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  The Legend …

  When China's Cangzhen Temple is destroyed, only five young warrior monks survive. Each is named after an animal—tiger, monkey, snake, crane, dragon—for each is the youngest—ever master of that animal's fighting style. The five scatter and begin teaching not only their formidable fighting skills but also their peaceful philosophy of life. It is said that today's martial arts come from the teachings of these five young warrior monks, who are known in legend as …

  the Five Ancestors.

  This is stupid,” Fu mumbled from the bottom of the terra-cotta barrel. “How long do we have to stay inside this thing? I feel like a pickled vegetable.”

  “Shhh!” warned his brother Malao, lying directly on top of him. “Grandmaster told us to remain perfectly quiet, and perfectly still.”

  “I know what Grandmaster said,” Fu replied. “But we can't stay crammed in here forever. I say we get out right now. I say we stop hiding and fight!”

  “Calm yourself, Fu,” whispered his brother Seh from on top of Malao. “We are all just as cramped and uncomfortable as you are. But we must do as Grandmaster said and remain silent and hidden. The enemy within our walls is unlike any faced by Cangzhen Temple in more than a thousand years.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Fu said. “Stop being so dramatic. You guys are sounding more and more like Grandmaster every day. I don't care who's out there. We're all masters now. We've all passed the tests. We shouldn't be hiding like a bunch of girls. We should be—”

  “Hush!” snapped Fu's brother Hok, who was lying on top of Seh. “That's enough, Fu! You're making even me angry now.”

  “I don't care!” Fu replied. “If you think—”

  “Quiet!” hissed Fu's oldest brother, Long, from the top of the pile. “Control your tongues, all of you! Brother Fu, empty the words from your mouth and then empty your mind. You must take control of your thoughts and your emotions, or they will control you.”

  “You must take control of your thoughts and your emotions, or they will control you,” Fu mocked. “Give me a break, Long. Right now we need action, not philosophy.”

  Fu was quickly losing his patience. He could hear enemy horses racing up and down the brick pathways that crisscrossed the temple grounds. He also heard weapons clashing and men crying out—plus a terrible, new sound. It was almost like thunder, except every boom was followed by a pain-filled scream. Fu's keen ears recognized each and every scream. Warrior monks were falling.

  A low growl resonated deep within Fu's chest. He didn't understand why his four brothers, stacked above him in the barrel, were holding back. Like him, each had mastered a style of animal kung fu that reflected both his personality and his body type. In fact, their true natures were so perfectly matched with their kung fu styles that they were each named after the animal they mirrored. They were born to fight. But they wouldn't.

  Fu, the tiger, growled again. His brothers didn't look like him, walk like him, talk like him, or even smell like him. And they certainly didn't think like him. He called them “brothers” because they all were Buddhist and lived in the temple together. In reality, he and his “brothers” were orphans. What Fu needed were real brothers. Brothers who would fight alongside him.

  Fu grunted under the weight of the others. “I can't believe we are just going to—”

  “Please!” Long interrupted. “No more talking! We all have to remain silent. Brother Fu, focus your breathing. Meditate like the rest of us have been doing. If you find that you cannot meditate, just lie still and relax.”

  “That's easy for you to say,” Fu replied. “You're on top. Try lying down here at the bottom of the pile in a pool of water with Malao's nasty feet pressing up against your lips.”

  Malao giggled softly and wiggled his toes.

  “If you do that again, Malao, I'll bite them off one at a time,” Fu said. “I swear I will.”

  Malao giggled again but kept his toes still.

  How much longer am I going to be stuck in here? Fu wondered. He hoped for his brothers' sake they would all get out of the barrel soon. He wasn't sure if he could control himself much longer.

  Twelve-year-old Fu couldn't believe his bad luck. He wished he could set the water clock back one hour to the time when Grandmaster first woke him.

