Chapter 8: The Tournament

The poster went up on Monday. By Tuesday, Lin Xuan was famous for the wrong reason.

"CAMPUS MARTIAL ARTS EXHIBITION," it read, in letters large enough to be seen from orbit. "SATURDAY. UNIVERSITY GYM. OPEN TO ALL STUDENTS."

Underneath, in smaller print that might as well have been a signature: "Special exhibition match: Zhao Kai's team vs. challengers."

Zhou Pang found Lin Xuan between classes and dragged him behind a vending machine, which was Fatty's preferred location for delivering bad news.

"You've seen the poster," Fatty said.

"I have eyes."

"Then you know." Fatty lowered his voice. "Zhao Kai volunteered you. For the exhibition. He told the organizers you're the freshman who beat up three guys behind the gym, and now everyone expects you to fight."

Lin Xuan considered this. "I did beat up three guys behind the gym."

"That's not the point! The point is the other guy." Fatty's face had gone pale and shiny. "I asked around. Zhao brought in a ringer. A real one. Amateur MMA, four and one, fights out of a gym downtown. They say he got paid. They say the word 'accident' was used."

"Accidents happen," Lin Xuan said mildly.

"Hao." Fatty grabbed his shoulders. "This man hits people for a living. For money. You do acupuncture with chopsticks. These are different skill sets."

Lin Xuan gently removed Fatty's hands from his shoulders. "Thank you for your concern."

"I'm begging you. Don't fight. Fake an illness. Transfer schools. Join a monastery."

"I'll think about it."

He did not think about it. He thought about Zhao Kai instead, and the particular stupidity of a man who kept escalating against an opponent he had not bothered to understand. Three thousand years had taught Lin Xuan many things. One of them was that arrogance was a renewable resource.

He wants a public lesson, Lin Xuan thought. Very well. Lessons can go two directions.

---

The Ironworks Gym smelled like leather and bleach.

Cole Brennan sat on a bench, wrapping his hands, while Zhao Kai stood in front of him holding an envelope. The envelope was thick. Cole had been in enough gyms to know what a thick envelope meant.

"Two thousand now," Zhao Kai said. "Three after. The kid's name is Lin Hao. Freshman. Nineteen."

Cole took the envelope without counting it. "Rules?"

"Exhibition rules. Light contact." Zhao Kai smiled. "But accidents happen in exhibitions. Everyone knows that."

Cole studied him. "How bad an accident?"

"I want him carried out." Zhao Kai's voice went flat. "Broken, if you can manage it without making it obvious. He's embarrassed me twice. I want him to think about Saturday for the rest of his life."

Cole stood up. He was a head taller than Zhao Kai, and the rich kid took an involuntary step back.

"I don't cripple kids for fun," Cole said.

"Five thousand after."

A pause. Cole picked up his gloves.

"For five," he said, "I'll make it look like he fell down the stairs."

---

The video hit forty thousand views by Wednesday.

Someone had filmed the cafeteria rescue from three angles and cut it into a thirty-second clip with dramatic music. The comments were exactly what Lin Xuan expected: half the viewers thought it was staged, the other half wanted to know who the chopstick guy was.

"You're trending," Fatty said miserably, showing him the phone. "This is the worst possible time to be trending."

"Why?"

"Because now everyone will watch you get murdered on Saturday! There will be an audience!"

Lin Xuan patted his shoulder. "Think of it as motivation."

On Thursday, he stopped by Old Chen's herbal shop to pick up the herbs for his next batch of pills. Old Chen took one look at his face and grunted.

"You've heard," Lin Xuan said.

"The whole street has heard. The Zhao boy is buying fighters." Old Chen wrapped the herbs slowly, his old hands precise. "That MMA boy, the Brennan one. He's not a bad kid, just a hungry one. But he's real, little Lin. Four amateur fights."

"I know."

"You don't look worried."

Lin Xuan picked up the paper bag. "Should I?"

Old Chen held his gaze for a long moment. Then, very quietly, he said, "The Zhao family has new friends. Men who don't show their faces. If the boy loses on Saturday, watch the men around him, not the boy."

It was the most Old Chen had ever said at once. Lin Xuan filed it away with everything else.

New friends, he thought, walking home. Men who don't show their faces. How interesting.

