My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 15: A Volume of Pillar Training

Shi Po sat cross-legged on the threshold of the second room in the West Wing, both hands flat on his knees, palms up. Light slanted in from under the eaves, laying a layer of gray across those hands.

Xu Yan crouched beside him and walked through Qingyaʼs entry breathing technique: breath enters through the nose, travels three pathways, settles into that small pocket below the dantian—like pouring water into a vat, and when itʼs full, it overflows on its own. At ”three pathways,” he tapped his own chest and stomach with his fingers.

Shi Po closed his eyes. The moment he inhaled, both shoulders lifted first, rising as if trying to hoist something up, before slowly settling back down.

”Lighter,” Xu Yan said.

On the second breath, his shoulders rose even higher.

”Youʼre lifting something,” Xu Yan said.

Shi Po opened his eyes and pressed his hands against his knees.

For an hour he didnʼt move, back straighter than the doorframe. The sun climbed from the eaves into the courtyard. Xu Yan circled behind him twice; the tendon in his neck tightened, then relaxed. Shi Po counted his own breaths, lost count partway through, and started over from one.

”Anything?” Xu Yan asked.

”No.”

”How do you know thereʼs nothing?”

”Lift a rock, and your hands feel the weight.” Shi Po turned his palm over. ”This has no weight.”

Xu Yan didnʼt push further. Back when Fang Henian taught him this, heʼd only said two things: if the qi wonʼt enter, keep sitting; if you canʼt sit through it, sit again tomorrow. Xu Yan himself had struggled and scraped together only a fingernailʼs worth, and in five years never managed to pool even a puddle. What could be taught was only these few sentences. If it wouldnʼt go further, it wouldnʼt go further.

”Rest,” he said. ”This art doesnʼt suit you.”

Shi Po stood, straightened his legs first, then worked his ankles.

At the start of Snake hour, the two went to the Medicine Hall. The furnace was cold—the batch from the third had run too hot and burned to slag. It had been dumped long ago; not a single vial came out. Cheng Banshan sat on a low stool under the eaves, one hand turning a pestle in a mortar.

He set the pestle down, reached over and pressed down Shi Poʼs collar: ”Turn around.”

The purple bruise had faded at the edges, but the center was still black. Cheng Banshan laid a hand on it, very lightly, feeling from the shoulder blade down to the waist. Shi Po stood without moving.

”No broken bones,” Cheng Banshan said.

”Mm.”

”Does it hurt?”

”No.”

”Youʼll know whether it hurts when the weather turns cloudy and wet.” He pulled the collar back up. ”Keep applying the old womanʼs salve. Use it until the jarʼs empty.”

”When itʼs empty, return the jar to her,” Shi Po said.

Cheng Banshan glanced at him and picked the pestle back up.

”Qi wonʼt draw in?” he asked.

”It wonʼt.”

The pestle tapped against the rim of the mortar twice, then went quiet.

In the afternoon, Shi Po worked alone on the three stone steps at the Mountain Gate with their chipped corners: first he pried the fallen corner stone up with the carrying pole, flipped it over, laid three layers of earth beneath it, then pounded the earth firm with his fist; he squatted down, pressed the back of his hand against the stoneʼs surface, and tested whether it wobbled.

A Sui came over, the front of her clothes cradling a lapful of pebbles, and poured them at his feet from time to time. A He stood on the top step and jumped twice. ”This one doesnʼt wobble anymore.”

Shi Po stepped up himself and ground his feet back and forth over it.

”Senior Brother, your handʼs bleeding,” A Sui said.

He lifted it for a look. The webbing between thumb and forefinger had scraped off a patch of skin.

”It doesnʼt hurt,” he said, and went back to packing earth.

By dusk, the three steps were restored to their original shape. The fresh earth on the top step was paler, like a patch sewn onto the stone.

That night in the Accounts Room, Xu Yan logged the day: Shi Po, unable to draw qi—one line. Three stone steps, repaired. When heʼd written it, he set the brush on the inkstone, stared at the two lines for a long time, then closed the ledger and stepped outside to glance toward the Mountain Gate.

The next night, the lamp in the Accounts Room still burned. Xu Yan opened the ledger to that page.

