My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 119: The Two Entries of the Yin Hour

In the Yin hour, the lamp in the East Courtyard had burned down to a wick no longer than a finger.

Jiang Wan sat cross-legged on the quilt pad, the medicine cloth bound from her shoulder all the way down past her waist. It wasnʼt wrapped tight—every breath loosened it a little. All night that qi had been slamming through her meridians, and wherever it slammed, it swelled; when it slammed into the flesh of her back, it burned in waves. She kept pressing at it, pressing until the sweat from her back soaked through the medicine cloth, plastering it to her skin. It cooled, then heated again.

Sheʼd tried several times through the night. Press down hard, and the qi sank lower, down to her waist, then suddenly scattered outward under both ribs, scattering until her vision went white. Loosen it, and the qi shot back up to crash into the hollow of her shoulder. She clenched her teeth, held her shoulders still, and only the flesh of her back twitched on its own.

She remembered Cheng Banshanʼs words: if you can hold it down, hold it; if you canʼt, donʼt force it—follow where it goes.

She lowered her hands from her knees.

The qi didnʼt rush outward. It traveled a full circuit through her meridians. It reached her back, burned hot there for a moment, then passed on. It reached below her shoulder, and the ache made half her body feel heavy. The second circuit went faster. On the third, it came to that pass above her navel, and the qi surged upward against it, surging until her head bowed.

Sheʼd meant to press it back. Her hand lifted halfway, then fell.

So the qi surged up—once, twice—like someone inside ramming a door with a shoulder. On the third push, that place loosened, and the qi poured through. Her meridians widened a span all at once. Jiang Wan sat there and heard herself exhale, the sound so long it didnʼt feel like her own.

The pain in her back was still there, and sharper now. Before it had been a blur of scalding heat. Now she could separate it out: the shoulder ached worst, below that a crack of pain ran down to her shoulder blade, and lower still it eased somewhat. She kept her head down, waiting for this wave of pain to pass, and once it passed, the qi settled into a steady circuit through her meridians—calm, no longer crashing.

The window paper turned gray-white with dawn. She tucked the medicine cloth back into place, stood up, and when her feet touched the floor she felt light all over—light in a way that didnʼt feel quite real.

In the Accounts Room, a lamp still burned.

Xu Yan sat at the desk, the account ledger spread open in his hands. The flame suddenly stood straight up—perfectly upright, without a flicker.

[Credit: Jiang Wan, Mid-Foundation Establishment.]

[Balance: Sect Master, Early Foundation Establishment.]

That surge of spiritual power rose from below, reached the dantian first, then spread through the meridians, and wherever it traveled, it filled the empty places. In the years of Qi Condensation, qi had floated upward layer by layer, pressing against the top. This time it sank to the bottom, settled, steadied, then rose to lift him again—up to his chest, up under his throat—before slowly settling back.

Outside the window paper, the first gray of dawn was showing. He didnʼt stand. He pressed one hand on the ledger, fingertips bearing down on that line, pressing a small white mark into the paper.

Under the corner of the desk lay last nightʼs slip, with the entry for the twenty-ninth of the second month still there: On the mountain road, one talisman, no proof.

He sat there, closed the ledger, opened it again to look once more, then closed it and tucked it back into his clothes, and blew out the lamp.

At the Mao hour, Cheng Banshan came over from the Medicine Hall, carrying a medicine pot in one hand, his empty sleeve tucked behind his waist. He stopped outside the East Courtyard gate and didnʼt step in.

”Broken through?” he said. ”The part on your back, or the part inside.”

Jiang Wan walked to the threshold and held out her left wrist.

Cheng Banshan set the medicine pot down on the doorstep, pressed two fingers to the pulse, felt it, then moved to another spot and pressed again.

”The pulse is thicker than last night,” he said. ”What about the back?”

”It hurts. Worse than last night. The shoulder hurts the worst.”

”Pain is good.” He picked up the medicine pot. ”The inside has opened up, so the outside hurts clearly. Itʼs only the first night for this wound—the swelling hasnʼt reached the shoulder blade yet, it still feels hard to the touch. You are not to unwrap it yourself today, and not to press on it. Have Bai Xiaoman change the dressing. And when she does, donʼt let the cloth air out in the wind.”

