-ringed broadsword at his master. The Mongolian caught it without looking, and the metal loops upon its spine jangled.

            “You see,” said Cunning as he walked forward, checking the gamblers’ cups for any spare drops of wine, “you and I have developed our strengths differently. All of your life, you have expended your Chi to broaden your chest, to strengthen your arms, to increase your incredible resilience.”

            Cunning emptied one of the cups into his mouth, as Burilgi’s other servant brought his master a full urn of wine, which he drank like water.

            “Because your power is so internalized, you cannot properly wield a sword like this. Indeed, even its name is trickery. It is only when guided by a ‘swift wind’ of chi that this blade can show its true prowess…a chi I can direct with little thought.” Cunning said, looking suddenly cross that there was no more wine on the table.

            “Well then, little man. Stop talking about the weapon…and use it!” shouted Burilgi, punctuating his last word by throwing his empty urn at Cunning.

            Cunning quickly kicked a chair towards his opponent. It smashed through the urn and kept going, until the Mongolian easily cut it in half with Steer Cutter. When he finished his swing, he was startled to find that Cunning had run behind the chair, his sword extended.

            Swift Wind seemed to shine brighter than before as Cunning wove a web of steel around Burilgi, who could do nothing but pivot his blade to block. The attacks seemed to come from every angle, and only the massive size of Steer Cutter and the muscles of the man who held it kept it from dicing the Mongolian where he stood.

            Burilgi tried to press an attack, but every time he drew back to strike, there was Swift Wind, ready to pierce his defenses. He would turn his blade, and Swift Wind would strike it, then pull back for another blow. Sometimes Cunning was so fast that it was all the Mongolian’s eyes could do to keep up with his strikes.

            Changing tactics, Burilgi began to take a few steps backwards, his stride so big that he was momentarily able to slow the attacks against him. He took a low swing with Steer Cutter, and the air itself seemed to rush apart, for fear of meeting the blade. Cunning leapt backwards, and the Mongolian seized the opportunity to grab a chair leg from the floor.

            He practically gloated as he advanced on Cunning, waving the massive broadsword in a wide, horizontal figure eight. He held the chair leg to the side, his enormous fingers more than wrapping themselves around it.

            Burilgi knew that even Cunning was not foolish enough to attempt to use his weapon to counter a direct attack from Steer Cutter. When his foe danced Swift Wind below the strikes of the broadsword—which was moving so fast that its rings made not a sound—the Mongolian struck with the chair leg.

            Using the same technique that Cunning had, he barely managed to get Swift Wind wound around the leg several times.

            “Your attacks are slowing now, Cunning, as I was able to trap Swift Wind in the same way you did! Is this legendary weapon’s weakness so easy to discover?” asked Burilgi, raising Steer Cutter high and grinning.

            “Yes, it did seem that my attacks were too slow, didn’t it? It was almost as though I wanted you to capture my blade, wasn’t it?” he smirked.

            Burilgi’s smile widened as he jerked the chair leg as hard as he could, ready for Swift Wind to fly from Cunning’s hand. Instead, with a tiny flick of his wrist, the Mo Lan Devil turned his sword ever so slightly. He pulled back, and Swift Wind dug deep, until, like a reverse corkscrew, it wound itself through the wood, leaving the chair leg in four pieces, three of which dropped to the ground.

            Burilgi’s smile vanished as he stared at the tiny stub of wood left in his hand. Cunning pressed his attack and again Burilgi was forced on the defensive. Swift Wind could not leave so much as a scratch on Steer Cutter, but the Mongolian was unable to do anything but block with it.

            As he was pushed backwards towards the bar, Burilgi maneuvered around a small table, which gave him a brief advantage due to his lengthy reach. He thrust Steer Cutter with such force that he knew Swift Wind would be unable to counter.

