“Excellent,” said Ying, leaning back. “Now, I must warn you—if you are not out in the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea, I am coming in. Do you understand what that means, half-wit?”
“C-c-completely, sir.”
“Good. Then there is just one more thing. Those boys are not ordinary boys. I suggest you watch yourself around them.”
“Watch myself, sir?” the soldier asked hesitantly, struggling to keep his burning, blood-filled eyes fixed on Ying's hideous face.
“Never mind,” Ying said, turning toward the practice hall. “Just get in there before I really lose my temper.”
Fu was drowning. Malao's foot pinned one entire side of his face against the bottom of the terra-cotta barrel. His mouth and nose were completely under water. Panicking, Fu used what little air he had left to spit out the water that was in his mouth. Denied oxygen, instinct took over. His body jerked and twisted involuntarily.
Malao pressed his foot down even harder.
A small pocket of air had been trapped between Fu's ear and the bottom of the barrel. Malao's added pressure squeezed it out, creating a vacuum. Fu felt his inner ear stick to the smooth bottom of the barrel like a suction cup. Pain shot through his head, jolting his nervous system. Tiny white lights flashed behind his closed eyelids. His head twitched violently, and his mouth flew open in a silent scream. Water rushed into his mouth again.
Above him, Fu heard Malao cry out. Fu felt Malao trying to lift his foot, but it must have been pinned by the weight of the others.
“Hey, guys!” Malao shouted. “We need to get out of here! I think Fu is—”
KAA-BOOM!
Thunder echoed through the practice hall as the barrel holding the five young monks exploded into a thousand pieces. Fu and his brothers were sent rolling across the floor. Jagged terra-cotta shards dug into their backs, sides, legs, and arms. Fu landed on his stomach, and water poured from his open mouth.
Fu took a huge gulp of air. His head pounded, and his ears rang from the blast. He couldn't wait to get his hands on Malao. He shook his head in an effort to clear his senses, and the large room slowly began to take shape.
Unlike the darkness that had surrounded Fu before he climbed into the barrel, an eerie glow now possessed the entire practice hall. Flames danced across the inside of the roof high above, reaching down to embrace the gigantic rafters running the length of the building. Thick black smoke slowly filled the room.
At the entrance, one of the huge doors was ajar and completely engulfed in flames. The monks in the murals near the open door all seemed to be looking in the same direction—the very center of the room. There stood an armor-clad soldier wearing a strange helmet, holding an even stranger weapon. Four streams of blood ran down his face.
Malao would have to wait.
Fu was about to call to his brothers when he heard a yell from overhead. Surprised, he looked up as Grandmaster dropped from one of the rafters. With empty hands, Grandmaster approached the soldier.
The soldier straightened his helmet and adjusted his heavy, flexible body armor, which was made from hundreds of small metal plates. Though he stood his ground confidently, Fu noticed that the soldier seemed uncertain of what he should do with the weapon he held in his hands. It was then that Fu realized the soldier's strange weapon was a qiang. Fu had never seen one before, but he had heard about them. This one looked like a metal staff about as long as a man's leg, with a large piece of wood attached to one end. The metal staff appeared to be hollow like bamboo, and white smoke drifted from the end opposite the wood. Fu knew that a great burst of energy threw a ball of lead—or many balls of lead— from the qiang with a fantastic BOOM! Fu realized that this particular qiang must have been responsible for their barrel exploding. He had heard that once a qiang was used, it took some time before it could be used again—which must be why the soldier seemed uncertain of what to do with it now.
The soldier grunted and cast the qiang aside with a metallic CRASH! Wiping the blood from his eyes, he yanked a large, curved broadsword from a sheath slung across his back. The blade was wide and flexible. It shimmered in the firelight as the man raised the weapon with both hands and ran straight for Grandmaster.
Any concern Fu had for Grandmaster's well-being quickly faded. Whoever was hiding inside that armor might be well protected, but he was most likely not a very good fighter. Only a novice would raise a broadsword high over his head with two hands and rush toward an opponent.
When the soldier was within striking distance, he swung his broadsword downward at an angle, intending to slice Grandmaster in half diagonally. As the blade dropped, however, Grandmaster leaped to one side and delivered a swift knife-hand chop to the back of the soldier's neck. The soldier collapsed onto himself like a rag doll, the metal plates of his armor ringing out like wind chimes.