My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 95: The Man Who Changed His Words Under the Eaves

The snow that had settled on the ridge of the Ancestral Hall slid down to the eave edge, stopped, then curled up from beneath and flipped over.

Monkey hour.

The thin layer of snow in the front courtyard lifted off the ground and swirled into the air. The people under the eaves raised their hands to shield their faces. Some closed their eyes. Some took half a step back, water squelching underfoot. The town woman by the wall had her scarf slip down and didnʼt even reach for it. The snow settled again—onto shoulders, onto hair, onto felt mats, onto the celadon bottle beside the prayer cushion.

The bottle still stood upright.

Shao Ming opened his eyes.

He had sat there for four shichen. Now his eyes were shot through with red veins, two gray patches beneath them, lips cracked, the muscle along his jaw still twitching. He looked first at the snow in front of his knees, then turned his palm over and studied it, moving his fingers one at a time, then raised his head and looked at the row of people standing in the courtyard.

No one under the eaves made a sound.

On the rear corridor of the Main Hall, Shi Poʼs hand, which had been gripping the veranda pillar, finally loosened. A ring of damp remained on the wood. Bai Xiaoman crouched down and buried her face in her knees, her shoulders shaking twice. Qian Duoduo, still hugging the empty pot, burst into tears and hastily clapped a hand over his mouth.

Cheng Banshan had already risen from the step edge. He braced one hand on his knee—it gave way on the first try, so he braced again, harder—then walked over to the edge of the prayer cushion. He pressed his hand to Shao Mingʼs wrist, three fingers resting on it. He held it for a while, lifted, then pressed down again, harder this time.

Jiang Wan did not stand. She sat on the steps to the left, her hand still resting on her sword sheath, her eyes fixed on Cheng Banshanʼs hand.

Under the veranda, Xu Yan felt warmth against his chest.

He stepped back behind a veranda pillar, turned his back to the courtyard, and drew the ledger from inside his robe, opening it. On that page, a new line had appeared:

[Credit: Shao Ming, Early Foundation Establishment.]

[Balance: Sect Master, Qi Condensation Ninth Layer.]

The barrier that had lain horizontal beneath his dantian heated up first, then loosened. Spiritual power surged up from below, traveled along his spine to a place that had been blocked. There, a crack opened, and the path beyond suddenly widened. The force moved fast; when it reached his hands, all five fingers went numb. He braced his hand against the pillar and stood still, waiting for it to slow.

The first disciple to break through to Foundation Establishment. Last time, when A He entered the First Layer of Qi Condensation, the ledger had only shown two lines: the credit entry and the balance. A major realm breakthrough warranted its own separate entry—this one he was only seeing for the first time today.

He peered out from behind the pillar. Cheng Banshanʼs hand still pressed on the wrist, his eyes lowered, watching not Shao Mingʼs face but the faint movement beneath the wrist. The courtyard was so quiet even the eaves-drip seemed to have stopped.

Xu Yan turned another page in the ledger.

[Credit: Heritage, 20 points.]

[Balance: Heritage, 34 points.]

He closed it, wiped the snow from the cover with his sleeve, tucked it back inside his robe, and returned to his original spot under the veranda. No one saw the handprint on the pillar.

Cheng Banshan released his grip and straightened up.

”Early Foundation Establishment. The foundation is still soft.”

His voice wasnʼt loud, but the front courtyard was quiet, and everyone under the eaves heard it. He wiped his hand on the empty sleeve of his robe.

”No fighting with anyone for three months. Donʼt rush to advance.”

Shao Ming lifted his head to look at him. His throat worked for a moment before he managed to ask, ”For three months, what do I do?”

”Sit,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Sit and make this layer solid. That breath of yours has been circling beneath the spot three inches above your navel for twenty years. The path was crooked; itʼs only just now straightened out. If you draw on it now, test it, push against someone—itʼll go crooked again. Three months is for letting it grow back onto the right road.”

Shao Ming answered with a grunt of assent.

”And one more thing,” Cheng Banshan said. ”For three months, donʼt listen to people praise you. Praise costs the most qi.”