            Indeed, Cunning did not use his sword to counter, but bent backwards, like a reed, and the broadsword sliced through air less than an inch above his chest. Before the Burilgi could recover and swing again, Cunning had leapt onto the table and into the air above his opponent.

            Twisting in midair, he landed with his legs across the Mongolian’s shoulders, the soles of his feet touching each other just in front of Burilgi’s face. He quickly wrapped the flat of Swift Wind around his opponent’s neck, then held perfectly still.

            The Mongolian froze. He knew that Cunning was again using the Unmoving Stance. Any attempts to shake him free would fail, and any attempts to attack would mean that his opponent would pivot the blade of Swift Wind, quickly removing his head.

            Everything in the Green Snake Inn fell silent. Burilgi’s servants had drawn their own daggers but did not move, for their master’s sake. The gamblers were all poking their heads out from the closet, and Siao Yu and Ho stood beside each other behind the bar, only inches from the combatants.

            Slowly, deliberately, Burilgi let Steer Cutter slip from his hands, the blade again burying itself in the dirt floor.

            “What are you waiting for, Cunning? Finish what I have started!” His eyes darted towards his servants. “Tell all of our tribe, spread far the word that I have died in battle against a worthy foe, that it took one of the legendary Mo Lan devils to end my life!”

            As he spoke, he felt Cunning take a stand on his shoulders, and Swift Wind grew tight around his neck. Suddenly, Cunning released the blade, and as it snapped forward, he leapt to the second-floor walkway that encircled the common area of the Inn. Burilgi reached his hand up, expecting blood to rage like a fountain from the wound in his neck…a wound which was not there.

            He looked up at Cunning, who was climbing over the railing and reaching into his money pouch. He turned to survey the damage the two men had caused during their fight. He flipped a golden tael at Siao Yu, who caught it in her palm.

            “That should more than cover the damages we have wrought, as well as provide a bonus for your employees and the gamblers, all of whom we have severely inconvenienced,” Cunning smiled.

            Siao Yu wrapped her fingers around the tael as she drew back her arm, ready to throw the gold back at Cunning.

            “I will accept nothing from a Mo Lan Devil!” she shouted, surprising everyone. Even Burilgi turned to her with a confused look on his face.

            “Five decades ago, the love of my mother’s life set forth with Peerless Mok Leung to find and destroy the Mo Lan Devils! He left my mother to go on this quest! When he never returned, she was forced by her village to marry my father, a pale and weak man who died long ago! When I was born, I became the only joy left in her life! So I will take nothing from you, Devil!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, tears streaming down her cheeks, leaving clean lines on the dirt that had settled there.

            “I warn you, young lady, dare you not to throw that back at me, as I shall take grave offense.” At that, Ho reached up and wrapped his fingers around his Siao Yu’s wrist, and she struggled to free herself.

            “Let me go!”

            “If I do, who knows what fury he will unleash upon you, boss! Just let him go!”

            Siao Yu still fought, and Cunning reached into his pouch again.

            “What was the name of your mother’s love, the one who was sent to destroy us?” asked Cunning.

            “His name was Yee Chou!”

            Cunning’s face betrayed no emotion as he pulled five gold coins from the purse at his waist.

            “Yee Chou? I suppose…” his voice trailed off. “I suppose that we did kill a Yee Chou long ago…”

            “Here!” he shouted, hurling the five coins with lighting speed at the bar, where each one buried itself deep into the wood.

            “One coin for every decade that your mother has been without her life’s true love. Tell me, does she still live?”

            Siao Yu looked at the coins, which had gouged new wounds in both the bar and her heart. She nodded her head slowly.

            “Then tell her that Yee Chou died in the noblest way a man could ever hope to die!” he exclaimed, and with that, he leapt through a window that opened directly to the outside. Silence again claimed the inside of the Inn, save for the distant sound of Cunning’s lightfoot, and the quiet sobbing of Siao Yu.

b
Off to Allerton Park for brunch and a tour of the mansion...