My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 62: Five Points

Ge Song stepped forward, moving to the side of the square table. From inside his robe he produced a folded sheet of paper, its corners worn soft. He opened it halfway, glanced at it, folded it shut again, and did not read from it.

”The roster. Chixiao has objections,” he said. ”Five points.”

Wen Su laid the roster flat on the table and gave the clerk a lift of her chin: ”Record.”

The clerk turned the Ratings Register to a fresh page and set brush to paper.

”First point: personnel.” Ge Songʼs voice was not loud, but the whole front courtyard could hear it. ”Alliance rules: a sectʼs roster must carry no fewer than ten Registered Disciples—Elders and Servants not counted. On Qingyaʼs roster, Qian Duoduo works the kitchen. A He and A Sui are children doing odd jobs up the mountain. Three Servants written down as disciples. Out of ten names, only seven are legitimate.”

”What day were they entered in the roster?” Wen Su asked.

”August 21,” Xu Yan answered.

She did not look at him. ”I was asking him.”

The paper in Ge Songʼs hand twitched. ”…August 21.”

”ʼServants not countedʼ means Servants are not recorded on the roster,” Wen Su said. ”They bowed to the mountain, wrote their names, said the word ʼvoluntary,ʼ and wrote their names again with their own hands at this table this morning. They are disciples. The only thing I need to ask is whether they are cultivating.” She raised her eyes. ”Qian Duoduo.”

Qian Duoduo stepped out from the crowd and tried to answer, but the sound stuck in his throat. He did not wipe his hands. He stopped three paces from the table, pressed both hands against his apron, then pulled them away again.

”What do you cultivate at Qingya?”

”I do—I cook.”

A ripple of laughter stirred under the eaves, scattered, dying out quickly.

”Heʼs telling the truth,” Cheng Banshan said from the Medicine Hall doorway.

Qian Duoduo swallowed, his Adamʼs apple bobbing. ”I make Spirit Meals. I keep the stove. I stir the pot all day—Iʼve never counted how many turns. When the potʼs big, over a thousand turns a day.”

”Your hand,” Wen Su said.

”What?”

”Hold out your hand.”

Qian Duoduo turned his right hand over, palm up, fingers spread, the tips still carrying the stoveʼs lingering heat. He closed his eyes for a moment. A thin white vapor slowly rose from his palm, faint, turning once through the lines of his hand before dispersing. His hand trembled, and he caught it steady again.

Wen Su watched for a while. ”Record: Qian Duoduo, Qi Condensation, Third Layer.”

The clerkʼs brush moved across the page. Qian Duoduo still held his hand out, afraid to bend his fingers.

”Put it away. Go back where you were standing.”

Qian Duoduo tucked his right hand into his robe, backed up two steps, then remembered he was supposed to be standing over by the veranda.

Ge Song cleared his throat. ”Second point: age. Two children—one doesnʼt even reach the table—count as disciples? Alliance rules say a six-year-old may be accepted only if a Spirit Root is detected, and even then, only if they can draw qi.”

”Age is not a criterion for Registered Disciples,” Wen Su said. ”A He. A Sui.”

A He ran out first, A Sui half a step behind, then they decided they were in the wrong order and switched places.

”What do you do every day?”

”Recite the formula,” A He said.

”Recite it, then.”

A He opened his mouth and launched in: ”Inhale slow, exhale long, qi enters through the nose, goes to—” His eyes rolled upward and his hand scrabbled at his side. A Sui picked it up: ”Goes down, sinks down to that place below the navel.”

”The dantian,” A He said. ”Itʼs the dantian.”

”Then you continue,” Wen Su said.

A He recited on. Halfway through, A Sui stuck. Her mouth hung open, her face gradually reddening, her eyes sliding sideways toward her brother. A He turned his head: ”When you gather, itʼs slower than the inhale—slower by half—donʼt force it.” A Sui caught up, the two voices uneven, one already at the end while the other was still partway through, but neither left the other behind. When they finished, A He wanted to recite it again, but A Sui tugged at his sleeve.

