My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 92: Three Inches Above the Navel

Second day of the Twelfth Month, just past Hai Hour.

The two in the West Wing had turned in early. The lamp was out, but a faint smell of oil still hung in the room. Du Xiaochuan heard the bed boards creak first—once, twice, and the third time came dull and heavy, like something slamming against the planks. He sat up, felt for the fire starter, and blew it to life.

Shao Ming lay curled on his side facing the wall, knees drawn to his chest, both hands gripping the edge of the bed, knuckles white.

”What is it.” Du Xiaochuan set the fire starter on the low stool and reached for his back. His hand came away soaked. The clothes were drenched through, cold as if pulled from snow.

”Basin.” Shao Ming forced the word through clenched teeth, face still turned away. ”Basin.”

Du Xiaochuan grabbed the old clay basin from the corner and slid it under his chin.

The first heave hit the bottom with a dull sound. Du Xiaochuanʼs nose rebelled first—rank, with iron rust underneath, and beneath the rust, the smell of burnt charcoal. The fire starterʼs light fell into the basin: black, thick, clinging to the walls and refusing to slide down.

Shao Ming heaved a second time, shoulders shaking. When it passed, his whole body sagged.

”Iʼm going to get Elder Cheng.” Du Xiaochuan steadied the basin, threw on his padded jacket, and ran out.

Between the West Wing and the Medicine Hall lay an open stretch of courtyard. Snow had been swept, then frozen into a thin sheet of ice. He ran too fast, slipped half a step midway, and his knee cracked against a rock. He got up and kept running.

By the third knock at the Medicine Hall door, the inner curtain rustled.

Cheng Banshan opened the door already in his outer robe, the empty sleeve hanging at his side. He asked nothing, just picked up the oil lamp from the corner table and walked out, lamp in hand.

”What did it look like.” He only asked once theyʼd reached the middle of the courtyard.

”Black.” Du Xiaochuan followed behind. ”Thick. Smells like rust.”

Cheng Banshan didnʼt break stride.

Inside, he set the lamp on the low stool by the bed, bent to examine the basin, then straightened and pushed Shao Mingʼs robe up a few inches. One hand pressed down—three inches above the navel.

At that touch, Shao Mingʼs stomach convulsed and his whole body arched.

”Donʼt tense up.” Cheng Banshan said. ”Iʼll hold here. You keep throwing up.”

Someone at the door. Xu Yan stood outside the threshold in his outer robe, hair unbound, holding the smallest lamp.

”Do you need water.” he asked.

”Boiling.” Cheng Banshan didnʼt look back. ”Xiaochuan, go boil a pot.”

Du Xiaochuan ran out. Xu Yan didnʼt leave. He held the lamp low.

”Go back to sleep.” Cheng Banshan said.

”Pressing like that—how long will it go on.”

”Until he stops throwing up.”

Xu Yan stood a moment, then turned and left. Halfway across the courtyard he stopped and glanced back at the West Wing window—a dim yellow glow on the window paper, one figure motionless inside, one figure arched.

The Accounts Room lamp burned late. Xu Yan turned the ledger to the Twelfth Month page and wrote one line: Second day, night, black water.

In the West Wing, the lamp wick sputtered. Du Xiaochuan trimmed it with the scissors. Water boiled; he poured a bowl and carried it over, passing it hand to hand until he set it on the low stool.

”Once itʼs warm, have him rinse,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Donʼt swallow.”

Shao Ming rinsed his mouth once, spat beside the basin, and panted harder than a man whoʼd run a mountain road.

”Elder Cheng.”

”Mm.”

”In my belly. Over twenty years.” He caught his breath and went on. ”I thought it was mine.”

The hand Cheng Banshan pressed down with didnʼt move.

”What you throw up—thatʼs yours.”

After a while, he lifted his hand an inch. ”Xiaochuan, put your hand on mine. Press on the back of my hand.”

Du Xiaochuan crouched by the bed and laid his hand over it. Hot, firm, and something underneath pushing back.

”Feel it.”

”I do. A hard little lump underneath. It moves.”

”Memorize this spot.” Cheng Banshan withdrew his hand and sat on the stool by the bed, resting his hand on his knee. ”Next time it cramps up, you press. If you canʼt hold it, come get me.”

