My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 94: The Prayer Cushion Before the Ancestral Hall

The sky hadnʼt fully brightened when the sound of a broom began along the road to the Mountain Gate.

Nie Bo swept outward from the gate, pushing snow to either side of the path into two low ridges. Where heʼd swept, flagstones showed through, a thin line of white still caught in the cracks. Snow from the eaves dropped onto the back of his neck. He didnʼt brush it off, didnʼt stop, and swept the road outside the gate out to a width of two feet before leaning on the broom and straightening up, gazing down the mountain path for a while.

A quarter-hour before the Dragon hour, people began coming up.

The first group was from Luoxia Town—seven or eight of them, their soles crunching on the steps, white breath clinging to their faces as they climbed. Behind them, two rogue cultivators with sash bags over their shoulders; one still clutched last nightʼs flatbread, gnawing as he walked. Last came the ones whoʼd traveled from Linchuan on the eleventh—the man in front wore a gray-green padded jacket, his chin red from the cold, rubbing his hands together as he went.

At the Mountain Gate, some crouched to brush snow from their shoes; others turned to look back the way theyʼd come. From up here, the rooftops of Luoxia Town were only the size of a palm.

”Sect Master Xu.” The shopkeeper from town was the first to cup his hands in greeting.

Xu Yan stood waiting in the Front Courtyard. He returned the salute and told Qi Qi to push the two gate panels open all the way. The sound of the door pivots rolled around the mountain hollow before fading.

”You may watch.” Xu Yan stepped in front of them. ”Everyone stands under the east eaves. Donʼt go past the Main Hall.”

”Would it hurt to get a little closer?”

”Both doors of the Main Hall are open. You can see the ground before the Ancestral Hall from here.” Xu Yan said. ”No further. Heʼs sitting. He canʼt be distracted.”

”How long do we stand here?”

”Until he rises. Or until itʼs over.”

The east eaves were three feet wide, sheltered from the wind, but last nightʼs snow still pressed against the ground. The moment people stepped in, their feet tracked up a puddle of water. Shi Po moved two stones to the threshold to keep the water from running toward the Main Hall. Snowmelt dripped from the eaveʼs edge and struck the outermost manʼs shoulder. He didnʼt move, only tucked his head a little further under the overhang.

Lu Shoutian arrived soon enough, a cloth sack in hand. He counted the people standing under the eaves as he came in, made a circuit, and settled against the wall.

”The Market Chiefʼs here too,” someone said.

”Iʼm watching. Just watching.” Lu Shoutian set his sack by his feet. ”I wonʼt say a word.”

Someone from town under the eaves told the rogue cultivator beside him in a low voice: ”Heʼs made ten attempts. The last few were in front of people—when the qi scattered, everyone down below laughed.”

”Laughed at what?”

”At him making attempt after attempt and still sitting there.”

”I saw him scatter once in Linchuan.” Another chimed in. ”After it scattered, he cupped his hands toward all four directions before leaving.”

The man in the gray-green jacket didnʼt laugh, only tucked his hands deeper into his sleeves. Someone under the eaves was already counting the spirit stones in his pouch—counting once, then again. Xu Yan heard it. He didnʼt look back.

The open ground in front of the Ancestral Hall had been swept by Shi Po on the eleventh, dusted with stove ash, then covered by a thin layer of fresh snow. The prayer cushion sat centered before the steps, an old felt mat laid beneath it.

From the Mao hour, someone had been sitting on the West Wingʼs threshold.

Shao Ming had risen even earlier than the snow-sweeper. Face washed, clothes changed, he sat there for a full hour. Du Xiaochuan sat with him, neither speaking. Only a quarter-hour before the Dragon hour did Du Xiaochuan finally say, ”The fire—I kept it for seven days.”

Shao Ming grunted in acknowledgment, stood, and brushed the dust from his trouser legs.

