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It is the final days of the mid-autumn festival, when the ripeness of harvest-time meets the steel of incoming winter. Struck with inspiration, Uncle has cultivated rumors, from his lips to his servants' mouths: There is a young lady, cultured and refined, her face the shape of a watermelon seed, as fresh and lovely as a peach blossom. If social achievement will not bully his young ne'er-do-well into respectability, then a woman and the charms of the gentry life will do just as well. The nephew is unmoved by all this. Watermelon seeds and peach blossoms are for poets. Just the smell of the blossom conjures visions of brothels, decadent cigarettes that protrude from holders like careful insults, fleshy skin poised to droop and wither. None of that for him. 
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But Uncle will not be deterred, and another rumor insinuates itself, permanent as a stain on a gown. This fair lady has talents. In this region, no one is her match in martial arts. In fact, she has boasted that one must challenge her, and win, to be worthy of her hand. Uncle fabricates all this, of course - it would be well nigh impossible for a man in this remote village to possess such gifts, let alone a woman. But lie suffices where truth did not; his virility questioned, his mind set to challenge and chase, the would-be warrior must meet this young woman. Who cares about marriage unions and relations, he thinks. What really matters is strength to strength, victor and fame. And so the concluding night of the festival arrives. Uncle's carefully considered bribes - a  |
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