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Mo-Lan Devils, revised, Part Three
(Part One)
(Part Two)

For photo reference of the type of old Chinese inn I’m talking about, I provided two pictures. The first floor was traditionally open, and functioned as a restaurant and bar. The balcony lead to rooms where people could stay for the night. Also included is a shot of a the type of traditional wine urn that they would be using, minus the labels. These came in a myriad of sizes, from the one shown to massive, three-foot tall versions.

For weapon reference, I have provided pictures of a flexible tai chi sword (imagine one slightly longer) and a Chinese broadsword (imagine one about, oh, four-times that size).

Or, if you prefer to skip straight to the story:

It had been an uneventful day at the Green Snake Inn. At the bar, Ho washed earthenware cups and wiped the counter with a filthy rag. The cook stood beside him, trying his best to fall asleep standing up. In the corner, four men were rolling dice and laughing heartily. As long as they kept ordering wine, Siao Yu didn’t care who won or who lost.

In fact, she didn’t worry about the men gambling at all. The authorities rarely came this far out into the middle of nowhere. Only people with nowhere to go, or those who had no choice but to pass through the Green Snake forest, ever stopped in.

She tried to gauge the intent of the man who just walked in the front door, and failed miserably. He had a mid-length salt-and-pepper beard, and was dressed in dusty gray robes, with a dirty tunic on his torso. He had a unibrow that must have stuck out a good half-inch from his face, and the eyes below were so brown that she could not see pupils. She guessed his age as being fifty, perhaps a bit older. He carried only a small sack, too small to indicate that he was going to or coming from the forest. Most curious of all, he seemed to have no weapons.

“Wine,” he said, to Siao Yu “and salt-fish with snow pickle.” Ho nudged the cook, who went into the kitchen, apparently having heard the order with his eyes closed.

Ho flicked a glance at his boss, and she gave him the “good wine” look. Though she could see no sign of sophistication on the man, he seemed like the sort of fellow who’d know if she gave him “drunk wine,”—the stuff that she only gave to those so inebriated that they’d never notice the difference—and might take offense.

Ho peeled the wax from a new small urn of wine and brought it and a somewhat clean cup to the man’s table. The man held out a few coins, which Ho immediately pocketed.

“Tipping before being served food,” thought Siao Yu, “this is no ordinary man.”

As he waited for his meal, the gentleman absentminded traced old scratches on the table with his fingernail. He would occasionally pause and turn his ear towards the door, but Siao Yu could see no reason why.

When the cook brought the fish and rice, the man again offered coins. This stunned the cook, was accustomed to earning no more than Siao Yu would pay him at the end of the day. He avoided eye contact with her as his slid the coins into his greasy apron and returned to his upright napping behind the bar.

The man ate slowly, relishing every bite as though he were sampling the best food he had eaten in years. Every time he caught Siao Yu glancing at him, he unexpectedly gave the wink of a younger man, eventually driving her to the front of the Inn, where she began calculating imaginary numbers on her abacus.

Each cup of wine was savored by the new guest, and even the gamblers had slowed their game to watch this man eat with such deliberate purpose. Every time he looked at them, however, they resumed their game without a pause. These were clearly career dice men.

Just as the man ate the last grains of rice from his bowl and tipped the last of his wine into his cup, the front doors swung open, revealing a massive Mongolian warrior. He was almost twice as wide as most men, his arms like hairy tree trunks. His barrel chest rose and fell with each mighty breath he drew. Behind him two smaller versions of their boss walked in. All three doffed their fur hats.

The inn fell silent and still. Nobody moved…except the dusty man, who walked in front of the Mongolian and interrupted him just as he was beginning to speak.

“May I have more rice, please?”

The cook took this as an opportunity to make a hasty retreat back to the kitchen. The Mongolian was less-than-pleased.

“Have you no manners?!” he thundered. The dirty man pulled his beard to the side for a moment and then pointed his thumb at his nose.

“Me?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to insult Bo-Long the Mongolian. I am simply very, very hungry.”

“Rice. You interrupted me for rice.”

“Well, where I’m from rice is pretty important stuff,” said the man as the cook handed him a fresh bowl and ran back to his pots. In the rear of the inn, the gamblers had pushed away their dice and were nervously sipping their wine.

As the stranger walked back to his table, he heard the deep voice from behind his back.

“Where I come from, we eat rice with these.”