He walked to the prayer cushion, rolled his sleeves to his elbows, his hair bound tight, lifted his robe, and knelt. He bowed three times to the row of ancestral tablets behind the doors. When he straightened, he paused, then braced his hands on his knees and rose. He turned, sat down, crossed his legs, and patted the felt mat before him smooth. Then he drew the empty celadon bottle from his chest and set it on the snow beside the cushion, adjusting it until it sat square. He raised his eyes to Xu Yan beneath the veranda.

Xu Yan nodded.

Cheng Banshan sat on the top step to the right, his empty sleeve tucked into his belt, his wine gourd resting at his feet, the stopper untouched. Jiang Wan sat to the left, her sword across her knees, one hand resting on the scabbard.

”Sit steady,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Rest your hands on your knees. Donʼt clench.”

Shao Ming answered with a sound.

Xu Yan stood beneath the veranda of the Ancestral Hall. The disciples crowded in the back corridor of the Main Hall: Shi Po by the outermost pillar, one hand gripping the column, leaving a damp ring; Huo Qing on the inner side, left hand hanging, eyes not on the cushion but on the row of people under the east eaves; Qian Duoduo wiping his palms on his apron again and again; Bai Xiaomanʼs lips moved a few times, counting something, then stopped counting; A Sui clutched an empty cloth sack, wringing it down to a small ball. A He stood half a step in front of her, blocking the wind.

Someone under the eaves spoke. The voice wasnʼt loud, but the Front Courtyard was quiet, so everyone heard it.

”Eleventh attempt.”

After that, no one said anything.

The sunʼs shadow receded from the steps. Half an hour passed, and Shao Mingʼs breathing slowed until his chest barely seemed to move. The only sound left in the Front Courtyard was eave-water dripping onto stone—one drip, a long silence, then another. Qi Qi stood at the Mountain Gate for a while, then looked back at the road up the mountain. No one else was coming.

Xu Yan marked each notch of time beneath the veranda. Mid-Dragon hour, end of the Dragon hour, the sun climbing past the old carved mark at the base of the pillar. He was used to this kind of work—breaking the wait into small increments and pushing forward notch by notch. Today, he couldnʼt break it down: the first three notches were visible; beyond that was black.

At the Snake hour, the padded coat over the man on the cushion shifted at the waist.

Something pressed up beneath the skin.

The people under the eaves didnʼt know what it was. Xu Yan did: three inches above the navel. Ten attempts before, the qi reached this point and scattered toward both ribs, dissipating completely, and the man went limp.

Shao Mingʼs shoulders tightened, his face tilting upward a fraction, then pressing back down.

Cheng Banshanʼs hand on his knee curled inward, five fingers drawing into a fist. Only after a long moment did it slowly loosen.

Jiang Wan didnʼt turn her head, only pressed the hand resting on her scabbard down half an inch.

That breath passed. It didnʼt descend, didnʼt scatter to the sides—it pressed upward along his chest. Shao Mingʼs throat moved, his shoulders settled slightly, and his ten fingers twitched on his knees, as if to grab hold of something, then slowly relaxed.

Someone under the eaves breathed: ”It passed?”

”Shut up.” The person beside him grabbed his arm.

The man in the gray-green jacket opened his mouth, swallowed the words, his throat working.

Xu Yan clenched his fist inside his sleeve. He did the math in his head: ten attempts, twenty years, every one stopping at that same inch—this one got past it. What lay beyond was ground never crossed, with no old ledger to check against. He stood beneath the veranda, able to do nothing.

At the Horse hour, Qian Duoduo carried out a pot of hot rice water from the Kitchen. A He followed with bowls, ladling one scoop for each person all the way to the eaves. Steam from the pot rose in waves; behind it, the faces of the people under the eaves blurred.

”Drink it to keep your hands from freezing,” Qian Duoduo said.

”Heʼs not eating?” A woman from town under the eaves asked.

”Not for a day,” Qian Duoduo said.

Some took bowls, cradled them, blew at the steam, drank, and returned the bowls—eyes never leaving the Ancestral Hall. The rogue cultivator from Linchuan who had wagered two spirit stones waved the bowl away, not taking it, his hands tucked inside his sleeves.