  Like every night, Fu had been sleeping in the small room he shared with his four brothers at the back of the main sleeping quarters. They had long since retired for the night, and Fu was dreaming about an overflowing banquet table that stretched as far as the eye could see. He'd been about to fill his bowl with a piece of chicken when he was awakened by a smack on the head.

  Had the strike come from anyone other than Grandmaster himself, Fu would surely have sprung from his bed and returned the greeting tenfold. However, Fu instantly recognized Grandmaster's skinny, bald head and orange robe.

  Grandmaster grabbed the collar of Fu's robe and yanked him to his feet.

  “Rise, now!” Grandmaster whispered into Fu's ear. “We have very little time. Follow your brothers on cat's feet. Go!”

  Fu scanned the room with a quick twist of his head. All the beds were empty. His eyes locked on the back door as a small figure scampered outside.

  “GO!” Grandmaster urged. He shoved Fu toward the door.

  In one great bound, Fu launched himself through the open door and landed silently in the moonlit courtyard. Filling his lungs with the damp night air, Fu raced after his little brother, Malao, who was scurrying around the back corner of the practice hall. By the time Fu reached the enormous wooden doors at the front of the hall, Grandmaster had already caught up with him. Fu's brothers Long, Hok, Seh, and Malao stood there, waiting.

  Grandmaster glanced around, then pushed one of the giant doors open just enough to stick his wrinkled head inside. After a moment, he pulled his head back out and looked at Fu. Fu knew exactly what Grandmaster wanted. As Grandmaster opened the door wider, Fu rocked back on his heels and sprang through the doorway.

  Fu hit the ancient brick floor without making a sound and rolled to one side. He crouched low and pushed his back flat against the cold stone wall. Like a wary feline, Fu scanned the immense room with his low-light vision. It was empty.

  Fu grunted and the others filed in. Grandmaster came last, closing the door behind him.

  “Follow me,” Grandmaster whispered. “Do not open any shutters. Do not light any torches. If you concentrate, you can see well enough.”

  “What's going on?” Seh whispered as they moved forward.

  “Troops have gathered outside our walls,” Grandmaster said. “You are to remain hidden here until I return.”

  “Troops?” Hok said. “You mean soldiers? Cangzhen is a secret temple. How do they know about us?”

  “I fear they are led by your lost brother, Ying,” Grandmaster replied.

  “Ying!” Fu growled. “He's no longer my brother! Where is he? I'll tear him to shreds!”

  “No, you won't,” Malao said, giggling. “Ying's eagle kung fu is much too powerful for you. Remember the time he broke your arm because you woke him up?”

  “Watch it, Malao,” Fu replied.

  Malao skipped forward, still giggling. “And remember the time he tied you to
that tree with his chain whip? Right beneath that big hornet's nest!”

  “Stop it,” Fu said, pivoting toward Malao. “I'm warning you—”

  Malao giggled louder. “Oh! And remember the time he—”

  “That's enough, you two,” Long whispered as he positioned his muscular body between Fu and Malao. Malao stopped giggling.

  “Us two?” Fu said, irritated. “I didn't even—”

  “I said, enough!” Long hissed. Fu glared at Long but kept his mouth shut. Long turned toward Grandmaster. “Pardon me for asking, Grandmaster, but you think Ying is leading the troops? How can this be? He is only sixteen years old.”

  “Never underestimate anyone,” Grandmaster said. “Especially Ying. He is very cunning. Now, of this matter I will say no more, and neither will any of you. You will remain silent.”

  When they reached the far wall of the practice hall, Grandmaster motioned for them to stop while he continued off to one side. As soon as Grandmaster's footfalls grew too faint to hear, Fu whispered, “I wonder if Ying has come to steal the secret dragon scrolls. He swore he'd come back and—”

  “Quiet!” whispered Long.

  “Shhh!” whispered Seh.

  “Fine,” whispered Fu, and he turned away from the group.

