My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 2: The Debt Notice

Qian Duoduo spread the silver out on the stove platform and counted it three times, piece by piece.

”Eight taels.” He looked up. ”If we get a thick coffin, the burial clothes will have to be coarse cloth.”

Xu Yan nudged the outermost piece inward. ”The Old Sect Master left instructions. Bury him on the third day. The coffin has to be ready-made, and it has to be thick.”

”Eastern Town Coffin Shop has one. Last year, made for Proprietor Sunʼs mother over at Huichun Hall. Eight and a half taels.” Qian Duoduo began stuffing the silver piece by piece into his waistband, the weight pulling his belt crooked. ”Eight wonʼt get it, but Iʼll work on him.”

”If you canʼt get him down, pay more. Donʼt leave it on credit.” Xu Yan said. ”The remaining four taels are for emergencies.”

Qian Duoduo acknowledged, walked to the door, then turned back. He fished two cold flatbreads from beside the stove firebox, wrapped them in cloth, and pressed them into Xu Yanʼs hands. ”You havenʼt eaten all day.”

The flatbreads still held a trace of warmth from the stove. Xu Yan took them without protest.

A Sui poked half her head out from the West Wing doorway. ”Accountant Xu, can I go with him?”

”Itʼs a funeral. Children donʼt go.” A He grabbed her and pulled her back; the two of them struggled in the doorframe for a while. ”You go to town, people will call it bad luck, and we wonʼt even be able to bargain the price down.”

”I wonʼt bargain.” A Sui said. ”Iʼll help carry.”

Qian Duoduo crouched down and pried her fingers off the doorframe one by one. ”There are enough people for the coffin. The mountain has enough hands. You stay and watch the stove. Thereʼs a pot of porridge bubbling on the fire. Stretch it with a ladle every quarter-hour so it doesnʼt scorch the bottom.”

A Sui looked at the porridge pot, then at him, and nodded.

By the time Qian Duoduo headed down the mountain, the sun had already reached the steps of the front courtyard. His waistband bulged, and he walked carefully, each step only half a stride.

Xu Yan went back to the Accounts Room, ground ink, and recorded a line in the account book: Sixth month, second day. Paid out eight taels of silver. Coffin, burial clothes. When he finished, he left half a line blank, ready to fill in the actual amount once Qian Duoduo returned. Leaving half a line blank was his habit of many years—empty spaces in the ledger were matters not yet settled.

Then he carried his bowl of porridge toward the Mountain Gate. Nie Bo had hoisted the white mourning banner on a bamboo pole early that morning. The left side hung a notch lower than the right, and every gust of wind sent it curling. Nie Bo leaned the pole against the gatepost and tilted his head back to study it. He seemed to realize something was off, but his hand couldnʼt reach.

”Iʼll do it.” Xu Yan set the bowl inside the threshold, moved a stone over to stand on, straightened the cloth, raised the rope end two inches, wound it around three times, and tied a dead knot.

The banner hung straight. The wind passed, and the cloth dropped for a moment, exposing the fine threads fraying at the opening.

Nie Bo picked up the broom leaning by the gatepost and swept down from the highest step, one step at a time. Among the fallen leaves was paper ash left over from last nightʼs burning. The ash scattered at the first push of the broom; he had to sweep with the bristles pressed down.

Xu Yan sat on the threshold and drank his porridge. No salt in it. Qian Duoduo had tossed in a few broken kernels of spirit rice from the bottom of the pot. As he swallowed, that faint spiritual qi traced its way through his meridians, same as every year, and stopped at the place that marked Qi Condensation Third Layer.

At the Snake hour, three people came up the mountain path.

The one in front wore a crimson outer robe with sharp-cut hems and a bronze ring at his waist. Behind him came a broader, stockier man, wide-shouldered, empty-handed, his eyes darting straight past the gate. Last came a young man carrying a rattan box in both hands.

Nie Boʼs broom never stopped.

The man in crimson stopped at the foot of the steps. He looked first at the white mourning banner, then at the plaque above the gate. The lacquer on the word ”Qingya” had peeled, and the right character was missing a corner, exposing the wood grain beneath.

He smiled faintly. ”Good timing.”

Xu Yan stood and set his bowl on the ground. ”Chixiao?”

”Outer Court steward of the Chixiao Sect, Ge Song.” He tilted his head toward the stocky man. ”Cao Hu.”

