My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 55: All Five Are in Place

The Accounts Room door was only half open, and already Du Xiaochuan stood outside. His old shirt was washed pale, both hands hanging at his sides, the two marks on his knees still not quite faded.

”Come in,” Xu Yan said.

”Iʼll stand and talk.”

”Standingʼs fine too.” Xu Yan set his brush back on the brush rest and nudged the inkstone aside. ”Which one you start with—your call.”

It was Dragon hour on August 28, and the mountain hadnʼt had breakfast yet. Du Xiaochuan caught his breath before he spoke. ”Steward Ge is going to use the roster to make trouble at the Autumn Evaluation. Five points.”

He counted them off one by one: Qian Duoduo, A He, and A Sui were Servants; the two children were too young; he himself was a traitor from Chixiao; Shao Ming was a name on the roster just to fill it out; Shi Po had tested with no Spirit Root at all and couldnʼt be entered into a sect.

When he finished, the room went quiet for a while. Qi Qi crouched on the threshold, a grass stalk snapped into two pieces in his hand.

”How do you know this?” Xu Yan asked.

”The night they made me kneel in the Main Courtyard, the Steward Office window was open. Steward Ge and Cao Hu counted them off one by one. I heard four. The third one wasnʼt there yet at the time—I left, and heʼd only ever add me in. I can guess.” Du Xiaochuan said, ”He laughed while he was counting. Said any of those points would make the Rank Evaluator stop and ask a question. He said, ʼI donʼt ask; the Rank Evaluator will.ʼ”

”Thatʼs word for word?”

”Word for word.”

Xu Yan nodded, spread out a sheet of paper, and wrote the five points down one per line. When he was done, he pressed it under the paperweight.

”Of these five, which is the hardest to answer?” he asked.

Du Xiaochuan didnʼt think long. ”The third.”

”Why?”

”Because itʼs me,” he said. ”The others are all people of the mountain. I used to belong to Chixiao.”

Xu Yan wiped his brush against the inkstoneʼs rim. He didnʼt answer that, only drew a line at the edge of the paper.

”So... what do we do when the time comes?” Du Xiaochuan asked.

”One at a time.” Xu Yan lifted the paper, glanced at it, and pressed it back down. ”Today, we set the stones first. Save the talk for the Ninth.”

”One more thing.” Du Xiaochuan said, ”The sparring opponent for the Nine-Rank Trial—Chixiaoʼs providing it. Theyʼve already named the Outer Courtʼs first: Zhou Kui.”

”Zhou Kui.”

”Qi Condensation Ninth Layer.” Du Xiaochuan said, ”He wields an iron staff. Iʼve delivered letters to him twice. The staff stands by his door, the iron bands worn bright.”

”Whatʼs his staff work like?”

”He trains with it, smashing stone posts. One strike, the dirt on the post shivers off a layer; second strike, the earth around the base loosens.” Du Xiaochuan thought for a moment. ”He doesnʼt spar with people. No one in the Outer Court dares take his staff, and he has no need to hit anyone.”

Qi Qi tossed the grass stalk out the door. ”Qi Condensation Ninth Layer. Iʼm seven layers behind him.”

Xu Yan didnʼt answer that. He pulled the sheet out from under the paperweight, spread it beside the Daily Ledger, copied it over exactly the same, and added a line of small characters at the end. Out in the courtyard, A He called that breakfast was ready. At the second call, Qi Qi answered ”Coming,” but didnʼt move.

A shadow flickered at the doorway. Bai Xiaoman stood there, the old silk scroll cradled in her arms. She looked at Du Xiaochuan, then at Xu Yan.

”Done talking?” Xu Yan asked.

”Done.” Du Xiaochuan stepped half a pace to the side.

Bai Xiaoman came in and spread the old silk scroll on the table, pointing at the Formation Eye diagram. ”To set the stones, the groove patterns have to be repaired first. Cinnabar, spirit ink, spirit iron filings—all three are at the grocery shop in town. Thirty-two Low-grade Spirit Stones in total.”

”How many days will it take?”

”Once the materials are here, one.”

”Whereʼs Shi Po?”

”Out back, hauling water.”

Xu Yan counted out thirty-two Low-grade Spirit Stones, stacked them on the table, and said, ”Get him.”

Shi Po came in, his hands still carrying the chill of the well water. Xu Yan pushed the Spirit Stones toward him. ”Grocery shop in town. Cinnabar, spirit ink, spirit iron filings. Three things. Head down the mountain now. Donʼt rest on the road.”