  Across the room a sliver of moonlight was sneaking through a crack in one of the shutters. It shined against the far wall, illuminating the face of Fu's favorite character in his favorite mural. Of the hundreds of life-size instructional fighting scenes covering every wall inside the dark practice hall, this beam had chosen to shine on the heavyset monk striking an opponent with a devastating tiger-claw swipe.

  It must be a sign, Fu thought. It reminded him that he and his brothers were full-fledged warrior monks—Cangzhen Temple's youngest ever. Each of them had mastered a different animal style by age eleven. It took most people twice that long.

  Fu didn't know what made them so special, and he didn't really care. The only thing he wondered about occasionally was their peculiar names, which Grandmaster had given them as infants. Though they mainly spoke Mandarin Chinese—the same dialect everyone in the region used—for some reason Grandmaster had selected their names in a Chinese dialect called Cantonese. Whatever the reason, Grandmaster knew what he was doing. Fu meant “tiger” in Cantonese. And, like the monk in the mural, Fu was a tiger, through and through.

  Fu had a large, round head, which was cleanshaven and accented by small ears and sharp, challenging eyes. His voice was deep and gravelly and, just like his animal counterpart, he was very aggressive and unusually short-tempered. Though Fu was the second youngest of the five and not exactly tall, he was by far the largest and strongest. His arms were as big as most of his brothers' legs, and his legs were as big as a man's. Fu was solid and thick from lifting stone weights and generous of width from lifting his rice bowl.

  It came as no surprise, then, when Grandmaster quietly called them over to the back corner of the practice hall and told them that Fu would be the first to climb into the terra-cotta barrel that held drinking water more often than it held boys.

  Grandmaster removed the barrel's heavy lid and, groaning softly, dumped the contents onto the floor. Fu felt the water splash onto his pants and knee-length robe, then spill over his bare feet. He hated to wear wet clothes, so he took several steps back—but Grandmaster shook his head.

  Grandmaster quickly stood the barrel back up and nodded in Fu's direction. Fu growled softly and stepped forward. He laid his hands on the rim of the barrel and found it to be quite stable, so he swung himself up and into it feetfirst like he was jumping into a well. And just like jumping into a well, he found water at the bottom.

  “What the … ?” Fu complained. “There's still a bunch of water in here! What do you expect me to do?”

  Grandmaster slapped Fu's bald head. “I expect you to stop talking and lie down! Hurry! Curl into a tight ball and lie on your side.”

  Fu grudgingly did as he was told but found that much of his head would be under water if he followed Grandmaster's directions exactly. Instead, Fu twisted his head to one side and rested his cheek on the inside wall of the barrel.

  “I can't believe this,” Fu mumbled. “Whoever gets on top of me better—”

  “Hush!” Grandmaster said. He looked anxiously at Fu's four brothers standing around the barrel in the gloom. Three of them avoided Grandmaster's gaze. Malao, however, flashed a devilish grin and leaped high into the air. Grandmaster frowned but did nothing to stop the eleven-year-old “monkey.”

  Malao's bare, dark-skinned feet landed directly on Fu's head, and he began to giggle as he flopped down on top of Fu. Malao was the smallest of the group and didn't weigh very much, but Fu complained anyway. Grandmaster sighed and looked at Seh.

  Without a word, Seh, the serious twelve-year-old “snake,” stretched his long, sinewy arms straight up into the air and slid his lanky body over the barrel's rim. Malao stopped giggling after Seh entered the barrel. Fu, however, complained even more when he felt the added weight of his tallest brother pressing down on him.

  Hok, the quiet twelve-year-old “crane,” followed Seh without being prompted. His body was of average size, but he was incredibly light. He hopped directly onto the rim of the barrel. Perfectly balanced on the balls of both feet, he leaned forward and stretched his delicate neck to peer inside. After studying the pile a few moments, he gently lowered his pale body into the barrel.

