It is 350 years after the events of The Five Ancestors. Phoenix Collns lives in Indiana with his grandfather who is teaching him kung fu. But Phoenix's real love is mountain bike racing. When unsettling  events reveal that his grandfather is not only one of the legendary five Cangzhen monks, but also almost 400 years old, Phoenix must race the clock if he is going to keep his beloved ancestor alive. Traveling to China, he meets an intriguing young woman who is a talented biker and a terrific mechanic. She offers to help him, but can she be trusted? JEFF STONE lives in the Midwest with his wife, their two children, and a python named Yokwan (Cantonese for "Jade Bangle"). Mr. Stone holds a black belt in Shaolin-Do kung fu. He had the honor of traveling to China with the Shaolin-Do grand master and test for his black belt at Shaolin Temple. Like the Five Ancestors, Mr. Stone was adopted as an infant. He began searching for his birth parents when he was 18 and found them 15 years later. 1 The pistol fired, and I hammered my feet down. My mountain bike shot forward like a bullet. Elbows and knees flew in every direction as we raced, the other riders and I jockeying to be first onto the narrow dirt single-track. This was Town Run Trail Park, after all, not some perfectly groomed thirty-foot-wide BMX track. The route was a single lane over eight twisting miles of Indiana hardwoods and dried creek beds. It was nearly impossible to pass anyone in the tangle of low branches and exposed tree roots coming up, so commanding the lead at the beginning was crucial. It took me less than fifteen seconds to shake the pack and hit the trailhead first. Disappearing into the trees, I leaned into the initial turn, feeling the wind through the vents in my battered helmet. Tree limbs bounced off my cracked goggles and duct-taped face mask, and thorny vines tore at my shin guards. My gloved knuckles smacked against massive tree trunks as my bike rocked from side to side on my push to increase my lead. I attacked the single-track like an animal. Like a wolf. Like a cheetah. Predator, not prey. Back in the pack, you must outrun whatever is closest at your heels. Out front, it's you against the trail. You have to attack it, or it will attack you. Thirty seconds into the race, I was so far ahead that the others couldn't even see my shadow. I whipped around a bend and saw the trail's first climb. I shifted to the smallest sprocket on my rear wheel cassette and hit the dirt slope like a salmon swimming upstream. My back tire began to fishtail violently, and I leaned out over the handlebars to get better balance and more traction. It was hard work. Most guys gave up at this point and simply jumped off their bike. They unclipped their feet from their quick-release pedals, shouldered their ride, and ran like a mountain goat. The trouble was, clipping back in at the top of the hill took time. I didn't have any time to lose, so I kept cranking. This was a race, after all. It didn't matter that it was only a small-time event. Losing wasn't an option. I hate to lose. I continued up the hill until I crested the rise; then I picked the cleanest line down the back side and hurled onward. As gravity sucked me down the rear slope, I stopped pedaling to conserve energy. I was going to need it. Ahead was the trail's most dangerous section. When I reached the end of the downhill run, I gently squeezed my index fingers over my brake levers, slowing. The trail had been dry so far, but the low ground looming before me harbored water overflowing from the White River mere yards away. Half an inch of turbid liquid floated atop several inches of muck. I flicked my right thumb, changing to an easier gear, and continued forward. I motored into the rank sludge and immediately felt my hip flexor muscles begin to burn from the effort. The muck threatened to suck my tires right off the rims. Crud flew up in every direction as my rear wheel splattered a black line straight up my back, my front wheel slinging gelatinous clumps of earth up under my face mask and across the front of my goggles. When I was halfway across the muck meadow, I heard a splash. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to see a deer or maybe a raccoon. It was neither. It was another rider. I knew most of the dozen other racers, but I didn't recognize this kid. He was a beast. His forearms were as thick as baseball bats, and the thighs bulging beneath his three-hundred-dollar skin suit looked as if they had been transplanted from an Olympic speed skater. I remembered seeing him at the starting line but had dismissed him as another aspiring muscle head wanting to race mountain bikes as a means of improving his cardio for other sports. He was probably fifteen years old, the maximum age for this race bracket and two years older than I was. I'd assumed his expensive racing kit and full-suspension ultra-lightweight carbon bike had little to do with actual skill and more to do with rich parents. But I wa