”How long do I press.”

”Until his breathing steadies.”

Du Xiaochuan kept pressing—until his palm burned, until his arm ached and sagged. He said nothing, just braced his other hand on the bed frame to shift his weight.

Outside, meltwater dripped from the eave edge onto the step stones. Then it froze over, and the dripping stopped.

Half the lamp oil burned away. At some point Shao Ming grabbed Du Xiaochuanʼs hand, nails digging into the back of it, leaving white marks. He didnʼt pull away.

Near dawn, Shao Ming slept, his breath settling layer by layer. Cheng Banshan lifted his hand, flexed his fingers, tucked them back into his sleeve, and blew out the lamp.

Third day, Shao Ming didnʼt get up. He drank only half a bowl of rice water. That night at Hai Hour, his stomach cramped again—a quarter-hour earlier than the first night, and worse.

Du Xiaochuanʼs hand was on the door bolt when the door was shoved open from outside with a shoulder. Cheng Banshan stood in the doorway with the lamp, fully dressed, even the empty sleeve tucked into his belt.

”Basin.” he said.

Three heaves that night. The third still came up black. Du Xiaochuanʼs hands shook as he held the basin, and the hand pressing three inches above the navel shook too—enough that Cheng Banshan glanced at him, but said nothing.

Cheng Banshan pulled an old padded jacket from the foot of the bed and draped it over Shao Mingʼs back.

”When heʼs throwing up, his back canʼt get cold.”

The Kitchen lamp flickered on. Qian Duoduo came over with a pot of rice water, stopped at the door, and didnʼt dare enter. His nose wrinkled first, but he held the pot steady and said, ”I added a little salt. No oil.”

”Bring it in.”

A Sui followed behind, a bowl clutched in her arms, peering in from the doorway. She saw what was in the basin and went pale. Du Xiaochuan stood to block her and shut the door.

She wouldnʼt leave. Through the gap in the door she tried to push the bowl in. ”For Uncle Shao.”

A He came to pull her away. The two argued in low voices under the eaves, and in the end A He sat on the threshold with the bowl, waiting.

Qian Duoduo pushed the window open a crack. Cold air swept in, thinning the stench.

”Not so wide.” Cheng Banshan said. ”Donʼt let it blow on him.”

When the heaving stopped, Shao Ming lay on his back, staring at the rafters.

”How many left.”

”Seven.”

”Seven.” He repeated it, pressed a hand to his stomach, touched the spot, and pulled back.

Qian Duoduo kept the rest of the rice water warm on the stove and went back to his room. At first light he brought another bowl, steam still rising from the rim.

Fourth night, what came up was paler. The color had gone from ink-black to gray-brown, a layer of fibrous sediment settled at the bottom. When Shao Ming finished, he didnʼt arch again—just sat panting.

Du Xiaochuan carried the basin out and dumped it into the snow by the back wall. The snow scorched black where it hit, a ring of water melting around it. He stood watching for a while, then came back in. ”It burned a hole in the snow.”

”Just dump it.” Cheng Banshan said.

Fourth day, Shao Ming could sit propped against the headboard. He called the two children to his bedside to recite their formulas, listening. When they made a mistake he lifted his chin: do it again.

Jiang Wan came out of the East Courtyard and stopped at the West Wing door. ”Still throwing up?” she asked Du Xiaochuan.

”Itʼs lighter now.”

She nodded and went back.

Fifth day—market day. Before dawn Shao Ming was out of bed, walking step by careful step to the front of the Ancestral Hall. He stood below the stone steps while the two children recited. Xu Yan passed along the veranda, footsteps soft, and said nothing.

That market day Xu Yan didnʼt go down the mountain. Qian Duoduo and the others carried down one pot of Spirit Meal and ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder, sold clean by Wei Hour. At You Hour the wooden box came up, and Xu Yan entered it in the Accounts Room: Income sixty-five spirit stones. Balance: one thousand three hundred.

”Uncle Shao walked to the Mountain Gate today,” Qian Duoduo said. ”Then walked back.”

”Mm.” Xu Yan pressed the entry dry on the ledger page.