  Long, the wise thirteen-year-old “dragon,” went last. He wasn't as strong as Fu, as nimble as Malao, as smooth as Seh, or as gentle as Hok, but he was very, very close in each regard. He placed his large hands on the rim of the barrel like Fu and swung his powerful legs high into the air. But instead of rushing in heavy-footed like Malao, Long quickly checked the positions of the others like Hok had done. While still in midair, Long's muscular, rock-solid body became fluid like a snake, and he wriggled himself down gently into what little space was left at the top of the pile.

  Grandmaster finished the job by replacing the barrel's heavy lid. Only then did Fu stop complaining.

  But Fu was ready to start complaining all over again. Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse inside the barrel, they did. His brothers were beginning to smell. They were all wearing their cold-weather robes and pants, which made them sweat profusely inside the cramped space. Even their bald heads and bare feet were sweating.

  On top of Fu, Malao shifted one of his slimy feet. A dirty toenail poked Fu in the eye. Fu growled and Malao's foot returned to its original position.

  Fu wondered what he had done in a former life to deserve this. He was wet and uncomfortable at the bottom of the barrel, and half his body had fallen asleep under the weight of the others. Worst of all, he was being forced to listen to a battle being waged in his own backyard while he lay there, doing nothing.

  Fu grumbled to himself. If he hadn't been half-asleep, he would never have agreed to this. Especially with Ying involved.

  If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem, Fu thought. Ying, of all people, had told him that.

  I've got to get out of this stupid barrel! Fu decided.

  Fu began to shake as he struggled to restrain himself. Expressing his thoughts like a civilized person hadn't gotten him anywhere, so he decided to take a different approach. He would muscle his way out. All he needed was a little leverage. Maybe if he were to shift his left shoulder back a little … errr… And then push his right arm forward a little … arrr … And then turn his head a little to the … SLAM!

  Fu's head was unexpectedly pinned to the bottom of the barrel by Malao's foot. Fu couldn't believe the little monkey would be so bold! He opened his mouth to give Malao a piece of his mind, but instead of sound coming out, a flood of water rushed in.

  “Major Ying, be careful!” shouted an armor-clad soldier. He sprinted toward Cangzhen Temple's practice hall, leaping over lifeless bodies and fallen horses.

  Ying stopped short of the practice hall's huge
wooden doors and turned toward the running soldier. A flurry of flaming arrows suddenly filled the night sky and rained down onto the green tiles covering the stone building's elaborate wooden roof. The soldier dove behind a dead horse as arrows bounced off the tiles and went careening into the surrounding courtyard. They sliced into anything—alive or dead—that wasn't wearing armor.

  Ying, who never wore armor, didn't budge.

  “Please step away from the hall, sir!” the soldier pleaded from behind the horse. “Arrows will continue to fly from the compound's perimeter, and you're unprotected.”

  Ying stood firm, his blood-streaked silk robe clinging to tight, sinewy muscles as he folded his arms. A burning arrow flashed overhead and took root above him in one of the roof's ornate, up-curved corners. The flickering flames illuminated his face.

  The soldier shuddered.

  “Come over here,” Ying said in a steady voice. “Now!”

  The soldier hesitated, then ran up to Ying and dropped to his knees. He removed his helmet and kowtowed three times to show his respect, knocking his forehead against the dusty ground with each bow.

  “Rise,” said Ying, glaring at the man. “I see this building is the last to be burned. Has it been fully searched?”

  “It has, sir,” the soldier said as he stood. His eyes remained glued to the ground. “I searched it myself. The only thing inside is an empty water barrel.”

  “How do you know the barrel is empty?” Ying asked.

  “Because I saw water on the floor, sir.”

  “Was the barrel laying on its side?”

  “No, sir. But…” The soldier's voice trailed off.

  “But what?” asked Ying in a low voice.

  The soldier squeezed his eyes shut and began to tremble.

  “I think I see your point, sir,” the soldier replied. “There could be someone hiding inside the barrel.”

  “That's right,” said Ying, popping his knuckles one at a time. “In fact, there could be several someones hiding inside it. Warrior monks are quite flexible, you know.”