“Focus on the flow of spirit energy within you,” he says. I nod; I have taught this to myself. “Now focus on the flow around you. In the air, on the ground, in the trees, and in the grass.”
I close my eyes. I try, but it is akin to attempting to focus on every current in an ocean.
“It’s too much, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“When using qing’gong, you have to home in on a specific point of focus. Use the energy there as your basis for action. Decide what you’re trying to do: Are you trying to hold on to the rooftop, or jump off of it, or pivot, or a mixture of all those? That will determine how you channel your spirit energy. Now I want you to focus on me.”
I open my eyes. It is hardnotto focus on him: Yù’chén simply commands attention. Every part of him—from his night-dark eyes to his strong, elegant jaw and soft, full lips—simply demands to be looked at. This close, I feel his energy as an irresistible pull, and I willingly comply.
“Do you feel my spirit energy?” His voice has dropped to a meditative murmur. It thrums in his chest, in the thin silks that separate us.
I nod.
“I’m going to shift my energy. I want you to respond.”
There: a shift in his palm, flowing from his arm and rooted in his chest, culminating in a spark that leaps from his fingers.
I push against that spark. The air ripples, and we both swayback as our spirit energies deflect our palms from each other. And finally, Iunderstand.It is one thing to read the theories, to practice by yourself against inanimate objects; it is entirely another tofeelit from someone else.
I realize I’m smiling. Quickly, I school my features. “Again,” I demand.
He complies. His palms press to mine. I push, and this time, I can’t hide my grin.
“Good,” Yù’chén says, his lips curling as he raises his hands. There’s a challenge to his gaze, and the spark of it catches fire in my chest as he commands, “Again.”
This time, when our palms meet, he pulls. I feel it, an insistent tug against my energy. A flutter in my chest.
I dare myself to pull, too.
Yù’chén exhales sharply as, suddenly, whatever small gap existed between us is gone. We collide in a whirl of spirit energy, fingers interlocked, breaths tangling, the planes of his body hard against me. Startled, I place my palm against his chest to steady myself—and I feel the strong pulse of his heartbeat.
Yù’chén’s hands find my hips, settling there gently. The seconds trickle away as we look at each other. “Very good,” he says.
A distant yell shatters the moment. Yù’chén glances up, and I quickly disentangle myself from him.
From the mist above and several dozen paces to our right, a candidate plunges down like a rock. He crashes into the trees and disappears from sight. His scream falls abruptly silent.
“Well,” Yù’chén says. “This will be fun.”
—
He is impossibly fast and steady. As I stab my blades into fissure after fissure, I know without a doubt that I’m slowing him down—and that he doesn’t need me. More than a few times, I slip, and my stomach jolts with swooping terror of a fall. But then the sash between us stretches taut, and I’m left hanging against the mountain, looking for purchase.
When we’re far up enough that the treetops blur into a patch of green, the mist thickens. Soon, everything around us—the outcroppings of rock, the pines growing from them—turns into shadows.
Yù’chén is tiring; I can sense it. Catching me and anchoring each of my falls has drained him; I hear his breathing growing labored, feel his movements slowing. Up here, the rocks are damp and slippery from the fog.
How much farther?
In the haze of my exhaustion, I catch movement to my right. An old, gnarled pine grows from the side of the mountain…and between its leaves, I make out a pair of eyes. Familiar, amber eyes.
It’s the little white fox yao’jing. She’s crouched in the branches, watching me. Without a word, she lifts a hand and points somewhere beyond me to my left. Then she vanishes into the mist.
My heart pounds as I turn to follow her warning. It’s impossible to see anything in this fog. Yù’chén is on my left, and we have about an arm’s length of sash between us. There is no easy way for me to cross over him to defend the open space on his side.
I shift closer to him. “Yù’chén,” I whisper.