”How many days to close.”

”Thatʼs according to your pulse.” Cheng Banshan said. ”Your pulse decides. My medicine doesnʼt.”

Jiang Wan answered with a sound and drew her hand back. He turned and walked out, and at the courtyard gate came upon Xu Yan standing there.

Xu Yan had a dark line under each eye, was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, sleeves rolled up. Cheng Banshan studied him for a long moment, even more carefully than heʼd felt that pulse.

”Little Xu,” he said. ”You broke through too.”

”Mm.”

Xu Yan stood there, waiting for the question to come. Cheng Banshan didnʼt ask. His gaze shifted once to the door of the East Courtyard, then returned.

”Two in one night.” Cheng Banshan raised the medicine pot to his shoulder. ”The Medicine Hallʼs charcoal is saved, at least.”

He took two steps, stopped, looked back at Xu Yan once more, asked nothing, and went toward the Medicine Hall.

At the Chen hour, they ate breakfast in the Main Hall. Qian Duoduo brewed a large pot of porridge, paired with coarse grain cakes left over from the second month. Twelve people crowded around two tables, and the steam rose up to cloud the windows with another layer of moisture.

Cheng Banshan picked up his bowl, then set it down again.

”Iʼll say this now,” he said. ”Jiang Wan, no touching a sword for fifteen days.”

”The third day of the third month,” Jiang Wan said.

”I know itʼs the third of the third.” Cheng Banshan said. ”The moment you lift a sword and raise that shoulder, the flesh of your back tears open. Your realm has risen, but skin and flesh havenʼt. If you take it seriously, itʼll hold. Tear it open once, and all these days of healing are wasted.”

Xu Yan said, ”There are three days until the third of the third.”

Jiang Wan set her cake back on the rim of her bowl. ”I can stand.”

The table went silent all at once. Shi Poʼs chopsticks froze on the edge of his bowl. Qian Duoduoʼs ladle hung motionless over the pot. A Sui opened her mouth to speak and A He yanked her sleeve.

Xu Yan didnʼt answer right away. He first moved the old account pages aside on the table, then looked up.

”The rules donʼt allow substitutions,” he said. ”The five names submitted are one and the same as those verified by the Branch against the rating register and written into the entry slips. They canʼt be changed and canʼt be swapped. For the bout no one can stand, forfeiture.”

”Forfeit.” Jiang Wan bit out the word.

”Your bout, forfeit.”

Bai Xiaoman was counting on her fingers at the side, stopped at the third, and couldnʼt hold back. ”Five bouts, forfeit one, leaving four. Out of four we have to win three.” She finished the arithmetic and looked up. ”Lose two out of four and itʼs two-three. Then weʼre finished.”

Qi Qi said, ”Of Chixiaoʼs five, the foremost one is toughest.”

Huo Qing didnʼt raise his eyes. ”Theyʼll put their foremost in the final slot.”

”If heʼs in the last slot, then that incense stick comes down to the one that decides the match.” Xu Yan said. ”On our side, the final slot goes to someone who can wait.”

Shi Po drained the last half-bowl of porridge and set the bowl down. ”Forfeit one bout—mine still stands.”

Shao Ming smiled, without much flavor. ”I donʼt come of age until the twelfth of the third month. And even then it wouldnʼt matter—my name isnʼt on the list.”

”Eat your food,” Cheng Banshan said.

”The lineup sheet,” Jiang Wan said.

”Drawn after the lots at the Chen hour on the third of the third, filled in before the ring judge.” Xu Yan said. ”Not today.”

”The forfeited bout—whose name goes on it.”

”Yours.” Xu Yan said. ”All five names from the entry slips must appear. That bout goes up under your name, ruled a loss, credited to the opposing side.”

Jiang Wan set her chopsticks down flat, planted her hands on the table edge, and stood. She stood very steady; the side of her body that had listed last night didnʼt list now.

”Put my name down. Ruled a loss.”

She walked toward the East Courtyard, and at the door turned back to ask one more thing: ”Who changes the dressing.”

”Bai Xiaoman,” Cheng Banshan said.

