Young Master Chen didn’t walk onto the arena pitch. He floated down from the heavens on a shimmering carpet of golden sword shadows.
The undisputed sword prodigy of the Nine-Sun Sword Sect, Chen was twenty-two years old, clad in flowing robes of spun solar-gold silk adorned with the nine stitched suns of his old family heritage. His hair was bound in a crown of white silver, and hovering around his slender frame were seven matching spirit swords forged from sky meteorite steel, their tips whistling in ringing posture.
As his silk slippers touched the iron-hard metal sand, Chen raised his chin. His gaze dropped onto Shen Shitou with the cold, poetic disdain of a master artist surveying an unlettered peasant.
“A blacksmith’s apprentice,” Chen recited in a sweet-sounding, singsong rhythm that rang with ancient poetic refinement. “Wearing an apron of cattle hide and bearing a blunt iron hammer. How tragic that the sacred martial arena of the Nine Dragons has been despoiled by the crude implements of mortal manual labor. Little boy, do you know the poetry of the sword? Do you know the nine movements that cut the morning sun from the horizon?”
Chen snapped his fingers with dramatic flair.
