My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 107: The Lot Tube

On the nineteenth day of the second month, at the Dragon hour, the lime lines on the martial arena were freshly painted.

Four rings were drawn side by side on the rammed earth, the lines a finger wide, blindingly white. To the north stood a wooden platform, its surface planked, raised two steps above the ground. Two clerks were pacing out the rings: one walked, the other counted behind him, and when they reached the far side of a ring the walker stopped, turned, called out ”three zhang,” and moved on to the next.

The fieldʼs edge was packed with people. Their clothes were a mix of colors—green, gray, earthy yellow—except for the eastern group, all in identical crimson, standing in a cluster with an iron staff planted upright in their midst. The six from Qingya squeezed in on the west side; Shi Po gathered the remaining flatbreads at his feet, his eyes fixed on the rings.

Bai Xiaoman was counting the grid squares on the ground, her finger tapping inside her sleeve, mouthing a number with each tap.

”These four rings—same size?” Qi Qi asked.

”Same number of steps,” Xu Yan said.

Wen Su went up the platformʼs side, sat down in the center, and opened a thin booklet across her lap. She did not look at the people along the fieldʼs edge; she looked at the rings first—left to right, one by one—then closed the booklet. Four ring judges stood below the platform, lined up in a row, their robes starched flat, hands hanging at their sides.

Qi Qi leaned his head in, lips barely moving. ”Sect Master. Second from the left.”

Xu Yan looked. The one standing second had a left shoulder lower than his right, a tuft of short whiskers on his chin, and was lowering his head to turn a page in the roster he held. Xu Yan glanced once, then moved his eyes back to the rings.

Jiang Wan saw it too, and after looking, turned her attention to the roster on the platform. She did not look that way again.

The field quieted. A clerk set up a long table in front of the platform, and on the table placed a bamboo tube. Bamboo tallies stood upright in the tube, their tops jutting out evenly, each carved with a number. Another clerk opened his register and held his brush above the page, motionless.

Wen Su spoke. Her voice was not loud, but everyone on the field heard it: ”In order of registration. Whatever number you draw is your number. No exchanges after drawing.”

”Qingya.”

As Xu Yan walked over, several eyes followed him. The walk was not long, but he knew someone behind him muttered half a sentence, and someone laughed—quietly. He did not turn around.

The bamboo tube was heavier than he expected. He reached in, his fingers touching the tally tips, pushed aside the top two, and drew one out.

”Number seven,” the clerk announced.

The tally was carved with seven notches, one pressed over the next. Xu Yan handed it back; the clerk took it and entered it in the register: Qingya, number seven. He finished writing and looked up. ”Next.”

Xu Yan stepped back and stood off to the side of the table, not leaving. The second sect to come forward sent a short steward, who drew and announced ”number one.” The brush recorded it: Cloud Terrace Sect. The next several sects drew in succession, and the numbers fell into the register one by one—fifteen, three, ten.

When the sixth drew, the man announced ”number five,” and the brush noted: Willow Bank Gate.

After that, the steward from the sect across from Qingya reached into the tube, and as he drew his hand out, his thumb wiped across the tallyʼs face before he handed it over.

”Number eight,” the clerk read. ”Ink Pool Gate.”

The steward turned. Xu Yan recognized him—the one who had sat in the farthest chair in the Branch office on the third day of the second month, who had not opened his mouth the entire time. The two glanced at each other across the long table. Neither nodded.

Halfway through the drawing, a man stepped out from the crimson group. Ge Song came forward, drew a tally, looked at it himself, and handed it to the clerk: ”Number eleven.”

”Chixiao, number eleven,” the clerk read, then wrote it down.

”Number twelve,” the next sectʼs steward said.

”Jade Spring Sect, number twelve.”

Xu Yan filed those two numbers together in his mind. Jade Spring Sect—the objection copy delivered up the mountain on the first day of the second month had carried four signatures at the end: Ink Pool Gate, Jade Spring Sect, Azure Brook Sect, all among them. Now eleven and twelve sat side by side. On the twentieth, at the Wei hour, those two would fight in the same ring.

Others on the field were working it out too. A few stewards exchanged low words; no one on the Chixiao side responded. Ge Song stepped back and smoothed his sleeves.