Jiang Wan rose from the step, lifted the sword that had lain across her knees, and hung it at her waist. She glanced at Shao Ming. ”Sit still.”

Shao Ming braced against his knees and slowly got up. His hands pressed down on the felt mat twice before he found his footing. The ring of frost on his forehead had melted, water running down his jaw. He took a step forward—his knee buckled halfway—and behind him there was a clatter as Du Xiaochuan came running from the rear corridor and grabbed his arm.

”Let go of him,” Cheng Banshan said.

Du Xiaochuanʼs hand didnʼt release.

”Let go. Let the man walk two steps on his own. Numb legs are numb on their own; no one can hold you up your whole life.”

Du Xiaochuan let go and fell in half a step behind. Shao Ming walked three or four steps through the snow, his knees loosening up, his stride finding its proper shape. When he turned back, Du Xiaochuan crouched and picked the celadon bottle out of the snow, handing it to him. The bottle was icy. Shao Ming held it for a moment, then tucked it inside his robe.

A Sui came running from the rear corridor, stopping just inside the threshold of the Main Hall, clutching the empty cloth sack. She called out ”Uncle Shao” and then had nothing more to say. Shao Ming nodded at her.

He brushed off his clothes, turned, and cupped his hands toward the row of ancestral tablets in the hall, then went in through the back door.

In the front courtyard, the row of people under the eaves still stood there, a puddle of water at their feet, no one moving first.

Shao Ming came out from the front door of the Main Hall and stood inside the threshold.

The rogue cultivator who had been counting his breaths earlier was the first to move. He shifted his sash bag from his left hand to his right, stepped forward, and cupped his hands: ”Shao Ming.”

Shao Ming returned the salute, his hand still trembling a little.

”No need to count next time,” the rogue cultivator said. He smiled, but his face looked stiff.

Someone in the crowd suddenly burst out laughing. The one in the gray-blue padded jacket couldnʼt hold it in and slapped his own thigh: ”Thirty-eight, and he broke through.” He laughed uncontrollably and said it again, ”Thirty-eight.”

Someone under the eaves reached into his clothes, fished out two spirit stones, and shoved them at the person beside him, not looking at Shao Ming. The flush on his face—hard to say if it was the cold or something else. The man in the gray-blue jacket took the stones, then pushed them back: ”This bet doesnʼt count. If Iʼd known heʼd make it, whoʼd bet only two.” The first man held the stones, unsure where to put them, froze for a moment, then tucked them back into his own clothes and started laughing too.

The one whoʼd said earlier, ”I saw him fail that time in Linchuan,” stood near the back. He whispered something to the person next to him, too low for anyone to pick up, and no one responded.

Lu Shoutian patted his knees, stood up, and gathered his cloth sack into his hand.

”All right,” he called out. ”Showʼs over. The mountain isnʼt selling anything today, so donʼt crowd around the gate waiting.”

”Did the Market Chief place a bet?” someone in the crowd asked him.

”I donʼt bet,” Lu Shoutian said. ”Once you bet, you have to root for one side.”

Only then did the people under the eaves begin drifting toward the Mountain Gate. There was water on the flagstones; a few slipped and had to brace against the wall as they walked. Some took a few steps, then looked back at Shao Ming. The ones who looked back were mostly staring at his legs, as if trying to spot what made a Foundation Establishment cultivator different from the man whoʼd sat down that morning.

”Shao Ming.” The town woman stopped and wiped her hands on her apron before returning the salute. ”Did it hurt?”

Shao Ming thought for a moment. ”My legs are numb.”

Someone laughed out loud, and the tension under the eaves dissolved. The woman laughed too, then pulled her fallen scarf back up to her chin. ”Numb legs are good. Numb legs mean you earned it sitting.”

Shao Ming stepped out from the threshold and stood in the middle of the front courtyard. He pressed his palms together and bowed to the row of people. ”Thank you for standing here all day.”

Not one person under the eaves could find a reply. Someone started to raise a hand, then let it drop. The one whoʼd earlier said ”itʼll fall apart” lowered his head and squeezed out from the crowd, walking to the very front.

”How did you do it?” someone in the crowd asked.

