The abbot kept on grinning, yet now Adnihilo could see that there was no insult in it—only excitement—inciting fear in the witch’s son as the young master of Qi Shi Monastery dismissed twenty elders with a flick of his wrist. They scattered like mice while he sat alone, monumental at the end of the thirty-fifth chamber. When he spoke again, Brother William translated, “You have come wanting much of me. You ask for refuge, for treatment of the girl, to see the master. You foreigners are greedy, and arrogant, and ambitious. I should send you back down the mountain from where you came. Instead, I am going to return your weapons, because I have something I want from you.” The abbot bounded effortlessly to his feet, then he reached with his toes and tossed a pole from the floor into the palm of his hand. A staff, the half-blood recognized—reddened iron, the ends capped in brass.
“What do you want?” asked Adnihilo, his voice wavering. Brother William translated, and the young master leapt twenty paces to the center of the chamber. He landed weightlessly, a smirk on his face.
“I want to see if you can put a single scratch on my body.”
One of the junior monks delivered Adnihilo’s sabre. He took it, never diverting his eyes from the opponent before him. A lesson from Eyebrows. From Cain, he recalled the serpentine steps: slithering, swift, and low. Covering high, he closed the distance in an instant and slashed tight for the abbot’s side. But before his eyes, his opponent vanished. The cut struck an upright iron staff as the abbot hung parallel, kicking sideways for the half-blood’s face. Contact. Adnihilo never saw the attack, only felt it crash like a hammer on a lantern. The lights went out, then he woke a moment later on a bed of stone. His head still hammering, his vision obscure, he struggled to stand as he heard his sabre clatter before his feet—then Gautaman words.
“Predictable,” Brother William translated. “Your style contains nothing but pieces of others. Nothing of yourself. Nothing unique. But maybe your friend can save you. What do you say, young Messah? Is your sword more than just show?”
Adam joined his friend within the chamber, limping with his weapon drawn.
“Wait,” Adnihilo hissed. He couldn’t bear the shame. What was all that training for if I still can’t stand up for myself?
The pastor’s son seemed to read his mind. “This isn’t about pride,” he said. “I didn’t want to have to hold this sword again, but Magdalynn needs treatment, so I’m fighting whether you like it or not.”
Damn it, cried the witch’s son. He didn’t like it, but couldn’t argue, so he did all he felt he could to do. He charge ahead, desperate and reckless, his practice forgotten in a fit of angst. The abbot scowled and danced around his brass-capped staff. He was like a leaf in the wind, seemingly blown aside by the very strikes meant to cleave him in half. Even as Adam caught up and joined the attack, they could not hope to land a blow. They could hardly keep from tangling one another, the way the abbot spun and circled. One was always left in front of the other. It enraged the half-blood. He was tired of chasing, tired of running, tired of others getting in his way—taking his life from him. If Cain had just let him become a sacrifice, he would have been strong enough to fight off the pale knight. If Adam was not so naïve, he would have had the bravery to save the sunset girl. If not for Ba’al, he’d still be training with Eyebrows. He’d be stronger by the time he’d found the monastery—strong enough to defeat the abbot or anyone else.
So consumed, Adnihilo shoved his companion aside to get at his opponent, and in the same moment, the abbot retaliated—a long, blunt, brass-capped thrust. It took the half-blood off his feet and into the air, and he crashed again on the hard stone floor.
The abbot spat a word echoed by Brother William. “Traitor,” they named him with their tongues and their faces black in disgust. There was a clang, the drop of the abbot’s staff as he advanced on the half-blood with the wrath of one personally offended. Adnihilo clambered in terror, but Adam did not recognize the danger. He positioned himself behind the grimacing master and tried for a stab in the back. The abbot spun, bypassed the blade, and with an open palm, collapsed the Messah’s chest and sent him reeling—back flat against the wall.
“Where is your courage?” William translated the Gautaman’s words. “Where is your faith? You are so afraid that you let doubt rule you. Will you continue to hesitate until it is too late?”
Adnihilo was up before the monk had finished. He would not listen to any more of his sanctimonious nonsense. What did he know about the half-blood or the pastor’s son? Nothing, it was just hot air to make him careless, and it had worked. Kill the boy, he thought. Eyebrows was always calm as the eye of a storm, and so Adnihilo would be now.
It became clear to him, their advantageous position, that they might in single time strike in front and behind the abbot so arrogant as to leave himself exposed, dancing in the way that Gautaman boxers danced, with punching and kicking and chanting. As Adam rose and limped back