”Sixth day, Sixth Month. Quarry. Shi Po.” Below: two hundred wen, paid in full. Below that, blank. The sentence in the sect ledger—”Vajra Womb Bone, Unopened”—he kept in his head. He didnʼt copy it into this book.

”Unopened.” What did that mean? He dipped his brush in ink, then set it back on the brush rest. He could balance the books in this room down to the last copper, but the word ”open” wasnʼt in any ledger.

Footsteps at the door. Cheng Banshan came in carrying his wine gourd in one hand and leaned against the doorframe.

”Lightʼs still on,” he said.

Xu Yan asked him: ”Is there a path that doesnʼt rely on breathing exercises—one that relies on carrying?”

Cheng Banshan looked at him and took a drink.

”Body cultivation,” he said.

”What?”

”Those who donʼt make their living by breathing exercises—theyʼre called Body Cultivators. The bones are opened layer by layer, and the qi walks in on its own.” He waggled the gourd. ”But itʼs a bitter road. Bitter because no one teaches it—the ones who carry canʼt read, and the ones who read donʼt carry.”

”Is there such an art on this mountain?”

”When the Founding Patriarch was here, there were things in the storehouse.” Cheng Banshan tipped his head back and poured one down. ”Question is whether you can dig them out.”

”Iʼve searched half the storehouse.”

”Then thereʼs the other half.”

Cheng Banshan carried his gourd out. At the courtyard gate he turned back: ”Little Xu, donʼt burn yourself out. You canʼt afford it.”

Xu Yan sat in the Accounts Room very late, closed the ledger, opened it again.

On the fourteenth, at Dragon hour, he stood in the middle of the Accounts Room and opened the ledger. The page was blank.

”Is there, in the storehouse, an art for those who carry?”

[Debit: Heritage 4 points. Storehouse: Vajra Pillar, one volume. Hidden cavity in the east wall of the Old Storehouse. Recorded under Shi Poʼs name.]

[Balance: Heritage 14 points.]

Four points. Heʼd been spending only one point per audit over the past half month. Four points was enough to investigate four peopleʼs backgrounds. Xu Yan studied that line for a long while, closed the ledger, grabbed a small iron awl from beside the Kitchen that was used for prying open cabinets, and went into the Old Storehouse.

The Old Storehouse was piled with broken lanterns, two empty chests, a drum with half its frame caved in, and some old curtain bundled up from who knew what year. The dust lay thick; every step left a print. Three empty jars stood stacked against the east wall. He moved them aside, studied the wall, saw nothing.

He knocked on the wall with the wooden handle of the awl. Solid at the north end, solid in the middle. Along the base of the wall, the third brick in the row rang hollow.

The seams were packed with dried mortar. He worked the awl tip into a seam and pried little by little until the brick loosened and came out. The second, then the third, came easier. Behind them was a cavity not even half an arm deep, stuffed with oilcloth.

The oilcloth had stiffened; it crackled when folded. He carried it outside to the ground and spread it open. Inside was a roll of silk, tied twice with hemp cord.

The cord undone, the silk unrolled to the size of half a mat. The ink had faded, but the characters were hard, every stroke pressing down to the lower right. The first line read: Vajra Pillar.

Below it was drawn a figure with no face, a rock laid across its shoulder, feet planted apart. Beside the figure three short horizontal lines were drawn, followed by passage after passage of formulas.

Xu Yan crouched on the ground, read through them all one by one, then rolled the silk back up and tucked it under his arm.

Afternoon. The Mountain Gate.

The threshold stone leaned against the wall beside the gate, its edges worn round by decades of feet. Xu Yan spread the silk on the doorsteps, pinning the corners with four shards of rock.

”Come here,” he said.

Shi Po walked over, eyes landing first on the diagram.

”What does it say?”

”I read. You stand,” Xu Yan said. ”This passage is the opening stance. Feet apart, shoulder width. Rock up on the shoulder. No switching shoulders. Shoulders donʼt relax; waist doesnʼt drop.”

Shi Po gripped the threshold stone with both hands, hoisted it up, and it landed on his right shoulder. He set his feet apart, soles planted solid.

”What about the qi?” he asked.

”Donʼt worry about the qi,” Xu Yan said. ”From start to finish, this volume never mentions drawing qi. The very first line says: the qi does not enter.”