Cheng Banshan came around from the west side, his empty sleeve swinging behind him, his gourd dangling from his hand. He walked down to the steps and stood beside Xu Yan.

Ge Song cupped his hands in greeting. ”When did the Old Sect Master pass?”

”Last night, the Dog hour,” Xu Yan said.

”He went quickly,” Ge Song said. ”A change of leadership—good, saves me another trip.” He glanced through the gate. ”Which one is the new Sect Master?”

”He is,” Cheng Banshan said.

Ge Song turned back, his eyes resting on Xu Yanʼs face for a moment, then dropping to his hands. The nails were trimmed neat from years of bookkeeping, and the fingertips bore thin calluses.

”Accountant Xu,” he said.

Xu Yan brushed his sleeves. ”Come inside and talk.”

The mourning hall was set up in the Main Hall. The door panel rested on long benches, the burial cloth stretched smooth. The wicks of the two lamps were trimmed to matching lengths. The last of the incense on the offering table had burned down, ash spilling over the burnerʼs rim. A He and A Sui had been shooed off to the West Wing with a single look from Cheng Banshan, leaving both doors half-open. Ge Song climbed the steps and entered, his footsteps softening. Three paces from the spirit table he cupped his hands three times—no kowtow, no incense. Cao Hu stayed outside the threshold, arms folded. The young man followed inside and set the rattan box beside the incense table.

”Iʼm on assignment; I wonʼt waste time,” Ge Song said. ”Lend me a table.”

Xu Yan moved the low table over two paces. The young man opened the rattan box and pulled out a scroll wrapped in cloth. Ge Song took it, unfurled it, and spread it on the low table.

The paper was new, the corners still crisp. In the upper right, a line of small characters, then a line of large ones. Below, a dense block of text. At the end, a red seal stamped with dark, heavy ink paste, pressed down hard.

”Sect Alliance Dongzhou Branch. Debt Notice.” Ge Song pressed both hands flat on the paper, as if the wind might lift it. ”Iʼll read. You listen.”

”Read.”

”Qingya Sect, Ninth Rank. Beginning in Year 271 of the Alliance Calendar, Rank Silver unpaid. Through the Autumn Evaluation of Year 300, a total of thirty years.”

He read slowly, word by word, tapping a finger on the paper at the amount.

”Ninth Rank sect annual Rank Silver: seventy low-grade Spirit Stones per year. Thirty years: two thousand one hundred stones in total.”

Cheng Banshanʼs gourd froze midway to his mouth.

”This debt, on the twelfth day of the third month, Year 300, transferred by the Dongzhou Branch to the Chixiao Sect as assignee. Henceforth, all Qingya Sect debts are payable to the assignee.”

”On the Double Ninth, the day of the Alliance Autumn Evaluation, the Qingya Sect must pay the full sum of two thousand one hundred low-grade Spirit Stones in the presence of the Rank Evaluator.”

”Failure to pay in full by the deadline, or failure of the Autumn Evaluation and expulsion from the roster, and the Qingya Sectʼs Mountain Gate deed passes to the assignee.”

Having read to the end, he withdrew his hands and straightened up.

The Main Hall went silent. Outside, the wind rose. The white mourning banner twisted once on its bamboo pole, the cloth corner slapping twice against the bamboo.

Xu Yan stepped forward and bent over the document.

He read from the beginning, line by line. He paused at the amount, then read the signature and date. He memorized that date. He read slowly, his fingers never touching the paper, only hanging at the tableʼs edge.

Cheng Banshan leaned in, read only the signature line, then stepped back, bit the stopper off his gourd, and took a long drink.

”Pay to whom?” Xu Yan asked.

Ge Song raised an eyebrow.

”The assignee named on the document,” Xu Yan said. ”I want to hear you say it.”

”Pay to the Chixiao Sect,” Ge Song said. ”Pay it into my hands; I write a receipt, the Branch applies its seal.”

”Where?”

”On the Double Ninth, the day of the Autumn Evaluation, in the presence of the Rank Evaluator. Not at the Branch, not at Chixiao—in her presence.”

”Pay with what?”

Ge Song spread his hands. ”Spirit Stones. Low-grade is fine. Mid-grade accepted at conversion. Silver doesnʼt count. Copper coins donʼt count. Elixirs, spirit meals, mountain goods—none of it counts.”

”Canʼt be short by a single stone?”

”Canʼt be short by a single stone.”

Xu Yan straightened.

”How much did Chixiao pay for this debt?” Cheng Banshan suddenly asked.