Bai Xiaoman answered quickly, ”Iʼll do it. When I change it Iʼll stand beside her with the lamp so she doesnʼt unwrap it herself.”

At the Si hour, Shao Ming went down the mountain to the market with Qian Duoduo, Du Xiaochuan, A He, and A Sui. Qian Duoduo wrapped that pot of spirit meal in thick cloth and hung it behind the carrying pole, swaying with every step. A He clutched the old cloth pouch of Qi-Gathering Powder, its bottom sewn up twice, the stitches crooked. A Sui ran empty-handed at the front, running ahead a stretch and doubling back to ask Shao Ming if there was anyone selling candy at the town market.

The stall still stood by the third pillar along the market wall. The thirtieth-day fair, and the crowd was thick. The moment the potʼs lid came off, white steam surged up, and twenty bowls sold faster than the previous market day. The Qi-Gathering Powder was gone by around noon—ten bottles. Left on the ground were empty bowls and bamboo tallies.

Lu Shoutian strolled over for a look. ”Donʼt set the pot up in the middle of the road.” Qian Duoduo repeated ”understood” several times and moved the pot half a chi inward.

When they packed up, A Sui crouched on the ground gathering bamboo tallies and suddenly asked, ”Whenʼs Qi Qi-ge going to Linchuan?”

”The second,” Qian Duoduo said.

”He said thereʼs a stone by the city gate you can pick at.”

”Remembering.” Du Xiaochuan tied the pouch tight. ”He never forgets a thing heʼs mentioned.”

At the Wei hour, the five returned to the mountain. Qian Duoduo poured seventy spirit stones into the cloth sack in the kitchen, counting them one by one, twice. Du Xiaochuan went to the grain shop to replenish the spirit rice for the next market day: five stones.

At the Shen hour, the Accounts Room.

Xu Yan recorded the dayʼs income and expenditure in Qingyaʼs ledger: seventy in, five out, and after that a small line of notes—spirit rice for the fifth-day fair of the third month.

When he finished, he set the brush down, started a new line, and wrote another entry:

Second month, day thirty. Jiang Wanʼs bout, forfeited.

There was no amount after this line. He looked at it for a while, pressed the page into the ledger, and smoothed the edge with his finger.

The sound of a sword rose from the courtyard. One long, one short—again, and again.

Xu Yan raised his head. It was from the wooden target by the veranda. Huo Qing had been training since right after breakfast. His right shoulder stayed low; the tendons on the back of his left hand stood out cord by cord. When he thrust, the foot moved first; when he recovered, the heel came back to its original spot.

Somewhere along the way Jiang Wan had appeared at the far end of the veranda. She still wore that old jacket over her shoulders. She had no sword with her; both hands were tucked inside her sleeves as she watched Huo Qing.

Around his dozen-plus thrust, she spoke: ”The shoulder still moves first.”

He stopped, drew his foot back half an inch, and thrust again.

”Like this?”

”Like that, they wonʼt see it,” Jiang Wan said.

Huo Qing didnʼt turn around, just ran the next thrust through again. The only sounds beneath the eaves were two sword-notes, long and short, one round after another.

At the You hour, the sun dropped behind the Back Mountain. The courtyard wallʼs shadow stretched from the east all the way to the steps, splitting them half light, half dark.

Jiang Wan sat on the bright half. The old jacketʼs sleeves hung half a chi past her hands. Her sword lay across her knees in its sheath, one hand pressed over the sheathʼs mouth.

Xu Yan came over from the Main Hall and stopped at the courtyard gate. The step-stones had lain in the sun all day and were still warm.

”I havenʼt drawn the sword,” she said.

”Iʼll remember.”

”Fifteen days.” She looked down at the sword on her knees. ”I can count.”

Xu Yan said nothing more and went toward the Accounts Room. After walking a stretch, he looked back. She was still sitting there, head bowed, the old jacketʼs sleeves hanging long, covering the hand pressed over the sheathʼs mouth.

The lamps in the front courtyard came on one by one. Cooking smoke slanted up and spread from the kitchen. The strip of light on the East Courtyard steps narrowed slowly, narrowed to a line. She went on sitting there, the sword in its sheath, across her knees, undrawn.