The Duel at the Canal
Tang Fei's words rang with truth. An Lushan, though entrusted as Jiedushi of Pinglu, Fanyang, and Hedong—his rank second only to the throne, nourished by the Tang court's grace—harbored the heart of a wolf. To betray one's sovereign was no different from beastly treachery, the act of tigers, leopards, and jackals. Yet Zhang Cheng of the Matou Gang and Yang Linzhong of the Xingwu Gang, enticed by rebel promises of power, dared to challenge the Feng and Xuzhou factions.
But among all the canal societies, the true overlord was the Salt Gang. Its leader, Zeng Yong, aged and seasoned, had seen the world's ways and mastered patience. A man of shrewd calculation, he preferred to bide his time, observing how the winds shifted before making his move. Until the decisive moment, he would remain silent. By contrast, the Matou Gang, brazen and arrogant, had grown increasingly provocative, seeking to expand its dominion.
With swaggering steps, Zhang Cheng strode forth, his palms raised in menace, striking toward Tang Fei. Though only the deputy of the Feng Gang, Tang Fei's martial prowess was famed along the Grand Canal. More than a man of blade and fist, he was also well-read, versed in classics and philosophy. In bearing and discourse, he was cultivated and urbane, a rare gentleman of the rivers and lakes. Thus, his reputation carried both steel and scholarship, earning him respect far and wide.
Zhang Cheng lashed out with a vicious kick. Tang Fei turned sideways, evading neatly, and answered with a sweeping leg. Zhang Cheng leapt back, then pressed forward, palms crashing down in relentless succession, the gale of his strikes tearing toward Tang Fei's face.
But Tang Fei, steady and composed, fought with calm precision, his palms rising and falling with measured skill. Zhang Cheng, younger and brimming with raw energy, pressed his advantage, his blows fierce and venomous, even striking toward the temples and crown of Tang Fei's head—moves as ruthless as they were lethal. Tang Fei twisted aside, sweeping his leg low. Seizing the instant when Zhang Cheng landed unsteady, he lunged a step forward, both palms surging with force, unleashing the technique Kuafu Chasing the Sun. His strikes burst forth like a sudden tempest—roaring, unrestrainable.
Zhang Cheng staggered under the barrage, driven back seven, eight steps in succession. Tang Fei pressed on, his figure whirling mid-air as he launched The Sparrow Turns in Flight. His palms circled in flowing arcs, quick as lightning, forcing Zhang Cheng to guard frantically. Clearly shaken, Zhang Cheng's defense turned cautious, his earlier aggression fading.
Seizing momentum, Tang Fei unleashed Hands Embracing the Moon, his twin palms surging out like crashing waves, their force whistling through the air. With two resounding impacts, Zhang Cheng reeled, struck squarely in the chest. He stumbled back, face pale, breath ragged—his strength spent.
Tang Fei's expression remained calm. He clasped his fists with dignity and declared,"Gang Leader Zhang—thank you for yielding."
Though his voice was quiet, it carried the weight of unshakable confidence. The crowd, stunned, fell into silence, eyes turning upon the Feng Gang's deputy with newfound awe. Inwardly, many thought: This man's skill is profound, his conduct impeccable. Truly a figure not to be underestimated.
But before the hush could settle, a sudden rush of wind split the air. A shadow leapt into the ring—Yang Linzhong, master of the Xingwu Gang. His voice rang cold and proud:"Old Hero Tang, your skill is impressive indeed. But Yang, unworthy as I am, dares request a lesson!"
With those words, his form shot forward like an arrow loosed, crying out,"Take my strike!"
Yang Linzhong was a man in his early forties—tall, lean, sinewed, his eyes narrow and sharp as a hawk's, carrying a chill that unnerved all who met them. His nose was high, his skin bronzed from years of harsh training in wind and rain, and his thin lips often curved in a faint, unsettling sneer. His brows slashed like blades across his face, lending him an aura of cruelty and command.
