My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 36: The Sword That Came Down the Mountain

The lid came off the pot and steam shot up to the rafters, making the string of dried chilies hanging there drip water.

”No income today.” Bai Xiaoman lifted her bowl off the potʼs rim. ”The ledgerʼs empty.”

Xu Yan sat on the low stool at the lower end of the kitchen, the account book spread across his knees, brush hovering.

”An empty day still gets an entry.”

”Record emptiness?”

”If you donʼt, tomorrow you wonʼt remember why today was empty.”

Bai Xiaoman made a small sound of understanding and crouched beside him, poking at the spirit yam in her bowl with her chopsticks. A He and A Sui had already settled on the stone steps, their two bowls side by side, neither willing to take the first bite.

”Sect Master,” A Sui looked up. ”That man from yesterday. Did he eat?”

”It wasnʼt delivered.”

”Why?”

”He wouldnʼt take it.”

A Sui ducked her head and shoveled in a mouthful, then looked up again. ”He washed the bowl.”

”He washed it.”

”Washed it but still wonʼt eat?”

”Washing is his business.” Xu Yan pressed the brush tip to the paper. ”Eating is another matter.”

Cheng Banshan came around from the Medicine Hall, a wine gourd dangling from one hand. Qian Duoduo ladled him a spoonful and he drank it standing on the steps, then hung the gourdʼs stopper back at his waist.

”Those ten bottles go out tomorrow?” Xu Yan asked.

”Theyʼre ready, in the Medicine Hall box.” Cheng Banshan said. ”Still wood-fired. From the end of the sixth month to today, furnace after furnace tended the whole way through. Thereʼs one batch of charcoal in the corner I havenʼt touched.”

”The bowl got washed, but the man still hasnʼt come.” He added.

”He hasnʼt.”

”Two bowls are easy to return, a meal isnʼt. He has to earn his own food before heʼll sit down.”

Qian Duoduo put in quietly: ”But his hand...”

”The handʼs ruined, he can still eat.” Cheng Banshan said. ”Donʼt bring up the hand.”

Qian Duoduo nodded and switched the ladle to his other hand.

”How many times did you go?” Cheng Banshan asked.

”Twice.”

”Once to bring food, once to invite him.” He adjusted the gourd. ”Same approach both times.”

”Yesterday I sat on his doorstep for half a day.” Xu Yan said. ”He went to draw water. His right hand couldnʼt hold the bucket rim, spilled half of it. Second trip he braced it sideways against his arm before he could lift it.”

”A man like that,” Cheng Banshan said, ”canʼt pour water, but he can shoulder a sword.”

”That hand was cut by a fellow discipleʼs sword, he says.” Xu Yan went on. ”The one who cut him is still in the sect. He walked out of that sect, and the sword came out on his back.”

Cheng Banshan didnʼt drink. He held the gourd in midair for a moment, then brought it to his lips and bit the stopper tight.

Jiang Wan came last, sword hanging at her hip. Only a thin layer remained at the bottom of the pot. Qian Duoduo offered to cook more for her, but she waved him off, scraped the bottom of the pot into her bowl herself, and sat down on the stone step outside the threshold.

A stick of firewood popped in the stoveʼs firebox. No one spoke.

Jiang Wan rested her chopsticks across the bowlʼs rim. ”Heavenly Sword Sect?”

”The sword is.” Xu Yan said.

”The man?”

”He wonʼt give his name.”

”Has the sword ever been drawn?”

Xu Yan thought for a moment. ”Iʼve never seen him draw it.”

”Carried on his back, and he doesnʼt draw it?”

”It stays on his back.”

She ate the piece of spirit yam in her bowl and set the chopsticks down.

”Market day tomorrow.”

”Two pots. Ten bottles.” Xu Yan answered.

”Iʼll go down.”

Qian Duoduoʼs ladle stopped against the potʼs rim. He glanced at Xu Yan. Cheng Banshan poured himself a drink and said nothing.

”Senior Sisterʼs going to watch the stall?” Qian Duoduo asked, voice low.

”Sheʼs going to watch a person.” Cheng Banshan answered for her.

”If you want to go, I wonʼt stop you.” He added. ”Just donʼt break the man.”

”Canʼt be broken.” Jiang Wan said.

