WuxiUrsula (Antiquary Combat Ursula)

It was growing late, but the humid Hong Kong air hung on to the day's heat even as the sun set over the city. In one back alley, shadowed by the crowded buildings of the west side, a young woman did her best not to be noticed as she hurried towards the harbor.

She failed.

The first triad member stepped out from behind a corner and loitered about a block ahead. The woman's footsteps slowed. A moment later she became aware of a few more shadowed figures, tucked into corners or doorways. All carried blunt weapons, and in a few places suspiciously baggy clothing indicated hidden knives or guns. Hopefully not guns. Guns could be a slight problem.

The man on the corner ahead casually started walking down the street and the young woman felt the net close on all sides. Her eyes darted from side to side over the top of her fan–the fan she still waved gently in front of her face despite the increasing chill and fall of night.

"Shy, are we?" the man in front of her said, cueing a quick roll of chuckles up and down the street like a wave. The woman listened to the sounds, let them roll over her, let them paint a picture in her head.

"I encourage you to consult with your dai dai lo before starting anything with me," the young woman replied in flawless Cantonese, "or I will not be held responsible for the consequences."

For a moment, the larger man's confidence slipped and surprise showed through, but as she finished his bravado reasserted itself and he laughed. Pointing the wooden truncheon towards her, he cocked his head.

"One chance to come quietly, little English songbird. Your pretty words won't help you."

She snapped the fan shut, revealing a face yet young but with something fierce and eager and steely in the bright eyes. "Fortunately, I never rely on words when actions will do."

The triad member heard the defiance in her tone and snarled, moving in high and delivering a sweeping downward blow. But a sweep of the fan deflected it harmlessly to the side, and then she whipped the beautiful filigreed edge across the inside of his wrist, severing the tendons. He went down howling, the truncheon dropping from his useless hand.

As the next two rushed her she was already moving, qipao flying open to reveal a beautifully-woven hàn fú–and the short-bladed sword strapped to her leg. It was drawn in an instant, whistling around through the air to complement the iron fan, and the foreign xiákè danced with the triad's bruisers until she was the only one left standing.

Dawn broke red as blood over Hong Kong.