His famed art was the Crying Crane Palm. Derived from crane fist but fused with myriad other palm techniques, it prized speed, accuracy, and ruthlessness. Graceful as a crane, yet laced with hidden lethality—its philosophy was simple: silent until the strike, but once released, a single cry could shake the heavens.
Now, with a shrill crane's cry splitting the air, Yang Linzhong unleashed Crane's Cry over the Marshes. His palms spread like wings, strikes light yet brimming with hidden force. Tang Fei met him unflinching, retreating a step to block, exchanging palm for palm, neither yielding an inch. Shadows of their hands filled the ring, winds howling as they clashed.
Yang's twin palms swept toward Tang Fei's seven vital points, pressing ever forward. Yet Tang Fei, unhurried, countered with Moon Beyond the Window, turning defense into subtle offense. Back and forth they fought, fifty exchanges flashing past in the blink of an eye, their movements blindingly swift, dust swirling into the air under the pressure of their strikes.
Yang Linzhong, relentless, suddenly loosed another dozen blows, each aimed at Tang Fei's life-gates, his attacks flowing with kicks and stomps, offense unbroken. Tang Fei responded with every ounce of skill, his body weaving and twisting, his hand edge slicing out in Sudden Rise and Fall, strikes cascading like a storm.
But Yang shifted into Departing Like the Yellow Crane and Drifting Like Floating Clouds. His shoulders rolled, his figure darting and swooping like an arrow off the string, palms fluttering in unpredictable patterns—phantom upon phantom. The duel was evenly matched, the onlookers holding their breath.
Then, in a sudden feint, Yang staggered back as if slipping, his footing unsteady. Believing him vulnerable, Tang Fei stepped forward to assist. In that instant, Yang's eyes flashed cold, his lips curling in a cruel smirk. His palm shot out—Crane Strikes the Sky! A killing blow, swift as lightning, its force surging like a tidal wave.
With a sickening crack, Tang Fei took the strike full to the chest. He reeled back, blood spraying from his lips, his face drained of color. His body fell heavily, grievously wounded.
Yang Linzhong clasped his fists, his voice smug:"Old Hero Tang—thank you for the match."
But contempt laced his words, his arrogance undisguised.
At once, Qiu Feng, master of the Feng Gang, rushed forward, catching the fallen Tang Fei in his arms. His eyes burned with fury."Yang! Such poison in your hands! Have you no respect for elders, no honor in combat?"
Tang Fei had always tempered his strikes, sparing opponents once victory was assured. That Yang would feign weakness only to strike a comrade down—such treachery was despicable.
Xu Li, leader of the Xuzhou Gang, long close to Tang Fei, leapt onto the stage as well. Seeing his ally gravely hurt, his outrage boiled over. Around the ring, brothers loyal to Tang Fei cursed aloud:
"An Lushan's running dog!""Lowborn scoundrel!""Cowardly trickster!""Shameless cur!"
The air seethed with fury.
Yang Linzhong only laughed coldly, raising his voice to all assembled:"The Xingwu Gang stands with the Mighty Emperor! The canal societies shall not attend your so-called Anti-Traitor Assembly."
His words dripped with arrogance and menace, meant to cow dissent.
But Xu Li stepped forth, his face stern, his voice like thunder:"We five gangs agreed—combat would settle this matter! Do not think that felling Old Hero Tang leaves none who can oppose you!"
The proverb proves true: when petty men prosper, noble men are suppressed. Yang Linzhong, vile opportunist, was now fanning his storm.
Yang sneered."Then come—show me what skill you possess!"
His challenge crackled with disdain, as though Xu Li were beneath him.
Xu Li's eyes blazed. He shouted,"Old Hero Tang has shown us his loyalty and righteousness, his virtue shining bright! Even he warned that An Lushan is but a ravening wolf. Why, Yang, must you aid the tyrant, disgracing all who walk the martial path?"
His words rang across the crowd, his stance fierce and unwavering. The tension in the ring surged like drawn steel—the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
A clash of titans was about to begin.