LITMIR.BIZ

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only bruise your hand. The neck’s a better target. With enough force, you could fatally collapse the windpipe. At the very least, you’ll give him breathing trouble.”

      Kureel knelt down next to Kitay and Han, who were rolling around the ground in mutual headlocks. “Biting is an excellent technique if you’re in a tight spot.”

      A moment later, Han shrieked in pain.

      A handful of first-years clustered around a wooden dummy as Jeeha demonstrated a proper knife hand strike. “Nikara monks used to believe this point was a major ki center.” Jeeha indicated a spot under the dummy’s stomach and punched it dramatically.

      Rin took the bait to speed things along. “Is it?”

      “Nah. No such thing as ki centers. But this area below the rib cage has a ton of necessary organs that are exposed. Also, it’s where your diaphragm is. Hah!” Jeeha slammed his fist into the dummy. “That should immobilize any opponent for a good few seconds. Gives you time to scratch out their eyes.”

      “That seems vulgar,” said Rin.

      Jeeha shrugged. “We aren’t here to be sophisticated. We’re here to fuck people up.”

      “I’ll show you all one last blow,” Kureel announced as the session drew to a close. “This is the only kick you’ll ever need, really. A kick to bring down the most powerful warriors.”

      Jeeha blinked in confusion. He turned his head to ask her what she meant. And Kureel raised her knee and jammed the ball of her foot into Jeeha’s groin.

      Mandatory drill sessions lasted for only two hours, but the first-years began staying in the studio to practice their forms long after the period had ended. The only problem was that the students with previous training seized this chance to show off. Nezha performed a series of twirling leaps in the center of the room, attempting spinning kicks that became progressively more flamboyant. A small ring of his classmates gathered around to watch.

      “Admiring our prince?” Kitay strolled across the room to stand next to Rin.

      “I fail to see how this would be useful in battle,” Rin said. Nezha was now spinning a full 540 degrees in the air before kicking. It looked very pretty, but also very pointless.

      “Oh, it’s not. A lot of old arts are like that—cool to watch, practically useless. The lineages were adapted for stage opera, not combat, and then adapted back. That’s where the Red Junk Opera got their name, you know. The founding members were martial artists posing as street performers to get closer to their targets. You should read the history of inherited arts sometime, it’s fascinating.”

      “Is there anything you haven’t read about?” Rin asked. Kitay seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of almost every topic. That day over lunch he had given Rin a lecture on how fish-gutting techniques differed across provinces.

      “I have a soft spot for martial arts,” said Kitay. “Anyway, it’s depressing when you see people who can’t tell the difference between self-defense and performance art.”

      Nezha landed, crouched impressively, after a particularly high leap. Several of their classmates, absurdly, began to clap.

      Nezha straightened up, ignoring the applause, and caught Rin’s eye. “That’s what family arts are,” he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

      “I’m sure you’ll be the terror of the school,” said Rin. “You can dance for donations. I’ll toss you an ingot.”

      A sneer twisted Nezha’s face. “You’re just jealous you have no inherited arts.”

      “I’m glad I don’t, if they all look as absurd as yours.”

      “The House of Yin innovated the most powerful kicking-based technique in the Empire,” Nezha snapped. “Let’s see how you’d like being on the receiving end.”

      “I think I’d be fine,” Rin said. “Though it would be a dazzling visual spectacle.”

      “At least I’m not an artless peasant,” Nezha spat. “You’ve never done martial arts before in your life. You only know one kick.”

      “And you keep calling me a peasant. It’s like you only know one insult.”

      “Duel me, then,” Nezha said. “Fight to incapacitation for ten seconds or first blood. Right here, right now.”

      “You’re on,” Rin started to say, but Kitay slapped a hand over her mouth.

      “Oh, no. Oh, no, no.” Kitay yanked Rin back. “You heard Jun, you shouldn’t—”

      But Rin shrugged Kitay off. “Jun’s not here, is he?”

      Nezha grinned nastily. “Venka! Get over here!”

      Venka broke off her conversation with Niang at the other end of the room and flounced over, flushed at Nezha’s summons.

      “Referee us,” Nezha said, not taking his eyes off Rin.

      Venka folded her hands behind her back, imitating Master Jun, and lifted her chin. “Begin.”

      The rest of their class had now formed a circle around Nezha and Rin. Rin was too angry to notice their stares. She had eyes only for Nezha. He began moving around her, darting back and forth with quick, elegant movements.

      Kitay was right, Rin thought. Nezha really did look like he was performing stage opera. He didn’t seem particularly lethal then, just foolish.

      She narrowed her eyes and crouched low, following Nezha’s movements carefully.

      There. A clear opening. Rin raised a leg and kicked out, hard.

      Her leg caught Nezha in midair with a satisfying whoomph.

      Nezha uttered an unnatural shriek and clutched his crotch, whimpering.

      The entire studio fell silent as all heads swiveled in their direction.

      Nezha clambered to his feet, scarlet-faced. “You—how dare you—”

      “Just as you said.” Rin dipped her head into a mocking bow. “I only know one kick.”

      Humiliating Nezha felt good, but the political repercussions were immediate and brutal. It didn’t take long for their class to form alliances. Nezha, mortally offended, made it clear that associating with Rin meant social alienation. He pointedly refused to speak to her or acknowledge her existence, unless it was to make snide comments about her accent. One by one the members of their class, terrified of receiving the same treatment, followed suit.

      Kitay was the one exception. He had grown up on Nezha’s bad side, he told Rin, and it wasn’t about to start bothering him now.

      “Besides,” he said, “that look on his face? Priceless.”

      Rin was grateful for Kitay’s loyalty, but was amazed by how cruel the other students could be. There was apparently no end of things about Rin to be mocked: her dark skin, her lack of status, her country accent. It was annoying, but Rin was able to brush the taunts off—until her classmates started snickering every time she talked.

      “Is my accent so obvious?” she asked Kitay.

      “It’s getting better,” he said. “Just try rolling the ends of your words more. Shorten your vowels. And add the r sound where it doesn’t exist. That’s a good rule of thumb.”

      “Ar. Arrr.” Rin gagged. “Why do Sinegardians have to sound like they’re chewing cud?”

      “Power dictates acceptability,” Kitay mused. “If the capital had been built in Tikany, I’m sure we’d be running around dark as wood bark.”

      In the following days Nezha didn’t utter a single word to her, because he didn’t have to. His adoring followers wasted no opportunity to mock Rin. Nezha’s manipulations turned out to be

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