When the last tallies were drawn, the clerk copied the sixteen sectsʼ numbers onto a large sheet of paper, spread paste on it, and posted it on the wall at the side of the platform. He stepped back two paces; a gust lifted one corner of the paper, and it settled back down.

Bai Xiaoman pressed in under the wall, her eyes traveling down the paper line by line, then returned to the west side and dropped her voice as low as it would go: ”Number one, Cloud Terrace Sect, against number two. Three against four. Five, Willow Bank Gate, against six.”

”Seven, eight,” Qi Qi picked up.

”Weʼre against Ink Pool Gate,” Bai Xiaoman said. ”Eleven, Chixiao, against twelve, Jade Spring Sect. Fifteen, Azure Brook Sect, against sixteen.”

When Jiang Wan heard it, she merely hitched her sword higher on her shoulder.

Up on the platform, Wen Su opened the thin booklet and read aloud, quickly, one clause at a time, then stopped:

”On the twentieth, at the Snake hour, numbers one through eight, all four rings open at once. One and two in Ring One, three and four in Ring Two, five and six in Ring Three, seven and eight in Ring Four.”

”At the Wei hour, numbers nine through sixteen. Nine and ten in Ring One, eleven and twelve in Ring Two, thirteen and fourteen in Ring Three, fifteen and sixteen in Ring Four.”

”On the twenty-third, at the Snake hour, four matches open together. The winner of Ring One faces the winner of Ring Two, in Ring One; the winner of Ring Three faces the winner of Ring Four, in Ring Two. After that, the numbering follows upward.”

She paused. ”Four ring judges, one per ring, no changes through the first two rounds. Ring One, Ring Three, Ring Four—three stewards. Ring Two—” she raised her eyes to the platformʼs base. ”Steward Meng Ting.”

The second man at the platformʼs base answered, ”Present.” His voice was flat, neither long nor short.

Xu Yanʼs fingers pinched together inside his sleeve. The winner of seven-eight would enter Ring Two on the twenty-third. To fight through to the next round, they would have to win in that manʼs ring.

Jiang Wan was calculating too. She finished, turned her eyes over, and said one sentence: ”Twenty-third. Ring Two.”

”Yeah,” Xu Yan said.

She pulled her eyes back.

The clerk came down with two stacks of paper, one for each sect. The sheets were blank, printed with horizontal lines—five rows in all—each row headed with a match number. He placed two sheets into Xu Yanʼs hands: ”One per round. Write the sect name, write the round number, then Match One through Match Five with five names. Fold it when youʼre done, write the sect name on the seal, and hand it to your ringʼs judge before the match starts. He opens it in front of everyone and reads it out.”

”Can it be changed after itʼs read?” Qi Qi asked.

”Once submitted, no changes,” the clerk said. ”Itʼs set when you hand it in. Swapping someone counts as forfeit.”

Qi Qi shut his mouth.

When the assembly broke up, the crowd scattered in all directions. Bai Xiaoman did not follow. She circled around to Ring Four, crouched down at its edge, and pressed her palm against the earth inside the ring. She held it there a moment, then scooped up a pinch of dirt and rubbed it between her fingers. Shi Po stood behind her, blocking the wind for her.

”Hard,” she said.

”Hard is good,” Shi Po said.

”Hard makes noise,” she said, brushing the dirt from her hand. ”Noise I know. Soft dirt I havenʼt felt yet.”

Xu Yan stood outside the ring waiting for her. The lime lines of the rings gleamed in the fresh light, three zhang of open ground between one ring and the next—not a single blade of grass in it.

They were back at the guest quarters by midday. The six ate flatbread with hot water. Shi Po finished his portion and stayed seated, unmoving, eyes on the small patch of the arenaʼs white visible through the window.

They went nowhere that afternoon. Qi Qi split firewood in the courtyard, pile after pile, until the stack beside the water stove reached waist height. Huo Qing took his sword down from the wall, ran through it once in his hand, and hung it back up. Jiang Wan sat at the edge of the bed, sword laid across her knees, counting the wrappings on the scabbard one by one with her finger.

Night fell, lamps lit, the Dog hour.

Xu Yan moved the table under the lamp, spread out the two blank sheets—one tucked under the pocket ledger, the other smoothed flat before him. He got a dish of water, ground the ink, and set the brush to the paper. He wrote slowly.