Shi Po gathered the coins into his shirt. He didnʼt ask anything else. On his way out, he nudged the broom on the threshold aside. Bai Xiaoman rolled the old silk scroll back up. ”Iʼll dig the dirt out of the grooves first. By the time heʼs back, he can just sift the materials.”

”Youʼre going up by yourself?”

”Shi Po knows the way.”

Xu Yan wrote a line in the ledger, the brush tip pausing: Expenditure—formation materials, 32.

Bai Xiaoman carried the old scroll out. In the courtyard she turned and called back, ”Sect Master, if you canʼt make it up before noon, wait until dark. Donʼt rush me halfway.”

At Snake hour, the two of them went up the Back Mountain. Bai Xiaoman carried the cloth bundle with the Formation Stones inside, the three stones wrapped layer by layer in old clothes, her hand pressing down at each step. Xu Yan followed, an empty cloth sack in his hand. The vines on the halfway slope had been cut open into a path half a month ago; the cut was still fresh, and the exposed stone steps had grown a thin layer of moss.

Halfway up, someone rushed up from behind. Shi Po came up with an oiled paper packet over his shoulder, his shirt soaked through at the back. His pace never slowed.

”The shopkeeper said this stuffʼs been sitting for years. Nobody buys it.” He only spoke once heʼd reached them. ”Thirty-two Spirit Stones. Not one more.”

”Water all hauled?”

”Hauled before I left.”

The Formation Eye sat on a recessed stone platform halfway up the slope. Five grooves were carved into the rock, arranged by the five elements: Wood in the east, Fire in the south, Metal in the west, Water in the north, Earth dead center. The old Wood and Fire Formation Stones were still there, their spirit glow dark, as if coated in forty years of dust. The west, north, and center grooves held only shards—so shattered that even the original shapes couldnʼt be pieced back together.

Bai Xiaoman crouched down and picked the shards out one by one into the cloth sack. The edges bit at her hands, so she worked slowly. One small piece was wedged in a groove seam; she dug it out with her fingernail, leaving a white mark on her fingertip.

”What are you keeping these for?” Shi Po asked.

”Keeping them.” Bai Xiaoman cinched the sack shut. ”The Formation broke at these three points. Once itʼs raised, I want to see how these three originally cracked.”

She reached out and pressed down on the old Wood stone to the east, then went and did the same to the Fire stone to the south.

”What about these two?” Shi Po asked.

”Still alive,” she said. ”The glowʼs dark, but thereʼs qi inside. Press, and it stirs.”

She dug the dirt out of the groove bottoms. Forty years of soil had packed in hard as shell, immune to the broom. She switched to a small carving knife and picked it out bit by bit. The lines carved into the groove walls were broken in several places, the fractures all worn smooth—old wounds.

”When the lines break, the qi disperses the moment it reaches them,” she said. ”The Formation Manual says they must be repaired.”

Shi Po crouched to the side and opened the oiled paper packet: cinnabar into a clay dish, spirit ink mixed with water, spirit iron filings sifted over and over just as sheʼd said. Once sifted, he picked out the coarse bits and put them back in the paper, leaving the fine powder within her reach.

”The day we activate the Formation, where do I stand?” he asked.

”Outside the Formation.” Bai Xiaoman didnʼt look up. ”When my hands shake, donʼt talk.”

While she carved, she crouched very low, the tip of her nose nearly touching the stone. Wind came down the slope. She stopped the knife mid-air to wait it out, and Shi Po shifted half a pace south to block the wind with his back. Xu Yan stood two paces away, hands clasped behind him.

The sun moved from the east to overhead. Bai Xiaoman finished one line, mixed cinnabar into the spirit ink, ground the spirit iron filings in—a smell of iron rose—then traced the grooves with the brush tip, filling stroke by stroke, pausing after each. When a line was filled, she wiped the edges clean with her sleeve.

Xu Yan looked at those three worn-smooth breaks and remembered the old ledger in the Accounts Room, Fang Henianʼs handwriting recording line after line: Ninth Day of the Ninth Month, Year 290. Re-evaluation. Formation raised. Formation raised at one corner. Formation stones cracked. No money to repair. He turned the words over in his mouth and said nothing.

