Most sect disciples called fist work a poor man’s art. They preferred to send a flying sword from three hundred paces and let a talisman take the return blow.
Pei Jing had spent years building a weapon that stayed with him when his qi ran low or an array swallowed it. His feet could draw force from the ground. His hips could turn it, and the bones from his shoulder to his knuckles could hold together as it passed. If the five phases moved at once, he could put the full weight of his training behind one fist.
He slid the Cloud-Splitter back into its straps.
Ten paces away, the dragon lowered its cracked skull. It crossed the gap almost before he finished breathing out. Its broken tail dragged behind it. Green blood foamed in its jaws, which opened wide enough to take him from the head to the thighs.
Pei Jing slipped forward and right. Teeth raked the hem of his tunic and passed within two fingers of his leg. The smell of hot bile washed over his cheek.
His right heel found a hollow in the granite. The force rose through his calf and thigh into his hip.