Sect: Qingya. Round One.

Match One, Shi Po. Match Two, Bai Xiaoman. Match Three, Qi Qi. Match Four, Huo Qing. Match Five, Jiang Wan.

When he finished, he set the brush down and turned the sheet around for everyone to see.

”Ink Pool Gate is Ninth Rank,” he said. ”A Ninth Rank sect—anyone at Foundation Establishment is already a steward or elder. The roster lists Qi Condensation. All five of them are Qi Condensation.”

”First to win three matches takes it.” He tapped the paper three times with his finger. ”The first three, each playing to their strengths. Three matches are enough.”

”Shi Po, youʼre Match One. Donʼt leave the ring, donʼt fall, donʼt concede, and the incense keeps burning. When it burns out, the judge rules for the one holding the ring—your feet in the circle, you still standing. Thatʼs you.”

Shi Po nodded once. ”Hold the ring.”

”Bai Xiaoman, Match Two. When they chase you, donʼt race them. Retreat around the ringʼs center, and with each step back, place one stone. Once all four are down, draw them into the small circle and throw the fifth one in.” Xu Yan looked at her. ”How long can you last?”

”Half an incense stick,” Bai Xiaoman said.

”Then you have to draw them in before that.”

”Depends how fast he chases.”

”Qi Qi, Match Three. Donʼt think about winning. Lead them back and forth inside the ring. If they come at you with a long weapon, hug the line and circle. Every time they lunge at air, their feet take half a step farther.” He paused. ”You stay one step off that line.”

Qi Qi opened and closed his hand on the bed. ”What if I step out first?”

”Then you lose.”

”Then I wonʼt,” Qi Qi said. ”Iʼll try staying one step off.”

”Huo Qing.” Xu Yan raised his eyes to the fourth row. ”Match Four.”

Huo Qingʼs right hand hung still at his side; his left pressed on the sword. ”One strike.”

”One strike,” Xu Yan said. ”That one thrust, in the whole incense stickʼs time. Then pull it back. Nothing else.”

The room went quiet for a moment.

”The last two.” Xu Yan picked up the brush and set the tip above the fifth row. ”Four and five arenʼt idle. If the first three win, thereʼs no fifth match. Matches Four and Five—we donʼt show anyone a single move.”

He raised his head and looked at Jiang Wan. ”After Ink Pool Gate comes Willow Bank Gate. In the five-six pairing, six is Ninth Rank; Willow Bank Gate is Eighth Rank. On the twenty-third, itʼll most likely be Willow Bank Gate.”

”Fifth,” Jiang Wan said.

She pressed her finger onto the name in the fifth row, held it there a moment, and looked up at Xu Yan: ”If the fifth match ever comes.”

”If the fifth match ever comes,” Xu Yan said, ”it means the first three lost two.”

Jiang Wan looked at the sheet for a long while.

”Then donʼt lose two,” she said.

”Right.”

”And if they do lose two,” she drew her hand back, ”I go up.”

”Then you go up.”

Qi Qi was chewing flatbread on the far side of the bed. He swallowed his words and did not interrupt.

Xu Yan folded the sheet in half along the center line, then again, into a strip. He turned the sealed side up, dipped the brush in ink, and wrote out the Qingya sect name stroke by stroke. When he finished, he set the brush down and pressed the folded sheet under the stone base of the lamp. The stone held the paperʼs corner down. The corner lay flat and obedient.

”What about the second sheet?” Qi Qi asked.

”That one—the second round—we write on the twenty-second,” Xu Yan said. ”Who knows whoʼll be across from us on the twenty-third.”

He blew out one of the lamp wicks. The room dimmed a layer.

On the far side of the bed, Bai Xiaoman sat cross-legged. She drew the handkerchief from inside her clothes, untied it, and spilled five pebbles onto the coarse cloth. She arranged them one by one into a row, counted them with her fingertip, pressed her palm to her knee when she finished, then counted again from the start. On the second count, she picked up the middle pebble, brought it to her ear, and flicked the surface twice with a fingernail, listening to something, before setting it back down.

Shi Po sat beside her, chin propped on one hand, watching her arrange them.