Qian Duoduo scooped the last serving, the ladle scraping the bottom. He brought a bowl to Xu Yan beneath the veranda. Xu Yan accepted it and held it, didnʼt drink, and set it at his feet only after it had gone completely cold. The wine gourd at Cheng Banshanʼs feet stood untouched, stopper still in. He didnʼt take the rice water either.

A He collected the bowls one by one and stacked them by the pot. Halfway through stacking, his hands stilled, and he looked up toward the cushion. Shao Ming sat there—from the Dragon hour until now, his waist had never once slumped.

The Wee hour was the hardest stretch. The sun had long since slid past the roof ridge of the Main Hall. The ground before the Ancestral Hall fell into shade, and the snow beside the cushion showed no trace of melting.

Sweat beaded on Shao Mingʼs forehead—a dense layer that froze almost instantly on his brows, forming a fine white ring. The back of his padded coat was soaked through; when the wind passed, it went stiff. Both hands rested on his knees, fingers trembling, making the felt matʼs down rise and fall. His lips were parched and cracked, his jaw clenched, the tendon along his cheek twitching. His back stayed straight—too straight—the shoulder blades pressing two sharp ridges against the wet cotton. Every so often the ridges drew inward, then slowly pushed back out.

”Loosen your jaw,” Cheng Banshan said, his voice low. ”The qi walks its own path. Whatʼs outside is none of your concern.”

Shao Mingʼs jaw eased a fraction. The breath in his throat sank, then slowly rose again.

After that one sentence, Cheng Banshanʼs eyes returned to Shao Mingʼs chest, to the soaked padded coat, unblinking.

The people under the eaves couldnʼt stand still. Some crouched. Some tucked both hands into their sleeves. The town woman against the wall buried her chin in her scarf. No one in the Front Courtyard made a sound; everyoneʼs breathing went shallow. Xu Yan saw the layer of white forming on Shao Mingʼs temples, the breaths from his nose short and hurried, each shallower than the last. He remembered what Cheng Banshan had said on the stone steps on the eleventh: When it reaches three inches above the navel, donʼt push it. If it walks on its own, let it walk. Now it was walking—so slowly that Xu Yan wanted to push it for him.

Cheng Banshan leaned forward, then sat back. His heel bumped the wine gourd at his feet. It wobbled, didnʼt fall. He didnʼt even glance at it.

At the back corridor, A Sui buried her face in A Heʼs sleeve. A He didnʼt move, his eyes fixed on the cushion. Shi Poʼs grip on the pillar tightened until his knuckles went white. Huo Qing still watched the row of people under the east eaves, not once looking at the cushion. Bai Xiaoman had her hand over her mouth. Qian Duoduo stood beneath the veranda holding the empty pot, refusing to go back. Jiang Wan shifted her sitting posture, her fingers tapping twice on the scabbard, then stilled. She wasnʼt looking at the cushion; she was watching Cheng Banshanʼs hand. As long as that hand didnʼt move, hers wouldnʼt either.

The voices under the eaves started again.

”Heʼs about to scatter.”

”His face is white. Last time it was at this same hour.”

”I wagered—”

Lu Shoutian turned his head. ”Shut it.”

The man bristled, about to speak again. Lu Shoutian set his cloth sack on the ground. ”If youʼre here to watch, then watch. The man sitting there is enduring this suffering, and youʼre down here counting money.”

”Itʼs only two spirit stones.”

”Two is still money,” Lu Shoutian said. ”Watch.”

The eaves fell silent. Someone stepped back half a pace, the puddle at his feet making a sound. Another couldnʼt help shifting a small step forward. Cheng Banshan didnʼt turn his head. ”Stay put.”

Jiang Wanʼs voice was very soft: ”He hasnʼt scattered yet.”

”Not yet,” Cheng Banshan said.

Xu Yan looked up.

The sky was gray. There was no wind at all in the Front Courtyard. A layer of snow pressed down on the roof ridge of the Ancestral Hall, sliding inch by inch along the tile grooves. It reached the eaveʼs edge and trembled.

Shao Mingʼs eyes were still closed. A drop of the ice on his brows melted and ran down the bridge of his nose.

The snow on the roof ridge slid another inch.