My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 86: Two Loads of Charcoal

When they left town, only a sliver of light remained in the west. The wind off the river drove the dust from the town gate up the mountain. Three people carried two shoulder loads: Huo Qing in front, Qi Qi behind, the straw mat rolled under Xu Yanʼs arm.

The charcoal was heavy. The carrying pole pressed into his shoulder; every three steps he had to bounce it, the bamboo strips at the basketʼs base scraping against the charcoal blocks, rattling the whole way.

The first stretch was flagstone, the rest was dirt. By the time the sky dimmed, the black between the flagstone seams had faded into shadow. Huo Qingʼs feet landed on the stones without slipping, as if heʼd walked this road many times. Xu Yan followed behind him, watching the sweat at his nape soak through his collar, then chill in the wind.

He carried on his left shoulder. His right arm hung at his side, swaying with his steps, light and useless. When he needed to switch shoulders, he lifted the pole with a push, caught it with his left hand, swung it around to the other side, walked two steps, then switched back.

Qi Qi opened his mouth twice at first, wanting to speak, but each time he saw that worn-white wooden scabbard up ahead and swallowed it back.

Only when they reached the halfway ridge to switch shoulders did Qi Qi ask: ”The charcoal didnʼt bounce out, did it?”

The figure ahead answered: ”Didnʼt lose any.”

Nothing more was said.

At the ridge mouth the wind turned fierce. Qi Qi set his load down and rubbed his shoulder, which had been rubbed red. Xu Yan took it and carried it half a li, then gave it back at the fork. Qi Qi reached to take it back by force, but Xu Yan said: ”Youʼve still got to carry it to the end.”

Beyond the fork, three li downhill, lay the spirit fields. In the dark you couldnʼt see the field ridges. The paddies had soaked all winter, and now only the waterʼs surface was visible, reflecting the last of the sky, pale and glimmering. Xu Yan stood at the fork for a moment, then turned and followed.

By the time they reached the Mountain Gate, the sky was fully dark. The lantern at the gate was lit, its light reaching only two steps up the stone stairs. The Dog hour.

The two loads of charcoal were carried into the courtyard and stacked against the back wall of the Medicine Hall. The two stones already at the wallʼs base were moved out by Qi Qi to cushion the basket bottoms. The straw mat was spread open, wrapped around three sides, and a large block of charcoal laid on top as a weight.

The Medicine Hallʼs door stood open. The fire in the furnace chamber painted the threshold red. Cheng Banshan walked out, his empty sleeve hanging limp in the wind. He bent down, lifted a corner of the straw mat with his one hand, drew out a block of charcoal from the top, and held it to his eye to study the cross-section. He knocked it against the basket rim and listened to the sound.

”Dry.” He tossed the charcoal back into the basket, let the mat fall, and glanced at the stones under the basket base.

”A load and a half will last seven days.” He said. ”Stack the remaining half inside. Donʼt let the wind cut through it.”

He turned and walked back into the Medicine Hall. At the threshold he tossed out one more line: ”Donʼt stack any damp.” The furnace door clanked, and he was inside.

He never asked a single thing about the road.

Huo Qing stood at the wallʼs base until the straw mat was packed tight, then propped the carrying pole against the corner and walked to the well. He crouched on the well platform, scooped water with one hand, and wiped the charcoal dust from his brow. The well water was cold; when he finished, the back of his hand was red.

Shao Ming came over from the Medicine Hall carrying a bowl of herbal decoction. He saw the figure at the well and slowed for a moment, but asked nothing. He carried the bowl into the West Wing.

In the kitchen, the pot lid kept rattling. Qian Duoduo was ladling porridge into each bowl. Jiang Wan sat by the door, her sword across her knees. When Huo Qing came in, Qian Duoduo set the thickest coarse-grain flatbread on the rim of his bowl.

Qi Qi took two bites and set the flatbread down.

”That man was surnamed Wei,” he said. ”We were loading the baskets when a boat pulled up. A flag on the prow—Heavenly Sword Sect. Three people boarded: one leader and two disciples. The one in front had a sword at his waist. Not a speck of dust on the scabbard.”

”Then what?” A Heʼs two hands braced against the tableʼs edge.

