The morning frost on the courtyard flat stone slabs had not yet melted. Just then, the rhythmic, bone-shaking pounding began.
Whump-clack.
Whump-clack.
Suspended from a level cedar crossbeam by a three-foot iron chain hung a sixty-pound tube-shaped conditioning bag. The outer shell was stitched from four layers of oiled flax sailcloth, heavy with double-stitched rawhide bands.
Inside the bag was a mixture of sixty percent washed river sand and forty percent fine lead birdshot.
Pei Jing stood before the bag, bare to the waist.
His breath plumed into the freezing autumn air in short, high-pressure bursts. His left foot was forward, his balance point dropped two inches. His core was locked in the Python Tendon Stance.
He raised his right forearm. He struck the center of the heavy canvas bag with the outward edge of his arm.
