The morning frost clung to the overgrown weeds in the small dirt courtyard behind the earthen cottage, glistening faintly as the first pale light broke over Miller Creek Road.
Ye Chen stood in the center of the yard with his boots planted shoulder-width apart into the packed clay, his arms crossed over his chest.
Zhang Yue stood opposite him in a pair of oversized linen trousers Han Ping had shortened with rough hemp stitches, her small leather shoes shifting nervously in the dirt.
"Your center of balance is floating, Zhang Yue," Ye Chen said, his tone as rigid and unyielding as an iron anvil. "Drop your weight three inches into your heels. Lock your knees outward to anchor your lower meridians against the earth, and do not let your left shoulder drift forward when you exhale."
Zhang Y