”Then he called out ʼJunior Brother Huo.ʼ” Qi Qi said. ”Heʼd walked three steps past, then stepped back to look at the sword on Senior Brother Huoʼs back. At the tea stall, he asked the people there if they knew him.”

He paused, shoving his bowl toward the tableʼs center.

”What did he say?” Shi Po asked.

”Him out of the sectʼs inner school, hauling charcoal here.” Qi Qi said. ”Then he asked how much a load paid. After that he used the tip of his scabbard to flip the basket. Twenty-seven blocks, scattered down half the stone steps.”

By the door, Jiang Wanʼs chopsticks paused. She didnʼt ask. The sword across her knees didnʼt move either. Her eyes rested on Qi Qiʼs face, waiting for him to continue.

Qian Duoduoʼs ladle stopped against the potʼs rim: ”You just stood there and watched?”

”The Sect Master shook his head,” Qi Qi said.

Shi Po set his bowl down: ”Did it come to blows?”

”No.” Qi Qi said. ”He said, draw. Draw it, and I wonʼt strike back. Senior Brother Huo gripped the hilt, but his hand didnʼt move. Then the Sect Master walked up and said one thing: ʼThird day of the third month.ʼ One of the disciples over there said the Dongzhou Minor Sect Grand Contest is the third day of the third month. The man looked at the Sect Master, then got back on his boat.”

”He said all that, and Senior Brother Huo never said one word back?” Bai Xiaoman asked.

Qi Qi nodded: ”Not one word.”

Shi Po asked: ”Whatʼs his cultivation?”

”Donʼt know.” Qi Qi said. ”He didnʼt attack, didnʼt even release his aura. Just walked past, walked three steps, then came back.”

Bai Xiaoman counted on her fingers: ”Heavenly Sword Sect is First Rank. The Grand Contest is for the minor sects. You wonʼt meet him on the platform.”

Shi Po drained the last of his porridge in one gulp and wiped his mouth: ”Canʼt meet him? Then let him watch.”

The kitchen fell quiet, so quiet you could hear water dripping on the well platform outside.

A He asked in a small voice: ”Senior Brother Huo, why didnʼt you draw?”

Huo Qing finished his last mouthful, set the bowl on the table, and rose to leave. The door curtain fell back, swaying once.

Shao Ming pressed a hand down on A Heʼs head: ”Eat.”

A Sui pulled her brotherʼs empty bowl toward herself, but didnʼt touch her chopsticks.

By the door, Jiang Wan drank the last of her porridge, set the bowl on the stove platform, picked up the sword from her knees, and walked out toward the Mountain Gate. The door curtain swayed again.

Qian Duoduo stood by the pot for a while, then turned: ”So next time we go to the wharf to buy charcoal, do we still go?”

”Yes.” Xu Yan said. ”No one knows which day the boat moors. Charcoal has to be bought.”

Qian Duoduo made an ”oh” sound, knocked the ladle against the potʼs rim, and added another half-bowl for Shi Po. Shi Po didnʼt refuse; he lowered his head and ate.

After everyone dispersed, Xu Yan went into the courtyard to check whether the water vatʼs lid was sealed tight. Of the three rooms in the West Wing, the outer one had a light on—Shao Ming and Du Xiaochuan were talking inside; the inner roomʼs door was shut, its window dark.

That night, his room had no lamp.

When Xu Yan stopped below the steps of the Main Hall, Jiang Wan was returning from the Mountain Gate, sword in hand, a layer of white frost on the scabbard.

”Heʼs the one from the same sect who cut off his hand?” she asked.

”Wei Changge.” Xu Yan said.

She switched the sword to her other hand and glanced toward the inner room of the West Wing. She asked nothing further and went back to the East Courtyard.

In the Accounts Room, Xu Yan pulled out the November slip. After the character for ”charcoal,” a line had been drawn: Day 4, two loads, twenty blocks. The line below was still blank, waiting for ”Frost Bone Grass.” He didnʼt write it.

He added an entry to the running ledger: Month 11, Day 4, two loads of charcoal, stacked behind the Medicine Hall wall.

That night, there was no sound under the veranda.

Before dawn, the veranda rang out once.

Tok.

A pause. Then again. In, out. Not fast, not slow.

