TWELVE
The eighth time Yi picked himself up off the ground where Mao had dumped him, he resolved it would be the last. "You win," he panted, bowing to the boy.
Mao gave a curt nod. "Just like yesterday." His eyes glittered with what Yi fancied was a warning.
"Just like yesterday," Yi agreed. He knew when he was beaten, though it had been a long time since anyone had been able to do so. He'd been smaller than Mao, and probably younger, too. He had long since surpassed his training masters. Perhaps Mao's master would be willing to train him, too. "Who taught you to fight like that?"
"My father, of course," Mao said, slipping his shoes back on his feet. The movement was oddly graceful, stirring something inside Yi that he didn't understand.
A memory, he told himself. For there was not
