Indeed he is not; the Wei Yi style as Wufei had been taught it was highly acrobatic, emphasizing flexibility and momentum, as befit a people born in space and native to a place where gravity was malleable and 'down' a relative concept rather than an absolute. He senses more than feels the intent of his opponent and shifts on his heels, ready, coiled. All so that when the man's grapple grasps and lifts, Wufei goes with it in a bounding, kicking whirl.

At any distance, which this manifestly was not, the proscribed end of this strike would be a heel to crush or disable anything found at the apex of its arc, the strongest force of the fulcrum of Wufei's body. But he'd spent a long time away from the elegant dogma of L5, and the unrelenting practicum that was reality had made him deadlier yet and more flexible than even Master Long could have predicted; she had approved. He turns the move into a leg-lock, seeking to use his weight and the strength of his back and torso to lever his opponent with him, up and back and over, to drop there and pin his enemy on the ground.

And there, with fist and shoulder, and all the vicious brutality that his rage had lent him, to hurt this man as badly as he could, before he was stopped. It had been a very long time since Wufei could righteously permit himself to let go of limitations, to vent his strength and really strive. Once, Wufei had vowed to become the devil himself, if that was what it took to discern truth from among all the lies, and he was still the kind of man who relished blood on his knuckles.