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The little monk was waiting for him when Robinson came out of his tent.  Nevertheless, he moved without haste.  This was one of the many understood aspects of the ritual:  that once priests had engaged each other, each was allowed the time needed for preparation.  There was no question of failure to appear.  A Hwarangdo priest would have rather died than fail to appear for ritual combat.  Not to do so would have been exile from the temple and all of its teachings---and even the little monk wasn't an exile.  He was merely a renegade.  The distinction was clear.  Grand Master Kang would have made and approved it.

The laborers stood in two ragged lines, several feet off the large, shallow circle in which they would fight.  At one time, Robinson thought, this had been a trench; then it had been smoothed over with dirt and brought virtually to ground level.  Sunken only a few inches below the surface it was the ideal arena.  They would be confined within it and there would be no risk to bystanders because they were to fight slightly below their level.​​​​​​​

The Japanese made little sounds of reverence as Robinson and the newcomer met in the middle of the depression.  Robinson waved them to silence.  This wasn't a performance.  It was a grim and final battle from which only one of them would come away alive.

The little monk bowed to Robinson.   His expression was humble and reverent; he was not faking these emotions.  Whatever else he was, he stayed a Hwarangdo priest.  Robinson returned the bow without irony.  He appreciated the justice of the little monk's presence.  If nothing else he'd be judged on his terms, his life determined by an equal.  No one else would be involved.  He couldn't ask more of his life, the temple, or the ancients.

They broke apart and the little monk reached into his robes.  He emerged with three brass stars of the type which long ago Robinson had seen through in the temple.  At a speed so rapid that the Japanese could not even judge it, he hurled the first star at Robinson.

Robinson ducked to his left, and the star went whizzing by.  The monk was hurling another already, though.  Robinson dived to the ground and came up with a block of wood.  When the next stars reached him, the wood acted as a shield.  The little monk smiled with a distant approval that had just a trace of consideration in it.  Then he bowed once more in acknowledgment to Robinson.   Very slowly, Robinson bowed back.

The little monk approached him.

Robinson saw what was coming then.  The little monk had assumed the way of the eagle, his hands formed like the talons of that great bird, his arms mimicking the motion of wings.  Robinson assumed the proper defensive posture, giving the little monk first advantage, and closed with him, using an elbow moved upwards to block a presumptive blow.  The little monk, cunning, hit him with the other hand.

Robinson struck on the side of the head, felt the ringing impact, shook it away, and regained his balance.  It had been a terrible blow but he had moved his head just enough at the final moment to block it from fatal impact.  A slight trickle of blood ran into his right eye; no time to wipe it out.  He held his stance.  There was nothing else to do.  In the little monk's eyes, he could see a kind of glee, the expectation of an easy and early victory.  Think again, Robinson thought.  Holding posture, forced to the defense, he waited for the little monk to strike again.

He struck for the neck this time.  Robinson ducked it, barely and for the first time granted an offense, struck open palm for the monk's shoulder.  The monk blocked it, came back with an open-palm blow of his own and Robinson blocked this one too, countered, was blocked, blocked a counter.  His feet were barely connected to the ground now; he felt himself in a high, dim state of suspension where just he and the monk existed, striking at each other in a series of blows continually countered.  The world had narrowed to this one point of concentration.  We're evenly matched, Robinson thought, and there was no satisfaction in this because in an even match only an error would decide the outcome and a mistake was inevitable.  They could not continue at this level of tension.

Robinson called upon his ki, at some level settled into special alertness, watching the little monk, looking for some opening.  He allowed the monk to stay on the offensive, his instincts going towards a defensive stance that would allow him to capitalize on the mistake that the other made.  If the match were to be decided by error, then defense was the right attitude----but assuming one posture after the next, the monk made no mistakes.  Sighing, making little noises to himself, the monk worked the full range of attitudes---eagle, tiger, crane, snake, and mantis----with equal skill, allowing Robinson time to do little but make the needed counter.  Maybe, Robinson found himself thinking, they were not so evenly matched after all. The monk had command of all the postures; like Kang, he seemed able to teach them all.  Robinson, on the other hand, knew the full range of defenses but didn't, he thought, have equal command of the five ways.  How could he?

This one thought, how could he? induced a flame of despair which just for a moment overcame his ki and that moment was all that the monk needed.  Deep, in the way of the snake, the monk's eyes gleamed, he saw something, and before Robinson could prepare himself for the counter the monk's fingers had landed deep in his throat, striking him below the Adam's apple.  Gasping, he stumbled back, shaking his head but the monk was atop him now in the position of the crane. He was struck a stunning, deadening blow on the shoulder.  Robinson felt his left arm go dead.

He retreated.  The monk came into him to press advantage in the mantis position but he did so cautiously as befitted a master; Robinson's limitations were unknown to him and overconfidence could be as deadly as a blow.  The monk threw a blow at Robinson's head and Robinson, ducking it, came up with his good right arm and struck the monk three times in the chest so fast that the sequence was finished and he had retreated before the monk could counter.  The monk stepped back then, sighed, moved his shoulders, and assumed the aspect of one who expects a long battle.  His eyes shrouded, caught Robinson's and they exchanged a glance of respect.

Robinson came forward and with one blow from the crane position, using his left arm to which feeling had returned and for which the monk had not been returned, connected with the monk's ribs.

The monk backed and he closed again.306Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCymaHVOJ2f
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Bronco, watching the fight from his tent flap, felt his confidence disintegrating.  The little monk was his last try; if he failed then Bronco knew that all was lost for him as well.  It was impossible that this mercenary could fail but Robinson had taken the advantage; now he was pressing it.306Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYBMDja7Qr9
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This should be the time for escape, Bronco thought.  If he could get a gun and a horse while the laborers were watching the battle, he could get to town before anyone knew he was missing.  But as he edged towards the tent flap his guard's rifle swung around.  Bronco sighed and abandoned his plans.8964 copyright protection302ＰＥＮＡＮＡoDrmjK2tE1 維尼