There came a clatter and a whoosh from the bar. The stranger took one step to the side and—his back still turned— tipped his rice bowl over his shoulder. The two chopsticks that had been thrown at him stuck deep.

“Thank you. I’m lucky I had the rice to slow those down, or I fear they would have broken my bowl. Also, where I’m from,” he continued, taking his seat and holding his bowl out to the Mongolian, “sticking one’s chopsticks upright in rice is only for the dead. Do you sense ominous portent?”

“You have some mouth on you, old man, and your little trick may be enough to scare off many men…but Bo-Long is not many men!” he shouted.

“I should hope not. Your body can barely hold one of you. Not a light eater, hmm?”

At that, the Mongolian gestured to one of his men, who pulled from his back a massive sword with nine rings along its spine. It was easily twice the size of a typical broadsword, and the underling was straining to hold it with two hands.

The Mongolian had no such problem, however, hefting the sword in one hand and spinning it in ever-widening arcs. It sliced the air with a mighty whooshing sound, and the wind it produced ruffled even Bo-Long’s matted hair.

The dusty man began eating his rice.

The Mongolian charged, kicking tables and chairs out of his way as though they were tiny children. When he reached his opponent, he brought the broadsword down in an enormous swing.

“TEN THOUSAND CATTIE SWING!”

The air screamed as Steer Cutter tore through it, and the massive weapon cleaved the table and bench in two. Fragments of wood scattered across the room as the sword was driven nearly a foot into the dirt floor.

It was for the best that the target of the attack was no longer sitting there, having found a new place to be…namely, squatting on the Mongolian’s shoulders, his rice bowl and chopsticks still in hand.

“That was very lucky of me,” he smiled as the Mongolian tried fruitlessly to shake the man from atop him. It was as though the man’s feet were glued to the Mongolian’s shoulders. Bo-Lang swung the broadsword over his head, where it met with nothing but air as the man leapt, landing atop the fearsome Bo-Long’s shoulders again.

The Mongolian’s face turned red and he struggled to contain his anger.

“It’s impressive to see Steer Cutter in person,” said the man through a mouthful of rice, “the stories they tell of you and it are no exaggeration.”

“Steer Cutter has tasted the blood…of…” the massive man’s voice trailed off. “Wait. You know my name. You know of Steer Cutter. You predicted that I would throw chopsticks, you guessed that I would cut your table into firewood, and now you stand atop me with the Unmoving Stance?”

His laughter echoed throughout the inn, and Siao Yu gestured for Ho to hide behind the bar. The gamblers knew better than to stand up. The Mongolian threw Steer Cutter at the feet of the servant who had handed it to him.

“As you know me, I know you! Only one man could have done the things you do! Isn’t that right…Cunning?!”

The man on his shoulders leapt down—executing a precise mid-air spin—and landed just outside of Bo-Long’s reach.

“Cunning, Lieutenant of the Five Demon Fists of the Mo-Lan Devils, at your service.”

Cunning gave a neat bow as the gamblers all ran for a nearby storage room, slamming the door behind them.

“One of the Mo-Lan Devils stands before me! I consider this a day of vast and auspicious nature! A-ri!” he shouted, and the second of his servants stepped forward.

“For this fight, allow me to use my newest treasure.”

A-ri reached to his back and withdrew a lengthy flexible tai-chi sword. Bright red tassels hung from the jade hilt and even in the dim light, almost-readable characters flashed on its blade. He threw it to Bo-Long, who caught it in his massive hand.

“Would you like to find a weapon of your own, or shall Swift Wind be forced to cut down an unarmed man for his insults?”

Cunning smiled and walked over to the gamblers’ table. He took their wine urn and upended it over his mouth, swallowing as much as he could, the rest washing most of the dirt from his tunic.

When he was finished, he held the urn in his left hand and tucked it under his arm. He walked back and grabbed a table leg from the pile of wood where he had once been eating.

“Bo-Long,” he smiled, “you don’t stand a chance.”

Looking down, the Mongolian saw that Cunning’s once-flowing clothes were now wet and stuck to the body of a lithe young man. Part of his graying beard had come unstuck, revealing smooth-shaved skin beneath. Bo-Long reached across and slowly tugged it all the way off.

“Thank you,” said Cunning, rubbing the skin where spirit gum had been holding the hair in place, “that was beginning to itch. Now, are you going to strike, or would you like to continue undressing me?”

Mighty was the roar of the Mongolian, and Swift Wind whistled as he swung it…