”Eighteen days since entering the sect. They canʼt draw qi yet—that doesnʼt make them nominal enrollments,” Wen Su said. ”Record: A He, A Sui, entered the roster August 21, currently studying the Breathing Technique.”

When A Sui lowered her head, the red cord around her neck slipped down and the small cloth pouch bumped against her chest. She pressed it flat with one hand. Ge Songʼs eyes rested on that pouch for a beat.

”Third point: Du Xiaochuan.” He tucked the paper back into his robe. ”He was an Outer Court disciple of Chixiao. He ran on the night of August 26, ran up Qingya. A traitor to his sect—and that name goes on the roster?”

Wen Su turned her head. ”Is he on the roster Chixiao filed with the Branch?”

Ge Songʼs mouth opened. ”Outer Court disciples arenʼt put on the roster.”

”Then he is not a Registered Disciple of Chixiao. Did he return his waist tablet?”

Du Xiaochuan came forward from the far edge of the veranda and stopped three paces from the table, bent at the waist. ”I did.”

”To whom?”

”Steward Ge.”

”What day?”

”August 26. At night.”

Wen Su looked at Ge Song. ”Is it on his table?”

The front courtyard went still. Feet shifted under the eaves, fine sounds on the flagstones. Cao Hu stood outside the threshold with his arms crossed, and now he turned his head to study the patch of sunlight on the wall.

”Yes,” Ge Song said.

”He returned the waist tablet and left of his own accord. Leaving the Sect is settled from that moment,” Wen Su said. ”The roster does not ask which sect someone came from.”

Ge Songʼs lips moved. ”When he left, Chixiao had not given him leave to go.”

”Whether permission was given—the rules say nothing of that. What the rules say is: return the tablet, walk away yourself.”

Ge Song did not speak again. Du Xiaochuan still stood bent low, very low. Wen Su glanced at him: ”Go back and stand.”

He retreated, again to the farthest edge of the veranda.

Xu Yanʼs hand pressed against the table edge, then withdrew. The table edge was cold.

”Fourth point: Shao Ming.” Ge Songʼs voice had dropped half a measure. ”Ten failed attempts at Foundation Establishment. The town below has laughed at him for twenty years. He came up the mountain on August 16, and his name went on the roster in September. Is this not a borrowed name, propped up to pad the count?”

”Shao Ming.”

Shao Ming stepped forward. He walked slowly, his steps falling solid.

”What do you do at Qingya?”

”Train at the Mao hour.”

”Until when?”

”The Si hour.”

”Who watches?”

”No one. Elder Cheng checks my pulse.”

Wen Suʼs gaze drifted toward the Medicine Hall doorway. Cheng Banshan unhooked the wine gourd from his belt and held it in his hand, not drinking.

”What is wrong with your pulse?”

”Thereʼs poison in my dantian,” Shao Ming said. ”Twenty years now.”

”Can you suppress it?”

”I can suppress it. I canʼt cure it.”

”These past few days, where have you been staying?”

”The West Wing. One room apart from Qi Qi.”

”How many meals have you eaten at Qingya?”

”Every one.” Shao Ming paused. ”Seventy Spirit Stones in medicine fees, recorded under my name. Any work on the mountain, I do a job and itʼs deducted. When itʼs all deducted, the debt is struck.”

Wen Suʼs brush point stopped on the paper. She looked up. ”Who recorded the medicine fees?”

”The Accounts Room. I put my thumbprint on it.”

”Cultivation level is not a roster criterion,” Wen Su said. ”A nominal name means the person is absent, not cultivating, only lending a name. He is here. Record: Shao Ming, entered the roster August 16, trains from the Mao hour, old poison in the dantian, suppressed.”

The paper in Ge Songʼs hand crumpled into creases. He tried to stuff it into his robe and missed twice before it went in.

”Fifth point,” he said. ”Shi Po. Spirit Testing found no Spirit Root. Alliance rules: if no Spirit Root is detected, the Branch forbids a sect from accepting that person for cultivation. He should not have gotten past that gate at all.”