Xu Yan was copying yesterdayʼs running ledger in the Accounts Room. His brush stopped mid-page. The sound came from under the veranda, through a single door, yet still clear. The target was the old door panel propped against the veranda post. The swordʼs tip driving into wood made a dull thud; pulling it out, splinters scraped along the bladeʼs spine with a soft whisper.

The sky lightened bit by bit. The rhythm never wavered. Even when the wind gusted, the interval held steady, as if the wind itself moved to that beat.

At the Mao hour, Qian Duoduo hoisted the pot, Du Xiaochuan carried a bundle of firewood, A He toted a bucket, and A Sui hugged the stack of bowls, all crossing the veranda.

A Heʼs steps slowed.

Qian Duoduo nudged him with an elbow: ”Move. The whole potʼs going to go cold.”

Huo Qing didnʼt stop, didnʼt look up. His right arm hung down, his left hand gripped the hilt. When he began, his shoulder sank first, the tip went out, came back, and settled at his side. At the wooden targetʼs center, the circle of white was a little larger than yesterday.

At the market, one pot of Spirit Meal and ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder sold out before the sun reached its zenith.

As Qian Duoduo collected the bowls, the vegetable vendor from the next stall came over with empty baskets, standing in front of the stand to talk: ”That one up on your mountain—yesterday at the wharf, he didnʼt draw his sword?”

”Didnʼt draw,” Qian Duoduo said.

”I carried my greens past the wharf this morning. That boat with the flag set off at the Mao hour, sails already hoisted.” The vendor said. ”The wharfʼs still talking about it. One-handed, took all that abuse, said nothing back.”

Qian Duoduo stacked bowls into a crate without looking up: ”He never says much anyway.”

Two more people came over, both locals from town. One asked: ”Really didnʼt draw?” The other asked: ”Whatʼs the manʼs surname?”

”Wei,” Qian Duoduo said. ”One of his disciples called him Senior Brother Wei.” Then he shut his mouth and lowered his head to count the bowls in the crate. He counted them twice.

”Wei?” The questioner clicked his tongue. ”A Wei from the Heavenly Sword Sect—thatʼs someone with backing. Your little mountain gate, running into that kind of person, holding it in was the right move.”

A He stacked the last bowl into the crate and cut in: ”He trains every day.”

The men looked at him. The vegetable vendor shook his head: ”Whatʼs the use of training? They come from a great sect.”

The other nodded along: ”A great sectʼs sword—trained since childhood, fed with the best resources. That one up on your mountain, training alone at random, how many years can he grind?”

A He opened his mouth. Qian Duoduo shoved the bowl crate into his arms. Hugging the crate, that line—”He trains every day”—didnʼt make it out again.

Qian Duoduo said nothing. He knocked the two wooden wedges on the pot, hoisted the load, and walked off. Only after they were out of the market gate did he mutter to A He: ”Donʼt go repeating that when we get back. Our stand still has to sit in this market.”

Back on the mountain to settle accounts, Qian Duoduo laid sixty-five spirit stones on the Accounts Room table: forty for the pot, thirty for ten bottles, five for the spirit rice restocked at the grain shop.

Xu Yan entered it in the running ledger. Balance on hand: nine hundred sixty.

”What are they saying around the market?” he asked.

Qian Duoduo pulled the wooden wedges from the carrying pole: ”All saying he didnʼt draw. Some say holding it in was wise. Some say trainingʼs useless either way.” He paused. ”The old vegetable vendor said they come from a great sect.”

Xu Yan said nothing. His brush tip dipped below the ”nine hundred sixty,” the ink bleeding into a small dot. He dabbed the brush on the inkstone: ”Next time someone asks, tell them heʼs training.”

Lamps lit. Under the veranda, the in-out rhythm still rang.

Xu Yan stepped out of the Accounts Room and stood behind a veranda post. The sky was fully dark now. On that patch of ground under the roof, there was only the shadow of a sword rising and falling. He didnʼt call out to him. He turned and went back.

In the kitchen, Qian Duoduo prodded the two charcoal blocks pressed at the stoveʼs base, then lifted a bowl out of the pot. He walked to the door and listened, then carried it back and set it in the warming section of the stove, covering it with the pot lid.