”If the qi doesnʼt enter, how do you grow cultivation?”

”The rock presses down on you. You have to breathe just to survive. That breathing is the qi.” Xu Yan read on from the silk. ”Stand until the shoulder goes numb—that doesnʼt count. Stand until the bones begin to sound. That counts.”

”What comes after?”

”Two more passages. This oneʼs called standing pillar. The next is walking pillar—carry the rock and walk, one step, one pause. The one after that is carrying pillar—rocks added one at a time.” Xu Yan pressed his finger to the three short lines on the diagram. ”If you havenʼt steadied one passage, youʼre not allowed to look at the next.”

He laid the silk down and moved to lift the rock himself. Gripping the stoneʼs edge with both hands, he strained and got it half a foot off the ground before his own waist buckled. He had to set it down.

”I canʼt hold it,” he said. ”You carry it.”

Shi Po hefted the rock back onto his shoulder.

”How long?”

”Three incense sticks to start. Then sit and rest for half a quarter-hour. Then again. Donʼt lie down during rest.”

The sun slid west over the Mountain Gate; shadows crept from the gate down onto the stone steps. Shi Po stood, nothing else in his eyes, fixed only on the patch of ground before his feet. The rock bore his whole body downward, and he pushed back with his legs, toes gripping the inside of his shoes.

At the end of Monkey hour, A Sui ran over to look and asked how long heʼd be standing. He said he didnʼt know. A He dragged a little stool over, sat beside him, and counted. He hit three hundred-something and lost track.

Qian Duoduo came with the first bowl of the evening right as the sun pressed down on the ridge.

”Eating standing up?” he asked.

Shi Po took the bowl with his left hand. The rock on his right shoulder tilted his head slightly. The rice went into his mouth bite by bite, neither fast nor slow. When he handed the bowl back, he wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

”The Sect Master said no lying down,” he said.

”Canʼt even sit and rest?”

”Not time to rest yet.”

Qian Duoduo stood holding the empty bowl for a while, looked at the rock on his shoulder, looked at the sky, and turned to go. After a few steps he looked back: ”The rice in the kitchen is still three dou short.” No one answered. Muttering to himself, he walked off.

At dusk, Jiang Wan came over from the East Courtyard, sword in hand. She stopped beneath the Mountain Gate.

”Your waist has dropped,” she said.

Shi Po pulled his waist in an inch.

”Feet turning out,” she said.

Shi Po straightened his feet.

Jiang Wanʼs gaze fell on the rock, then withdrew. She turned back toward the East Courtyard, her sheath striking two notes on the stone steps.

”Did Senior Sister stand with this too?” A He asked quietly.

No one answered.

Cheng Banshan came out for a walk after dinner and circled the Mountain Gate, walked half a turn around Shi Po, and looked at his legs.

”If you canʼt hold it, rest,” he said. ”The pillar isnʼt going anywhere.”

Then he, too, walked on.

Full dark. The Mountain Gate had no lamp lit. Moonlight fell on the threshold stone, rimming its edges with light. Shi Po changed his own schedule: stand half an hour, rest half a quarter, and resting meant sitting on the doorsteps, never leaning back.

Qian Duoduo brought the second bowl at Dog hour. This time heʼd added an extra half scoop.

”That scoopʼs from me,” he said. ”Doesnʼt go on your books.”

Shi Po grunted and finished it standing.

The third came halfway through the night. The only movement near the Front Courtyard was at the Mountain Gate; a breeze dragged a little sand past. Qian Duoduo came out with a coat thrown over his shoulders, shoved the bowl into Shi Poʼs hands, then squatted beside him, dozing, his head bobbing.

Xu Yan stepped out of the Accounts Room and stood under the eaves, watching.

Shi Po still stood. The purple bruise over his shoulder was dark in the moonlight, the rock pressing on it, rising and falling with his breath.

Qian Duoduo didnʼt wake. Shi Po finished eating, set the bowl on the step, pulled his hand back, and was just straightening his body again—

A sound in his bones. Very faint, like someone far away snapping a dry stick.

Shi Po didnʼt move.

Xu Yan stood under the eaves, draped the outer robe he was carrying back over his arm, withdrew into the room, brightened the lamp wick, and opened the ledger.