The front courtyard could hear the wind passing under the roof eaves. Shi Po stood in the western corner of the courtyard, feet apart, knees bent, arms hanging at his sides. He had not moved once. A thin layer of dust had settled on the blue stone beneath his feet, and in that dust two shoe-prints stood out clearly. From the moment he came back after writing his name until now, there was not a single drag mark.

Wen Su walked over. She did not walk fast. Her soles sounded on the flagstones, step by step.

”Shi Po.”

”Here.”

”What do you cultivate?”

”Standing pillar.”

”How long?”

”Three months.”

”Who taught you?”

”The Sect Master gave me the Vajra Pillar.” Shi Po paused. ”The Senior Sister hit me with a scabbard for two days.”

”She hit you, and you didnʼt strike back?”

”No.”

”Why?”

”What was being tested was how much I could take.”

Under the eastern veranda, Jiang Wan switched her sword to the other hand.

Wen Su looked down at his footprints, then at his feet. She extended two fingers and pressed into his forearm, sinking half an inch. The flesh under her fingers did not yield—hard as stone wrapped in a layer of hide. She pressed three places, released, and stepped back.

”Spirit Testing determines whether a six-year-old child may enter a sect,” she said. ”The year he came up the mountain, he was not six. He walked through the mountain gate himself. The roster does not ask about Spirit Roots—only whether a person cultivates. He cultivates.”

”He doesnʼt draw qi,” Ge Song said. ”His dantian is empty. You call that cultivation?”

”Body Cultivators do not rely on Spirit Roots,” Wen Su said. ”The Alliance roster has never recorded Spirit Roots.”

”Alliance rules are made to govern every sect under heaven,” Ge Song said, his voice rising a notch. ”Today Qingya writes a man with no Spirit Root onto its roster. Tomorrow every other Ninth Rank sect follows suit—rock carriers and farmers written in. How do you measure rank then?”

”The ruler that measures rank is not the roster,” Wen Su said. ”The roster asks one thing only: whether a person written on it is cultivating.”

Ge Song stood there, one hand still at the opening of his robe. Under the eaves, a few rogue cultivators exchanged glances. Lu Shoutian tucked both hands into his sleeves. Zheng Tie murmured something beside him, and Lu Shoutian elbowed him. Both fell silent.

”The five points are finished,” Ge Song said.

”Is there a sixth?” Wen Su asked.

”…No.”

Zhou Kui had been standing the whole time in the gate arch, back against the wall, eyes on nothing else but Shi Poʼs feet. Now he lifted his shoulder off the wall a little.

Wen Su returned to the table. The clerk evened up the ten name-verification papers and handed them over, corners perfectly aligned, the ink on the last one long dry. The clerk then passed her a paper twist, its end rolled sharp.

Wen Su threaded the twist through the corners of the ten pages, twice, each pass surer than the last. She wound the end around the spine of the Ratings Register and pulled it tight. Her fingers pressed on the knot for a while.

The ten pages turned over, the ink darkening layer by layer: Jiang Wanʼs careful hand, Shi Poʼs laborious tracing, Huo Qingʼs left-handed strokes, the ink dot Qi Qi had blown on, the one stroke where A He had run off the edge of the paper, A Suiʼs small upright characters, the little tail Qian Duoduo had dragged out, and Du Xiaochuanʼs.

Wen Su closed the roster.

”Roster: ten people,” she said. ”Passed.”

The clerk set brush to the Ratings Register, finished the entry, and laid the brush down.

Under the veranda, someone let out a long breath—so loud they coughed at themselves. Among the people who had come up from Luoxia Town, an older man went ”oh,” and the people in front turned to look at him, so he lowered his head. Qian Duoduo wrung his apron into a ball under the veranda, released it, and wiped his palms dry on it. Under the west veranda, Bai Xiaoman dug her fingernails into her palm until a mark formed, then opened her hand to look at it, then squeezed again.

Xu Yan rose, cupped his hands, and before the words could leave his mouth—

”Next is the formation,” Wen Su said. ”Itʼs the Si hour. Where is it inspected, who inspects it, how many steps the route is—say it clearly first.”

She picked up her water flask, took a drink, and lifted her eyes toward the slopes beyond the Back Mountain.