---

The gym on Saturday smelled like rubber and old sweat.

Lin Xuan arrived early, as was his habit, and sat in the bleachers to watch the undercard. College students in borrowed gis flailed at each other with tremendous enthusiasm and no technique. The crowd cheered anyway. It was, Lin Xuan reflected, the most honest thing he had seen all week. Nobody here was pretending to be a warrior. They were just having fun.

Then the main event was announced, and the fun stopped.

"And now," the announcer boomed, "our special exhibition! From downtown Seattle, fighting out of Ironworks Gym, please welcome Cole 'The Mule' Brennan!"

The crowd made an interested noise. Cole Brennan climbed through the ropes like he owned them. He was twenty-four, shaved head, arms like bridge cables, and he moved with the loose readiness of a man who had been in real fights. He raised his gloves to the crowd and grinned.

"And his opponent," the announcer continued, with slightly less enthusiasm, "freshman Lin Hao!"

The crowd made a confused noise. A few people clapped uncertainly. Someone near the front said, loudly, "Who?"

At the gym door, Fatty made one last attempt. He grabbed Lin Xuan's arm with both hands.

"Hao. Please. I looked up this guy's record. He knocked a man out in eleven seconds. Eleven seconds!"

"Then this will be over quickly," Lin Xuan said. "One way or another."

"That's not comforting!"

"It wasn't meant to be." Lin Xuan smiled at his friend, and for a moment the smile was almost gentle. "Wait by the door, Fatty. If I fall down, you can say you knew me."

He had not brought gloves. He had not brought a gi. He wore a plain white t-shirt, athletic shorts, and no shoes, because shoes were for people who needed them.

As Lin Xuan walked down the bleacher steps toward the mat, his eyes swept the gym the way they swept every room now: windows, exits, threats.

Third row: Zhao Kai, arms crossed, savoring.

Back corner, near the emergency exit: two men in plain jackets, not watching the mat. Watching Zhao Kai. One of them had the stillness Lin Xuan recognized from three thousand years of reading dangerous people. Not a fighter's stillness. A watcher’s stillness.

Old Chen was right, Lin Xuan thought. New friends.

One of the men glanced up. Their eyes met for exactly one second. The man looked away first, casually, like he had been checking the exit signs.

Lin Xuan filed the face away and kept walking. Whatever game Zhao Kai was playing, the stakes had just grown beyond a bruised freshman. He found, to his mild surprise, that he was looking forward to it.

The referee, a grad student with a whistle, looked him up and down. "Where's your gear, man?"

"I won't need it," Lin Xuan said.

The referee blinked. "That's... you need a mouthguard at least."

Lin Xuan smiled politely and stepped onto the mat barefoot.

Across the mat, Cole Brennan stopped grinning. He looked at the freshman, the bare feet, the calm face, and something in his professional instincts twitched. This was not how victims behaved.

In the third row, Zhao Kai leaned back with his arms crossed, savoring the moment. His plan was simple and, he thought, elegant. The Mule would take it easy for thirty seconds, for the cameras, and then "slip." An elbow would land wrong. The freshman would leave on a stretcher. An accident. Everyone would feel terrible.

Zhao Kai caught Lin Xuan's eye across the gym and mouthed, Good luck.

Lin Xuan inclined his head, the way one acknowledges a waiter.

In the fifth row, half hidden behind a pillar, Su Wan sat with her textbook closed on her lap. She had told herself she was here to observe. She had told herself a lot of things lately.

One inch, she thought, remembering the cafeteria. Exactly one inch. No hesitation.

She leaned forward.

The crowd had gone quiet in the way crowds do when they sense something is wrong with the picture. A barefoot freshman. A professional fighter. It looked like a joke, and nobody was laughing.

The referee, a grad student with a whistle, gave the instructions. "Exhibition rules. Light contact. If you're hurt, tap out or say stop. This is supposed to be fun."

Cole nodded.

Lin Xuan said nothing. He had a feeling fun was about to become a relative concept.

The referee raised his hand. "Fighters ready?"

Cole Brennan bounced on his toes, gloves up, eyes flat and professional.

Lin Xuan stood perfectly still, hands at his sides, breathing slow.

The bell rang.