The Poppy War. R.F. Kuang

their children for battle as soon as they could walk. For centuries, they subsisted by regularly raiding Nikara coastal villages, because they had no agriculture of their own. Now, the rumors of shamanism probably have more to do with their religion. Historians believe they had bizarre rituals in which they pledged themselves to their god—the Vermilion Phoenix of the South. But that was only ever a ritual. Not a martial ability.”

      “The Speerly affinity for fire is well documented, though,” said Kitay. “I’ve read the war reports. There are more than a few generals, Nikara and Federation alike, who thought the Speerlies could manipulate fire at will.”

      “All myths,” Yim said dismissively. “The Speerly ability to manipulate fire was a ruse used to terrify their enemies. It probably originated from their use of flaming weapons in nighttime raids. But most scholars today agree that the Speerly battle prowess is entirely a product of their social conditioning and harsh environment.”

      “So why couldn’t our army copy them?” Rin asked. “If the Speerly warriors were really so powerful, why couldn’t we emulate their tactics? Why’d we have to enslave them?”

      “Speer was a tributary. Not a slave colony,” Yim said impatiently. “And we could re-create their training programs, but again, their methods were barbaric. The way Jun tells it, you’re struggling with general training enough as it is. You’d hardly want to undergo the Speerly regimen.”

      “What about Altan?” Kitay pressed. “He didn’t grow up on Speer, he was trained at Sinegard—”

      “Have you ever seen Altan summon fire at will?”

      “Of course not, but—”

      “Has the very sight of him addled your minds?” Yim demanded. “Let me be perfectly clear. There are no shamans. There are no more Speerlies. Altan is human just like the rest of you. He possesses no magic, no divine ability. He fights well because he’s been training since he could walk. Altan is the last scion of a dead race. If the Speerlies prayed to their god, it clearly didn’t save them.”

      Their obsession with Altan wasn’t entirely wasted in their lessons, though. After witnessing the apprentices’ matches, the first-years redoubled their efforts in Jun’s class. They wanted to become graceful, lethal fighters like Altan. But Jun remained a meticulous coach. He refused to teach them the flashy techniques they’d seen in the ring until they had thoroughly mastered their fundamentals.

      “If you attempted Tobi’s Tiger Claws now, you couldn’t kill a rabbit,” he sneered. “You’d just as quickly break your own fingers. It’ll be months before you can channel the ki that sort of technique requires.”

      At least he had finally bored of drilling them in formation. Their class was now handling their staves with reasonable competence—at least, the accidental injuries were minimal. Near the end of class one day, Jun lined them up in rows and ordered them to spar.

      “Responsibly,” he emphasized. “Half speed if you must. I have no patience for idiotic injuries. Drill on the strikes and parries that you’ve practiced in the form.”

      Rin found herself standing across from Nezha. Of course she was. He shot her a nasty smile.

      She wondered, briefly, how they could possibly finish the match without harming each other.

      “On my count,” said Jun. “One, two—”

      Nezha launched himself forward.

      The force behind his blow stunned her. She barely got her staff up over her head in time to block a swing that would have knocked her out cold—the impact sent tremors through her arms.

      But Nezha continued to advance, ignoring Jun’s instructions completely. He swung his staff with savage abandon, but also with startlingly good aim. Rin wielded her weapon clumsily; the staff was still awkward in her arms, nothing like the spinning blur in Nezha’s hands. She could barely keep her grip on it; twice it almost spun out of her grasp. Nezha landed far more hits than she blocked. The first two—elbow strike, upper thigh strike—hurt. Then Nezha landed so many that she couldn’t feel them anymore.

      She had been wrong about him. He had been showing off earlier, but his command of martial arts was prodigious and real. Last time they’d fought, he’d gotten cocky. Her lucky blow had been a fluke.

      He was not being cocky now.

      His staff connected with her kneecap with a sickening crunch. Rin’s eyes bulged. She crumpled to the ground.

      Nezha wasn’t even bothering with his staff anymore. He kicked at her while she was still down, each blow more vicious than the last.

      “That’s the difference between you and me,” muttered Nezha. “I’ve trained for this my entire life. You don’t get to just stroll in here and embarrass me. You understand? You’re nothing.”

       He’s going to kill me. He’s actually going to kill me.

      Enough with the staff. She couldn’t defend herself with a weapon she didn’t know how to use. She dropped the staff and lunged upward to tackle Nezha around the waist. Nezha dropped his staff and tripped over backward. She landed on top of him. He swung at her face; she forced a palm into his nose. They pummeled furiously at each other, a chaotic tangle of limbs.

      Then something yanked hard at her collar, cutting off her airflow. Jun pried them apart in an impressive display of strength, held them suspended in the air for a minute, then flung them both to the ground.

      “What part of block and parry was unclear?” he growled.

      “She started it,” Nezha said quickly. He rolled to a sitting position and pointed at Rin. “She dropped her—”

      “I know what I saw,” Jun snapped. “And I saw you rolling around the floor like imbeciles. If I enjoyed training animals, I would be in the Cike. Shall I put in a word?”

      Nezha cast his eyes down. “No, sir.”

      “Put your weapon away and leave my class. You’re suspended for a week.”

      “Yes, sir.” Nezha rose to his feet, tossed his staff at the weapons rack, and stalked off.

      Jun then turned his attention to Rin. Blood dripped down her face, streaming from her nose, trickling down her forehead. She wiped clumsily at her chin, too nervous to meet Jun’s eyes.

      He loomed above her. “You. Get up.”

      She struggled to her feet. Her knee screamed in protest.

      “Get that pathetic look off your face. You won’t receive any sympathy from me.”

      She didn’t expect his sympathy. But neither was she expecting what came next.

      “That was the most miserable display I’ve seen from a student since I left the Militia,” Jun said. “Your fundamentals are horrific. You move like a paraplegic. What did I just witness? Have you been asleep for the past month?”

      He moved too fast. I couldn’t keep up. I don’t have years of training like he does. Even as the words came to her mind, they sounded like the pathetic excuses they were. She opened her mouth and closed it, too stunned to respond.

      “I hate students like you,” Jun continued relentlessly. The sounds of staves clashing against one another had long died away. The entire class was listening. “You skip into Sinegard from your little village, thinking that this is it—you’ve made it, you’re going to make Mommy and Daddy proud. Maybe you were the smartest kid in your village. Maybe you were the best test taker your tutor has ever seen! But guess what? It takes more than memorizing a few Classics to be a martial artist.

      “Every year we get someone like you, some country bumpkin who thinks that just because they were good at taking some test, they deserve my time and attention. Understand this, southerner. The exam proves nothing. Discipline and competence—those are the only things that matter at this school. That