She carried her bowl to the water vat, rinsed it twice, set it back on the stack, and headed to the East Courtyard. That night the sound of a sword from the East Courtyard rang until every room on the mountain had put out its lights.

July 20th. Dawn had just fully broken, and last nightʼs chill still pressed on the flagstones at the Mountain Gate. Nie Bo swept to the center flagstone, bleached white by weather, and stood his broom against the wall. Jiang Wan passed by him, and he drew the broom in close.

Qian Duoduo carried two pots on a pole. Shi Po hefted half a door panel, the hemp rope cutting two lines into his shoulder. Xu Yan held the bamboo basket with the bowls and ladle.

Jiang Wan carried nothing. Her sword hung at her hip, and she walked at the rear, seven or eight paces back.

Dew still clung to the grass along the mountain path. By the halfway slope, their shoe tops were soaked. The sun climbed over the ridge to the east, turning every drop of dew white. At the foot of the slope they could see the townʼs rooftops, smoke rising from the chimneys one after another.

Qian Duoduo shifted the pole to his other shoulder and leaned closer to Xu Yan. ”Senior Sisterʼs coming down with us—is she keeping an eye on us?”

”No.”

”Then what for?”

”I donʼt know.”

A bowshot north of Town Gate, at the foot of the collapsed wall. Shi Po laid the door panel across two stones, and Qian Duoduo stuffed straw wraps into the wall cracks to block the wind. Once the pot was set up, steam curled up along the base of the wall.

Jiang Wan arrived a step later, coming around from the Market Entrance. She stood in front of the stall for a while, studying the door panel, the wooden box, the stone bracing the pot against the wall, one by one, before withdrawing to the shadows by the wall.

Market day, and the road was busy. The first customer was a porter. He fished out two spirit stones, looked up and saw a woman standing by the wall with a sword, and his hand trembled; the coins dropped into the dirt. He bent to pick them up, eyes flicking up twice.

”Two.” Xu Yan said.

The porter clutched his bowl and walked seven or eight paces before he dared eat.

The young men from the martial hall came faster than usual. Their leader paid smoothly, five bowls total, and they stood by the wall eating, glancing over at the sword from time to time.

A rogue cultivator whoʼd meant to haggle looked up, swallowed his words, and counted four stones into the wooden box.

A customer holding his bowl asked, ”Is the lady a sword cultivator from Qingya?” Jiang Wan gave a brief mm. The man steadied his bowl and asked nothing more.

Jiang Wan stood in the wallʼs shadow, sword still sheathed, not moving from her spot. She watched for a while: Qian Duoduo ladling, Xu Yan taking money, Shi Po holding the wooden box down against the wind, the three of them each at their own task without a word of small talk. After a while, she switched the sword to her other hand.

She stood a little longer, then stepped back half a pace and glanced over her shoulder at Shi Po.

”Your shoulders are sagging.”

Shi Po straightened his back; the door panel knocked against the wall.

Midway through Snake hour, Lu Shoutian at the Market Entrance leaned his two door panels back against the wall one at a time, looked this way for a long while, but didnʼt come over.

Jiang Wan saw him too. She didnʼt ask.

An old woman carried her bowl outside the wall to eat. When she finished, she handed it back and said, ”That sword there—makes a body feel safe while eating.” Qian Duoduo smiled at her, his ladle never stopping.

Before noon the two pots were scraped clean and the shelf of Qi-Gathering Powder held only empty bottles. Xu Yan crouched by the door panel, flipping through the account book, recording todayʼs numbers entry by entry: two pots, eighty spirit stones; ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder, thirty. The Balance cell was left blank for now—rice still hadnʼt been bought.

”Not one person haggled today.” Qian Duoduo scrubbed the empty pot until it rang. ”Usually two or three will grind on for half the day.”

”Someone was standing there.” Shi Po said.

Jiang Wan was wiping the sword hilt with her sleeve. Her hand paused.

”Whereʼs that temple?” she asked.

Xu Yan looked up. ”Out of town to the west, past three willow trees, the dirt road ends there. The gateʼs half-collapsed.”

She acknowledged with a small sound, took the sword from her hip, and held it in her hand.

”He doesnʼt take what people give.” Xu Yan added.

”Iʼm not giving anything.”