The Metal groove to the west was repaired first. Bai Xiaoman took the Metal stone from its old clothes, weighed it in her palm, set it into the groove, and pressed down with both hands, slowly working the stoneʼs edges into the grooveʼs line. The groove was a hair wider than the stone. She filled the gap with the prepared cinnabar, scraped it smooth with her nail, then pressed her palm down on it once more.

”Metal,” she intoned, and looked up at Xu Yan. ”Remember—west.”

”Remembered.”

The Water groove to the north followed the same way. That one went faster than the last, though her wrist still trembled.

The sun was about to drop behind the mountain when only the center remained. The Earth groove was the largest and deepest. She lay down to study it for a long while, then blew the last bit of dirt from the bottom.

”Sect Master, donʼt talk just yet.”

”Iʼm not talking.”

”I know.” She lifted the Earth stone in both hands. ”I just wanted to hear the words ʼdonʼt talk.ʼ”

Shi Po laughed off to the side—no sound, just his shoulders moving.

The Earth stone settled into the groove with a thunk—muffled, not sharp. She pressed both hands down, bearing it into place, then let go and smeared the last of the cinnabar into the final seam.

No light rose from the Formation Plate.

The wind kept blowing, rattling the vine leaves. Shi Po stared at the stone platform for a while. ”Not lit.”

”The stones are the stones.” Bai Xiaoman wiped her hands on her skirt. ”Activating is another matter.”

Xu Yan reached out and pressed on the Formation Plate. The stone was cold. All five stones sat in their grooves—not one missing.

”All five are in place.” Bai Xiaoman stood, her knees going weak; she braced herself against the platform. ”East Wood, South Fire still here. West Metal, North Water, Center Earth—now restored. Same as I calculated.”

”What does activating the Formation require?” Xu Yan asked.

”Let me understand it fully before I answer.” She hugged the Formation Manual to her chest. ”I havenʼt finished this scroll yet.”

”When you plan to go up there, tell me first,” Xu Yan said. ”Donʼt go alone.”

Bai Xiaoman made a sound of assent.

By the time they descended, the sky was already dark. Shi Po carried the sack of shards and the empty oiled paper packet. Bai Xiaoman walked ahead of him, counting her steps the whole way, starting over at one hundred. Xu Yan came last, glancing back at the halfway slope: beneath the vines, the stone platform sat in darkness, impossible to tell where three stones had been added.

Back on the mountain, the sky had gone fully black. The Kitchen still held a fire. Qian Duoduo lifted three bowls out of the steamer tray, one balanced in each hand. ”I figured you wouldnʼt make it down by the Monkey hour.” Shi Po set the oiled paper packet by the stove. Bai Xiaoman carried the sack of shards back to the West Wing and said, ”Iʼll look tomorrow.”

That night, a line went into the Accounts Room: August 28—five stones of the Formation Eye in place. Not activated.

The 29th was quiet on the mountain. Bai Xiaoman sat under the eaves the whole day with the old silk scroll, turning a page, tracing patterns on her knee with a finger. Qian Duoduo worked out how much rice theyʼd need for the fair on the 30th, calculating until noon, then held up his two flour-dusted hands for A Sui to see. Cheng Banshan brewed a second pot from the herb dregs for Shao Ming in the Medicine Hall; when it was done, he poked through the dregs and stared at them for a long while, saying nothing.

That afternoon, Xu Yan wrote out the ten names from memory in the Accounts Room. One at a time, pausing after each. When he reached ”Jiang Wan,” the brush tip lingered over the paper a little longer, and a dot of ink fell.

At the Monkey hour, the sun dropped onto the ridge to the west. Xu Yan closed the Accounts Room window halfway and stepped out for air.

Someone was sitting on the stone steps at the East Courtyard gate. Jiang Wan sat with her sword laid across her knees—unsheathed, unmoving. In her hand was a piece of paper, folded and unfolded, unfolded and folded again; the corners of its cover were soft now from handling.

There were words on the paperʼs cover. The writing was held in tight—every vertical stroke kept within bounds, horizontal strokes heavy at the start, light at the finish. Fang Henianʼs handwriting. Xu Yan had kept the accounts for ten years; he knew it.

He walked forward, stopping when heʼd come close enough to make the paper out clearly.

Jiang Wan folded the letter and pressed it inside her robe. She didnʼt look up, didnʼt ask what he was doing there.

Xu Yan walked past the East Courtyard wall, and once he was past it, he walked back.

”Senior Sister, itʼs cold at night.”

She pressed a hand to her chest before she spoke.

”Xu Yan, mind your accounts.”