Shao Ming thought about it. ”I donʼt know. It just went through on its own this time.” The questioner wanted to press further, but Shao Ming had already turned away, looking through the two doors of the Main Hall toward the row of ancestral tablets in the Ancestral Hall, and said nothing more.

Lu Shoutian walked to the edge of the Mountain Gate and turned back. ”Next time something like this happens, say so earlier. The market folk like to come watch, and they like hearing some certainty.”

”If we said anything earlier,” Xu Yan said, ”weʼd just be making promises on his behalf.”

”Plenty of people like hearing promises.” Lu Shoutian carried his sack out the gate, walked two steps, then added, ”They watch, but they donʼt make promises.”

Not yet You Hour, and the front courtyard was empty. A layer of footprints in the snow ran from in front of the Main Hall all the way to the Mountain Gate. Shi Po came out from the rear corridor, first wiping the hand heʼd been clenching all day against his front placket, then gathering up the prayer cushion from before the Ancestral Hall, brushing off the snow, and standing it against the wall by the steps. Qi Qi, whoʼd been standing by the Mountain Gate all this while, finally tossed the pebble heʼd been holding down the slope.

At the Mountain Gate, Nie Bo swept the water under the footprints to both sides of the path with his broom, all the way to the end of the stone steps, then leaned on the broom and rested for a moment.

First, the smoke from the kitchen rose. By Dog hour, the table had been set in the Main Hall.

The pot held plain rice tonight, not the usual watery porridge. An extra plate sat in the middle of the table: stir-fried dried mushrooms, gathered from the Back Mountain in autumn and dried under the eaves. Qian Duoduo set the plate down carefully and wiped his hands on his apron. ”Just this one plate. No more where that came from.”

A He tipped half the mushrooms from his bowl into A Suiʼs. A Sui tipped one back. The two of them huddled over the same bowl, dividing it. Huo Qing picked up his bowl and ate faster than anyone, finishing and stacking his empty bowl by the kitchen door.

Shao Ming ate slowly, chewing each mouthful for a long time. Qian Duoduo glanced at him twice, then pushed the plate of mushrooms a little closer to him. Shao Ming took one chopstick-full, then pushed the plate back to the center.

”All ten times,” he said suddenly, ”I remember the day of every one of them.”

No one at the table answered. He lowered his head and went back to eating. A Sui opened her mouth as if to ask which day, but A He kicked her under the table and she swallowed the words.

Cheng Banshan slid the wine gourd over. ”You can have a sip today.”

Shao Ming took it and wet his lips. The burn made him cough twice. He pushed the gourd back. ”Elder Cheng first.”

Cheng Banshan took a long drink and pressed the stopper back in. As he set the gourd down, he glanced at Xu Yan.

Xu Yan was just setting down his bowl. His fingertip pressed against the tabletop for an instant, then lifted. Cheng Banshan had been looking at that. He drew his eyes back, slid the gourd to the other end of the table, and asked nothing.

”Three months.” Qian Duoduo lowered his voice. ”Uncle Shao canʼt fight for three months? But if someone comes knocking—”

”If someone comes, Iʼll handle it,” Jiang Wan said.

”Then what do I do?” Qian Duoduo asked.

”Cook your meals,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Thatʼs what this mountain needs.”

Qian Duoduo froze, let out a ”heh,” and bent over his bowl, his chopsticks clattering against the rim.

Bai Xiaoman set her chopsticks down. ”During those three months, can he help watch the furnace?”

”He can watch,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Watching a furnace doesnʼt take strength.”

In his mind, Xu Yan recorded this day as a single line: Twelfth Month, Twelfth Day, Uncle Shao reached Foundation Establishment. This line cost no spirit stones.

The meal finished, the bowls cleared away. There was no wind under the veranda, and the snowmelt dripping from the eaves had slowed.

Xu Yan stood under the veranda, hands tucked into his sleeves. Jiang Wan came out of the Main Hall and leaned against the opposite pillar, sword at her waist, glancing at him.

”Ninth Layer.”

”Mm.”

She pressed her hand to the sword hilt, then headed toward the East Courtyard.