"Envoy of the heavens…?" Zhāo barely had time to wonder before events rushed onward.
He and Ruò Yún were led into a vast chamber. Hundreds of red-skinned people filled the space—easily two hundred—each with a black blade sheathed at their waist. The hall was larger than the palace banquet hall he'd known, more like the size of a football field. Faces showed mixed emotions: fear, confusion, jubilation—but Zhāo didn't see them by their expressions. Instead, his vision was full of the thin, writhing strings that drifted from their bodies like dancing worms in the air.
What are those strings? Why can I read their feelings? he wondered.
Lóng Xuán guided them to a stoned alcove on the right. A throne carved from green rock sat there, and on it an ancient blind woman rose to greet them. She clutched a staff crowned with a bright green crystal; four tiny skulls hung around her neck like a macabre necklace.
"Prince of Qīngliǔ," the old woman intoned, voice brittle but authoritative. "Prepare yourself. You will fight one of our champions to the death."
Zhāo froze. "What?" he blurted. "Why must I fight?"
"The boy drank Trongga and survived, Matriarch," Lóng Xuán said, stepping forward and placing himself between Zhāo and the old woman. "Doesn't that prove something?"
Trongga? Zhāo thought blankly. He didn't remember any liquid—what was Trongga?
"If he truly is the envoy we await," the Matriarch said, her sharp eyes studying Zhāo, "then he shall prove it. If not…" Her voice hardened. "Then he must die."
"No!" Ruò Yún cried, shaking her head violently. She refused to lose the only person she had left.
"Calm down, Ruò Yún," Zhāo said, meeting the Matriarch's gaze with his green eyes. "If I win, you won't eat us, right?"
The Matriarch and Lóng Xuán exchanged a look—then laughter rolled through the cavern. The red-skinned crowd burst into gleeful amusement at Zhāo's dry humor.
Lóng Xuán took over. "Exactly. If you win, we will not eat you. More than that—we will accept you into our people if you survive."
Zhāo glanced at Ruò Yún for support. For a moment she shook her head, silently opposed.
[You must accept this duel, Zhāo.]
You again. Who are you? Why is your voice in my head? Zhāo asked his unseen interlocutor.
[This is the only way. Accept the duel—or you die.]
"Zhāo?" Ruò Yún gripped his arm. "Are you alright?"
Zhāo nodded. "I'll do it," he said. "But on one condition."
"And what is that?" the Matriarch asked.
"If I lose, spare my betrothed. Let her live with you. She has nothing left—only me."
Tears threatened Ruò Yún's eyes; she turned her face away from the bitter reality.
"Very well," the Matriarch declared. "Who dares to face him?"
Lóng Xuán stepped forward, raising his knife. "I will fight him."
"No." The Matriarch shook her head. "You believe in him too much. If you fought, you would hold back. We need someone who will not hesitate."
Silence fell.
"Anyone else?" she called.
A short, muscular man who had stood near the doorway now strode forward. "I'll take him," he said.
"Gao Li—are you prepared for the consequences? If you fail, you die just as surely as this boy does," the Matriarch warned.
"Heh. I'll crush a brat like him, Matriarch," Gao Li sneered.
"Then prepare the arena!"
The cavern broke into motion. The Mínggǔ people formed a wide circle in the center of the chamber. Gao Li prowled the rim of the ring, testing the edge of his blade, licking the metal with a wild grin.
Ruò Yún paced in a small knot of misery, gnawing her nails by the arena's edge. The last of the Han family—fighting a stranger from the deep—was a thought she couldn't bear.
"Zhāo, you can use my knife," Lóng Xuán offered, handing over his black blade.
Zhāo accepted it warily, eyebrow raised at Lóng Xuán's apparent kindness. The burly warrior added, "Gao is one of our best. His skill rivals mine. Watch his shoulder when you face him."
Silence settled again. Zhāo noticed the strings on Ruò Yún tremble violently, syncing with the fluttering in his own chest.
"If you die in that fight, I will never forgive you," Ruò Yún warned, eyes fierce.
Zhāo smirked. The preparations finished, the two stepped into the arena, ready for a fight to the death. Gao's grin widened; he licked his blade like a madman.
"Kid—don't be scared. Show me everything you've got. Let's see if you're truly the one they prophesied," Gao taunted.
Zhāo ignored the provocation and studied Gao instead. The strings emanating from Gao's body stabilized and moved rhythmically. In Zhāo's strange sight, the warrior's thoughts became visible—patterns of movement, intention, the focus on his shoulder.
[Learn your opponent. Read your opponent. Victory will be yours,] the voice urged.
Occasionally the strings rippled like waves, mirrored by Gao's footwork. In Zhāo's green-tinged vision, the man's mind was laid bare; Zhāo could read the tactics forming in Gao's head.
"Begin!" the Matriarch shouted.
Neither combatant moved first. Both watched. Gao locked his gaze on Zhāo's green eyes—Zhāo watched Gao's strings and his shoulder.
Wherever Zhāo moved, Gao mirrored him. Zhāo sidestepped—Gao sidestepped. Zhāo tilted his head—Gao tilted his head too. The man moved like a puppet, controlled by some unseen thread. Lóng Xuán and the onlookers murmured at the oddity.
Gao shook his head, a wave of dizziness flashing across his face. "Hey kid, those eyes of yours… I know that look. It's the mark of someone who's seen death."
"Next, you'll see your own," Zhāo replied coolly.
"I like your confidence. Fine—if that's what you want, we'll fight to the death!"