Chapter Text
Mulan kept forgetting how to be a man.
She had spent the past three weeks studying the other recruits around her like they were a language she had never learnt before. They sprawled where they sat, taking up more space than necessary. They laughed loudly and without embarrassment, spit flying from their mouths. They chewed while talking, sticky rice landing on their shirts just to be scooped back into their mouths. Mulan had copied it all, the wider stance, the deeper voice, and the boisterous laughter.
But no matter how hard she tried, how determined she was, she couldn't fight like a man, more specifically she couldn’t win a fight as a man. Men didn’t hesitate before they moved, they didn’t worry about their posture when sparring and they didn’t spend every waking second terrified that someone would discover who they really were.
Mulan did, or rather Ping did.
Which was unfortunate, because it meant that she was currently losing a fight.
Again.
The camp's training ring had stopped resembling a training ring several days ago. Weeks of rain and hundreds of boots had churned the packed earth into a thick brown sludge that clung to everything it touched. Laundry hung limp between the small tents, boots sat outside doorways stuffed with straw in a hopeless attempt to dry them. And Mulan could hear a horse whinny in the distance.
Around the edge of the ring, recruits sat on barrels, fence posts, and upturned crates all eager for a distraction which was sure to end in a very mud-covered Mulan. Since she arrived three weeks ago she had not won a single fight, she hadn't even come close to winning. Shang had spent the better part of three weeks trying to teach her how to fight. Three weeks of teaching her how to stand, how to hold the sword and most importantly how to block attacks instead of standing still and getting hit.
So far she had learnt none of it.
Mulan ducked too late and the wooden training sword struck her shoulder hard enough to send her stumbling backwards in the mud. She could hear the other recruits laughing loudly from the sidelines and an embarrassed flush rose to her cheeks. She tightened her grip on her own sword, readjusting her stance to match the much larger recruit opposite her. It felt unnatural to stand so stiff but she needed to pull it off, she needed to convince people she was a man, and what better way to do that than to copy one.
“Again” Shang called from where he was standing, arms crossed and a deep scowl on his face.
Mulan gritted her teeth. No, not her teeth. His teeth.
That was the problem.
She was thinking too much. She was supposed to be stronger, tougher, less concerned with the fact that every mistake felt like a crack in the already fragile disguise she wore. Mulan took a deep breath and shook her head, trying to force herself to focus. She couldn't afford another mistake.
Not here. Not in front of Shang.
Her opponent didn't give her the chance.
He lunged. Mulan's first instinct was to step backwards, but men didn't retreat. Men stood their ground. She tried to remember where she was supposed to place her feet, how she was supposed to hold her shoulders, and by the time she remembered she was holding a sword, the blow had already landed.
The hit of the practice sword rattled through her arm making her fingers go numb around her own sword and when the next swing connected with her rather pathetic attempt at a block, it flew from her hand landing with a wet slap on the ground. The laughter around her was not even half as embarrassing as the sigh Shang released before he turned and walked away indicating that we were done for the day.
Shang's expression had become increasingly familiar over the past three weeks. It wasn't anger. Mulan would have preferred anger. Anger she understood.
It was disappointment.
Worse, it was the disappointment of a man who had genuinely believed she might survive basic training.
Mulan swallows the curse rising in her throat, shutting her eyes for a few brief seconds before wiping the sweat from her brow. She was grateful the day was done, Mulan was in desperate need of a wash and Mushu and Cri-kee were waiting in her tent. Likely with another long speech about how she needed to be more focused on learning to fight. In her distracted state she misses the mocking looks shared between the other recruits and in turn misses the moment her opponent decides he isn’t quite finished with her yet.
A shout from behind catches Mulan’s attention and she becomes aware of the wooden sword swinging directly at the back of her head, from the corner of her eye she can see Shang spin back around to see what is going on. And for the first time in weeks Mulan stops thinking. She spins fully stepping into the swing and grabbing onto the man’s wrist tightly with her much smaller hand. With a twist and a quick kick to the back of his knee her opponent is face down on the ground, training sword uselessly laying next to him.
The man grunts in pain before turning to stare at Ping with a mix of disbelief and frustration.
Mulan breathes out heavily.
And all around her is silent.
Shock stared back at her from every face around the training ring.
Open mouths.
Wide eyes.
Silence.
But Mulan only looked at Shang, confusion flickered across his face, followed quickly by something else.
Interest.
Mulan knew she was the worst recruit in the camp, and yet she had somehow managed to disarm one of his best.
SHANG POV -
Shang had seen soldiers win fights they shouldn't.
He had seen desperation, and lucky strikes.
This was none of those things.
For one brief moment, Ping had stopped looking like a frightened recruit trying to pretend to be a soldier. Instead he had looked like a man who had been fighting wars his entire life.
It had been weeks since Ping won his first fight, and Shang still couldn’t stop thinking about how quickly Ping became a soldier. It was like a switch was flipped and since that day Ping hasn’t lost another fight, not even against him.
The first time Ping had beat him, Shang had assumed he was tired. The second time, he was distracted. After the fifth time he stopped making excuses entirely. Ping found spaces to attack Shang that didn't seem possible, twisting and turning, flashing in and out of Shang’s view. Shang had tried to change tactics, using manoeuvres that didn't make sense, making mistakes he taught the recruits not to make, but every time Ping adjusted before Shang had even completed the movement.
During the last fight Shang deliberately left an opening in his defence expecting Ping to attack there, instead Ping attacked a weakness Shang hadn’t realised he had exposed.
The strangest part isn't that Ping beat him.
The strangest part is that barely ten minutes later, Ping was sitting in the dirt beside Chien-Po, laughing so hard he nearly fell over.
Shang had known soldiers who fought like Ping. The controlled and calculated way they assess every move knowing just one mistake will cost them their lives, the way they seemed to carry the weight of the world on their shoulder. His father was one of them.
None of them laughed like that.
Fighting Ping felt less like sparring and more like playing Weiqi against someone who had already decided how the game would end. Every move Shang made seemed to become another piece in a strategy only Ping understood.
The other recruits have started looking up to Ping, sparing with him for fun, laughing with him instead of at him. Yau and Ling joke that Ping can see into the future to which Chien-Po merely laughs and calls Ping lucky. Shang has been lucky before, but nobody is that lucky.
It doesn’t make any sense. Shang had fought men who were stronger, faster, with years more experience than Ping. But he had never fought anyone who adapted the way Ping did. It was as if the man standing in front of him wasn't learning how to fight.
It was as if he was remembering how to survive.
And Shang is beginning to wonder whether Ping was holding back the first few weeks. Perhaps hiding his skills and capabilities, because nobody gets that good overnight.
Shang is interrupted from his thoughts when a message from his father arrives.
He has barely finished reading the missive when he jumps to his feet darting out the tent to start rallying the men. And on his desk sits the little piece of paper that starts everything.
VILLAGE SOUTH, UNDER ATTACK.
MOVE IMMEDIATELY.