Fifth night, Shao Ming still heaved—just a small mouthful of clear water. Some disturbance before midnight, then he slept through the back half.

Sixth day, before dawn, the sound rose again from the front courtyard veranda. One draw, one thrust. Short, dull, with identical gaps between each beat.

The rope on that wooden target had been replaced twice. The bullseye was gouged concave, the rim of the pit rough with splinters. Huo Qing gripped the sword in his left hand, every thrust landing in that pit.

Shao Ming sat on the West Wing threshold, hands tucked into his sleeves. Sitting long, his lower back pressed against the doorframe until it went numb. He watched Huo Qingʼs shoulder. At the start of the move, only the wrist turned now—the shoulder no longer moved with it. Last month Jiang Wan had watched once and said, ”The shoulder moves first.”

Huo Qing knew he was sitting on the threshold. He didnʼt turn, didnʼt stop. After dozens more thrusts, the sword slowed. He twirled it half a turn in his hand, pulled a cloth from his waist, and wiped downward. When he put the cloth away he walked toward the doorway, his pace slowing half a step, but he still didnʼt stop.

Neither said a word.

Mao Hour came. Shao Ming braced against the threshold and stood, then headed for the Ancestral Hall.

Sixth night was lighter still. Seventh night, Du Xiaochuan rolled over in his sleep and reached by habit for the edge of the bed—found nothing. He sat up. Shao Mingʼs blanket lay over him properly, body facing outward, breathing even. Du Xiaochuan reached for the clay basin. The bottom was dry.

He moved the basin back to the corner, sat on his own bed with his hands on his knees, and stayed there until the window paper turned white.

Eighth day, Dragon Hour, Medicine Hall. Shao Ming sat on the stool by the table, arm on the surface, sleeve rolled up. Cheng Banshan pressed three fingers to his wrist and held for half an incense stick, then moved to the other.

Done, he rolled Shao Mingʼs sleeve back down.

”Elder Cheng.” Shao Ming said.

”Weʼll talk after all ten are done.”

Xu Yan stood outside the Medicine Hall door, waiting until Cheng Banshan came out. ”Clear or not?”

”Weʼll talk after all ten are done.”

Xu Yan didnʼt ask again. He went around to the back of the Medicine Hall, lifted the reed mat, and counted the half-load of charcoal. Two pieces had been used for the rice water on the third night—already noted below that ledger entry.

Ninth day, Dragon Hour. Same stool, same wrist. Both wrists pressed. Cheng Banshan rolled the sleeve down and said nothing. Shao Ming stayed seated, waiting. Only when Cheng Banshan turned to put away the bronze scale did he rise.

Outside the Medicine Hall, the two stopped in the courtyard.

”Sect Master.” Shao Ming said.

”Mm.”

”That load and a half of charcoal—once I can lift my arm, Iʼll haul it from the wharf myself.”

Xu Yan looked at him. ”First, keep that breath in your chest.”

The sun was strong that day, snowmelt dripping from every eave. Du Xiaochuan brought both sets of West Wing bedding out and draped them over the veranda rail. Shao Ming beat them with a wooden stick until dust flew in the light.

Lamplight, Medicine Hall.

Cheng Banshan untied the bottle from his waist, set it on the table, and worked the wooden stopper out with his thumb. He tipped the neck. A single pill rolled out, spun once on the tabletop, and stopped. He picked it up and held it to the lamp, turning it between his fingers. The fine lines on its surface were still there.

Shao Ming stood at the door.

”Come in.” Cheng Banshan said.

Shao Ming entered and stood before the table. Cheng Banshan put the pill back in the bottle, pressed the stopper in, and hung the cord back on his belt.

”Tomorrow, Dragon Hour, Main Hall.”

”Still come at Mao Hour to receive it?”

”Yes.”

Shao Ming answered, turned, and left. He stopped under the eaves, pressed a hand to his stomach once, then headed for the West Wing.

In the Accounts Room, Xu Yan turned the ledger to the Twelfth Month page and added half a line below the Tenth Day: Main Hall, Dragon Hour. Done, he set the brush back on the inkstone. The ink dried slowly. The room was cold.