With that battle over, everyone understood: the battle for Xiangyang was, in essence, decided.
Whatever came next would be skirmishing of the early-days kind—small probing actions. There would be no more grand assaults.
And through that battle, Yin Zhiping had proven himself.
His duel with the Golden Wheel Dharma King had unfolded in front of every eye on the wall.
For jianghu folk who had never witnessed a Mount Hua Sword Contest, its ferocity was a revelation.
Sword-light and fist-force crisscrossing the air, speed stacked on speed, true essence flooding outward until no one could stand near.
Many of them understood, truly for the first time, what the Innate realm meant.
Put any of them in Yin Zhiping's or the Dharma King's place, and they wouldn't have survived one exchange.
And hadn't they all watched Guo Jing take five Acquired-perfection masters and grind them into the stones, start to finish, five-on-one?
Acquired-realm perfection—do you grasp what that means?
Take Zhu Ziliu, chosen to speak for the unaffiliated fighters: late Acquired, no more. Any one of those five could have flattened him.
Qiu Chuji himself—Master Changchun of the Quanzhen Sect—stood at Acquired-realm perfection.
Which is to say: five Qiu Chujis, hand in hand, could not beat one Guo Jing. Ten might have a sliver of hope.
That was the gold content of the Innate realm.
With this one battle, Yin Zhiping's name was forged for good.
Before, men had respected him because he was an Innate.
Now they respected him for a record written in plain sight:
Alone, he had fought the strongest man on the Mongol side—and neither had won.
Yin Zhiping had earned every scrap of their respect and affection with his own two hands.
Had he not come to Xiangyang, they might still have held—but who could count the graves it would have cost?
If Guo Jing had been tied down by that wheel-wielding master, those five Acquired-perfection experts would have been a nightmare with no answer.
***
Having seen the Golden Wheel Dharma King off, Yin Zhiping went straight to find his junior brothers.
There were wounds among them—but no lives in danger.
The brothers had acquitted themselves well: five first-rate and fifteen second-rate disciples had penned in and worn down ten first-rate Mongol masters.
By the end all twenty bore their stripes; worst off was Wu Zhixing, whose internal injuries had him swaying on his feet.
Of the ten first-rate enemies: two dead, two gravely wounded, six fled.
Those six, at the first note of the withdrawal, had bolted without a backward glance—leaving their two crippled companions where they lay.
The two had sprawled there with arms outstretched, very nearly in tears.
"Zhichang, take the brothers to treat their wounds. This isn't over. Small actions will follow—stay sharp. As long as the Mongol army hasn't marched away, nobody relaxes."
Yin Zhiping's real fear was that his juniors, feeling Xiangyang was saved, would let the drawn bowstring of their hearts go slack.
So close to the end—to lose someone now, to carelessness? The worst bargain in the world.
"Rest easy, Senior Brother. I'll see to it."
Li Zhichang nodded, and said it gravely.
Yin Zhiping's words had always found ready ears with Li Zhichang.
Which was exactly why whatever needed doing, Yin Zhiping handed to him.
***
Through the half month of Xiangyang's defense, Huang Rong had held the rear the entire time—"coordinating the whole board," as the flattering phrase went.
A pregnant woman had no business standing on a wall soaked in slaughter-qi, let alone lifting a hand to fight.
Early pregnancy was precarious; one slip could end in tragedy past mending.
The same great hall. The same faces.
Only now, every face in the room wore a smile.
"Everyone—the Mongol army has not yet withdrawn. They may still attempt one final throw. It is too early to celebrate."
Huang Rong's own heart was glad enough—one last step, and the war was won.
But the last step was exactly where feet went wrong.
So she poured the cold water herself, to bring the room's temperature down.
"Chief Huang says it true. Until the Mongols strike camp, no one relaxes. Who's to say this isn't a feint to lull us?"
Huang Rong cooled them; Yin Zhiping sharpened them.
Huang Rong had always played the room's wise head—when she spoke, they listened.
And Yin Zhiping had bought the whole room's respect with plain deeds. Men admire strength; a strong man's words go down easier still.
"Right. No slacking yet."
"We celebrate when the Mongols march."
"With Hero Guo and Taoist Master Yin here, the winners will be us."
Huang Rong smiled, satisfied, at the chorus.
"Taoist Master Yin—do you know anything of that foreign monk with the golden wheel?"
Guo Jing was more than curious about the Mongols' Innate; their paths were certain to cross again.
"He said his name is Golden Wheel—that men call him the Golden Wheel Dharma King. A disciple of the Esoteric Sect."
Yin Zhiping relayed it faithfully; it was exactly what the Dharma King had told him.
"The Esoteric Sect? Then his body-tempering arts—are they truly so formidable?"
Huang Rong had evidently heard of the Esoteric Sect, and the question came sharp.
Yin Zhiping shot her a surprised glance—he hadn't expected Huang Rong to know of them—then nodded.
"Formidable is the word. The Dharma King's defense is monstrous. My sword couldn't break it."
"Rong'er, you know the Esoteric Sect?"
Guo Jing was surprised too.
"Father mentioned them once. A supreme sect beyond the western frontiers. He said they guard a body-tempering method so fearsome that no one is supposed to be able to master it fully—the name escapes me."
Huang Rong had heard it from Huang Yaoshi long, long ago.
Her father drifted where he pleased, and not necessarily within the Central Plains; with his strength, no road was too dangerous to wander.
So it all held together.
As for that method of theirs—what else could it be but the Dragon-Elephant Prajna Skill!
The art ran thirteen layers, built rung by rung, with no barrier to entry at all—the dullest talent alive could cultivate it.
Each layer gained added the strength of one dragon and one elephant.
But the time it devoured grew monstrous with every rung; in theory, the topmost layer lay a thousand years of practice away.
The Golden Wheel Dharma King was a martial genius of a kind seen once in an age—grinding, secluded study, progress at a speed that beggared belief—and in the end he would push the art to its tenth layer.
Whatever height the method's unknown creator had reached, the Dharma King's tenth layer stood as the recorded summit of that divine skill.
"Taoist Master Yin—if the Golden Wheel Dharma King comes again, perhaps I ought to take him instead?"
Guo Jing had been feeling guilty about it: the burden that was rightly his had landed on Yin Zhiping's shoulders, and it sat ill with him.
"No need, Hero Guo. The Dharma King and I haven't settled our score—you can't have my opponent."
Guo Jing was a man who couldn't hide a thing; one look at his face and Yin Zhiping had guessed the whole shape of his thought.
So he answered it with a small joke.
"Well said, Hero Guo—a gentleman doesn't steal another man's cherished things. I believe Taoist Master Yin will beat that Golden Wheel Dharma King."
"Taoist Master Yin has spirit! We're behind you."
"The Esoteric Sect is strong—and what, our Quanzhen Sect isn't?"
Good grief. Had this already escalated to sect against sect?
Give it a minute—would it be Buddhism versus Taoism next?