”The purchase price was set by the Branch. I wasnʼt involved.” Ge Song said. ”My job is to read whatʼs on the paper, clearly.”

”Clearly,” Cheng Banshan said, pressing the gourd back to his waist with a short, sharp laugh. ”Thirty years. The Old Sect Master wrote that debt into the ledger year after year. I thought he was writing it for the Branch to see.”

”Doesnʼt matter who he wrote it for.” Ge Song said. ”The debt is there.”

”Two thousand one hundred stones.” Cheng Banshan said slowly. ”You can do the math on Qingyaʼs yearly income.”

Ge Song let that pass.

As he spoke, his face showed no particular smugness. Xu Yan looked at him and mentally inventoried everything on the mountain: twenty-three Spirit Stones in hand; silver—after todayʼs eight taels out—four taels left. The alchemy furnaces in the Medicine Hall, the pot in the kitchen, the seedlings in the old herb garden on the Back Mountain. Fold all of it into Spirit Stones and it wouldnʼt reach one hundred.

”Those tables and chairs, the plaque, the bell up on the mountain,” Ge Song said abruptly, ”they wonʼt fetch much. If it truly comes to that day, Chixiao will name a price and take them. Cleaner that way, less trouble for you.”

”The Autumn Evaluation hasnʼt arrived yet,” Xu Yan said.

”And when it does, it changes nothing.” Ge Song bent and rolled the document back up, very neatly, corners aligned to corners. ”Iʼm only saying this in advance.”

”I want a copy of this notice,” Xu Yan said.

Ge Song handed the rolled paper to the young man, who slipped it back into the rattan box. ”The original belongs to Chixiao. The Branch keeps the archived copy. Qingya gets nothing.” He turned to leave, then added, ”If you want to see it again, you can look your fill on the Double Ninth, right in front of the Rank Evaluator.”

”Then Iʼll remember it,” Xu Yan said.

Ge Song studied him, the corner of his mouth twitching.

”Accountant Xu, three months, not one stone short.” He said, ”I wonʼt say that a second time today.”

As he crossed the threshold, Cheng Banshan leaned against the gatepost. ”Memorized?”

”Two thousand one hundred stones. Seventy per year, thirty years. Double Ninth, in front of the Rank Evaluator, payable to the assignee. Two conditions that cost us the deed: failing to pay in full, or failing the Autumn Evaluation and being struck from the roster.”

”And the date?”

”The twelfth day of the third month.” Xu Yan said. ”The Branchʼs seal.”

Cheng Banshan blew a breath over the gourdʼs mouth without drinking. ”Twelfth of the third month. In the third month, there wasnʼt a whisper of this on the mountain.”

Xu Yan didnʼt answer. He moved the low table back beside the incense table, squared it, and glanced once more at the lamps before the spirit altar.

They saw the visitors off to the Mountain Gate. The three men stood at the foot of the steps. Ge Song looked up at the mourning banner again and suddenly asked, ”This sweeper of yours—how many years has he been sweeping?”

No one answered.

”Last time I passed this gate, he was sweeping too.” Ge Song said. ”Next time I come, I expect heʼll still be sweeping.”

Nie Bo pushed a pile of leaves to the edge of the steps, the broom pressing down on a broken branch with a crack.

”Safe travels,” Xu Yan said.

”Safe travels.” Ge Song turned, descended two steps, then stopped, head half-turned. ”This yearʼs East Continent Rank Evaluator has changed. Her name is Wen Su. A woman. Doesnʼt bend.” Then, as an afterthought: ”—Ask around.”

He didnʼt wait for a reply; he strode on down. Cao Hu followed with his arms folded, and the young man with the rattan box came last, glancing back once at the mourning banner.

The three crimson robes descended the slope, flickered through the low pines, and vanished.

Xu Yan stood on the stone steps of the Mountain Gate, still holding the extra length of rope left over from straightening the banner.

The mountain path bent at a switchback halfway down the slope. Beyond the bend stood a stand of low pines, their trunks crowded close, branches pressing together. At the far edge of the grove, someone was making their way up the mountain, dressed in plain gray, with a sword strapped across their back.

The figure moved steadily, not fast and not slow, each step planted, no dust rising from their feet. At the bend, they crossed paths with the three descending men.

Xu Yanʼs fingers tightened on the rope end.

The wind came through the mountain pass, flipped the mourning banner around, and the clothʼs corner brushed past his ear.