She headed west.

Out of town to the west, past the three willow trees, the road turned to dirt. In the fallow fields, flattened straw stalks lay in drifts that crunched underfoot. The sun came straight down, bleaching the grass leaves white along both sides of the road. The dry mud on the field embankments had cracked into plates.

The Earth God Shrine sat inside its half-collapsed courtyard wall. One door panel leaned against the wall. The stone steps outside the threshold were swept clean—not a single blade of grass in the cracks. A steamed cake sat on the step, one corner of its yellow paper lifted, already hard.

She walked to the steps and stopped. No one was inside. The clay idol stood in shadow. The offering table had been wiped of dust. Straw was spread in the corner of the temple, folded neat and tidy.

Someone behind the temple was drawing water. The bucketʼs rim knocked against the well platform.

She looked in through the doorway and saw a water vat by the well, water brimming at the edge with fresh spill marks running down its side. The straw bed lay only two paces from the door—a man lying there could stretch out his arm and touch the threshold.

He came around from behind the temple, bucket in his left hand, right hand hanging at his side, sword slanted across his back. Midway across the courtyard he saw her and stopped, setting the bucket gently on the ground without letting the water slosh out.

Jiang Wan looked first at the sword. She studied the hilt: the cloth wrapping was blackened, with a new layer wound over it—wound crookedly, one side of the old cloth showing through, worn smooth and shining. Then she looked at the man. She examined his stance: legs planted wide, back straight, right shoulder a shade lower than the left. That hand had not done any work since the cut.

”My name is Jiang.” She said. ”Qingya Sect. The one who came the day before yesterday is the bookkeeper from my mountain.”

He didnʼt respond. His right hand twitched toward his sleeve, then relaxed.

”He didnʼt come a second time, so I did.”

Wind slipped through the breach in the courtyard wall, skimming a layer of dust to the bucketʼs side.

”The sword—has it ever been drawn?” she asked.

”No.”

”You carry it but donʼt use it. Why.”

He gave no answer. His right hand hung at his side, fingers curling once.

”Youʼre Foundation Establishment.” He said.

”Iʼm holding it down.”

He looked down at his own hand for a long moment. ”This hand canʼt grip a sword.”

”I can see that.”

”I carried this sword out myself.” He suddenly added, voice low, speaking fast, as if afraid heʼd take it back.

”Then thereʼs still something to test.” Jiang Wan said.

”If you can still hold it, we fight.” She continued. ”Day after tomorrow, Luoxia River Shoal, Dragon hour.”

He didnʼt respond, but he didnʼt walk away either.

”Whether you can grip it—thatʼs your problem. Whether you show up—also your problem.” She tightened her hand on the sword. ”At Dragon hour Iʼll be on the river shoal. After Dragon hour, Iʼll consider this sword already buried.”

She turned and left. Her footprints marked the dirt road, fading by the time they reached the three willow trees.

He stood outside the steps without moving. The water in the bucket rippled, spilled over, and soaked a small dark patch into the soil.

At Monkey hour, Xu Yan bought two potsʼ worth of spirit rice from the grain shop for eight spirit stones. The shop hand poured the rice into a burlap sack, and Shi Po hoisted it atop the door panel on his back. Xu Yan added an entry to the ledger: spirit rice expenditure, eight; balance on hand, five hundred fifty-seven.

The walk up the mountain took a shichen. Shi Po led, his carrying pole creaking. Qian Duoduo carried the empty pots, pot clanking against pot with a hollow ring.

Jiang Wan walked at the rear.

At the halfway slope, Xu Yan dropped back beside her. ”Senior Sister.”

She didnʼt slow.

”Why did you come down?”

”To see the sword.”

”I asked him twice.”

”Both times you invited.” She said. ”If an invitation doesnʼt move a man, stop inviting.”

Xu Yan switched the empty basket to his other hand. The grass on the slope bent inward; wind pushed up from behind.

”Then why fight him?”

Jiang Wan climbed two more steps before she answered.

”I want to see what the sword Heavenly Sword Sect threw away looks like.”

She passed him and kept climbing. Ahead, Shi Poʼs pole creaked; Qian Duoduoʼs pots clanged once, then again.

Xu Yan stood still for a moment, then followed.