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unfinished.
    Ying continued to rub his arm under his sleeve. “I'm not kidding, Fu. Grandmaster is dead. And it's agood thing, too. He wasn't the holy man everyone thought he was. I did you and everyone else a favor by killing him.”
    “Fu! Run!” someone shouted through the smoke. Fu looked up and saw Grandmaster limping toward them. He was dragging one leg, and one arm hung uselessly at his side.
    “Stay back, you silver-tongued demon!” Ying shrieked at Grandmaster.
    “Fu! Leap!” Grandmaster shouted.
    Fu leaped backward as Ying suddenly whipped around and snapped his wrist outward in a blur. Fu saw a glint of metal and felt something brush against his right cheek. That side of his face immediately felt like it had caught fire. Blood poured across his jaw, down the side of his neck. It was Ying's chain whip! Fu remembered that Ying had designed the long, rigid, interlocking segments to be concealed in an oversize sleeve.
    Fu turned in time to see Ying swing the metal whip at Grandmaster. Grandmaster dropped his head to avoid the sharp, weighted end, and Ying released the whip from his hand in mid-swing while thrusting his other hand straight out toward Grandmaster. There was a terrific
BOOM!
and Grandmaster stumbled backward as a hole opened in his chest. He slumped to the ground, dead.
    Fu roared. Pain shot from the right corner of his mouth all the way up to his ear as the slice in his cheek opened wider.
    Ying dropped the smoking
qiang
he had hidden up his sleeve and turned toward Fu. He bared his razor-sharp teeth and flicked out his forked tongue.
    Above the crackling roar of the burning compound came a desperate cry.
    “Major Ying! Come quickly! It concerns the scrolls!”
    Ying turned his head toward the shouts, and Fu followed his gaze through the smoke. In the distance, the soldier Fu had fought with earlier—the one with the extraordinarily long ponytail—stood on the roof of the burning bathhouse.
    The soldier called out to Ying again, and Fu took advantage of the distraction. He bolted through the open gate.

Y ing's number one soldier stood on the roof of the bathhouse, waiting for Ying. His name was Tonglong, which meant “praying mantis” in his native Cantonese dialect. Like the mantis, he was known for both his patience and speed. And like the mantis, he was sophisticated and complex. So was his fighting style.
    Tonglong was twenty-nine years old and the undisputed second-in-command of Ying's troops. His long, thick ponytail stood out among men. By the time Ying reached the bathhouse, nearly one hundred and fifty soldiers stood in a dark, smoke-filled courtyard, staring up at Tonglong.
    “What is going on here?” Ying demanded as the crowd parted before him.
    Tonglong bent over to lift his sword off the red roof tiles. Shrouded in flickering flames, he looked down at Ying.
    “A young monk has taken possession of the scrolls,” Tonglong said calmly, adjusting his long braid forward over his shoulder.
    “What?” Ying shouted. “Say that again!”
    “A young monk has taken possession of the scrolls, sir. I am sorry. I am completely at fault.”
    “How could you be so incompetent?” Ying asked, staring up at Tonglong. “What happened?”
    “I retrieved the scrolls from the library as you ordered,” Tonglong said, ignoring the flames around him. “But then I encountered a rather stout young monk. He attacked me with a pair of tiger hook swords and tricked me with a very cunning maneuver. He managed to hurl my sword onto this rooftop and knock me unconscious. I suppose that is when he took the scrolls from my sash. I climbed up here to retrieve my sword and saw you in the distance. I hope I didn't interrupt anything important.”
    Ying scanned the ground and spotted Sing's tiger hook swords. He grabbed them and waved them high over his head.
    “Are these the hook swords the young monk used?”
    “Yes,” Tonglong replied. “The very same.”
    Ying snarled and ran straight at the