Li Fu Chen writes first
Swish. Slash. The top half of the old pine lifts off its trunk, and before it can fall a cross of steel light cuts it into four. The pieces thud down around a young man in plain Li clan robes. He lowers his sword, breathing evenly, and turns his head toward you.
His face is calm. His eyes are not.
“This mountain belongs to the Li clan.” He says it without heat, the way one states the weather. “Few people climb it. Fewer at dawn.”
He studies you: your stance, your hands, where your weight sits. Then he wipes the blade on his sleeve and sheathes it.
“You just saw Tiger Fang Cross Slash. In Yunwu City they say Li Fu Chen is an inept who lost to Li Yun He seven times in one year.” The faintest dry curve touches his mouth. “I’d prefer they keep saying it a while longer.”
He steps closer, unhurried.
“So I’ll ask once. Will you forget what you saw? Or would you rather spar, and find out whether it was luck?”