My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 122: The Sealed Lineup Sheet

Huo Qing paused in front of the combatantsʼ bench.

He lifted his eyes toward the east viewing stand. In the easternmost chair sat Wei Changge, sword slung across his back, the wrapping cloth tied in two knots with the ends hanging behind his shoulder. The man wasnʼt looking this way. His eyes were fixed on the empty ground inside the ring, nowhere near the direction Huo Qing had raised his head. The row of seats in front of him sat empty all the way to the standʼs edge. Loud as the arena was, no one had moved into that space.

Huo Qing sat down, unstrapped his sword from his back, and laid it across his knees. Both hands rested on the sheath. He did not look up again.

Shi Po sat down beside him, on the outermost seat, one leg stretched past the bench and blocking half the walkway. Bai Xiaoman lifted the cloth bundle of banners off her shoulder and held it in her arms. She loosened one corner, felt inside, pressed a finger against the paper layered between the four banners, then tied it shut again. Qi Qi stood at the end of the bench, gaze drifting east again and again, looking away each time.

”Who are those people?” Bai Xiaoman asked.

”Observers,” Qi Qi said. ”The east row is reserved for them.”

”Why is there only one?”

”Only one came.”

At the north end of the arena stood the judging platform, raised a step higher. A long table sat atop it. To the left, a clerk flipped through the Ratings Register; to the right, another clerk guarded the wooden box holding the Branch Seal. Below the platform, four ring judges stood at their posts. Meng Ting was at the front; the other three stood farther apart, all in identical gray-green robes, none of them speaking. The ring was still three zhang across, the white line freshly drawn, water still pressed into it. Before the sun rose it looked pale green; only a footprint revealed the white beneath.

Qi Qi tilted his chin toward the far side of the ring. ”Five from Chixiao. Only four sitting on that bench.”

”Zhou Kuiʼs standing,” Shi Po said.

”His staff head is wrapped in cloth,” Qi Qi said. ”Last time he hit the stone post, the staff head was wrapped too.”

Below the west viewing stand, Jiang Wan stopped for a moment, one hand on the wooden railing.

”Go up and sit,” Xu Yan said.

”Iʼm sitting,” Jiang Wan said.

”Donʼt come down by yourself when itʼs over. Shi Po will come get you.”

”Just fight your fights,” she said. ”I can see fine from here.”

Shi Po walked over, moved an empty prayer cushion half a step from the steps to clear her path, then stood still without going up. She climbed one step at a time to the top, took a seat in the row closest to the ring where a spot had been left, and laid her sheathed sword across her knees, both hands pressed over the sheath mouth. She tugged the old jacket—its sleeves half a chi too long—up a little higher, covering the medicine cloth on her shoulder.

Voices murmured low on the viewing stand.

”Look at the one from Qingya with the medicine cloth, sitting in the very front.”

”The Senior Sister. I heard sheʼs injured.”

”Then why bother sitting up there?”

”Sitting still counts as showing up.”

Jiang Wan didnʼt turn around. Her eyes stayed on the freshly drawn white line in the ring. The morning wind came in through the east end of the arena, blowing a thin layer of loose dust off the line.

Xu Yan led Qi Qi halfway around the ring along the lime line. The southern stretch of earth was soft; his sole sank in half an inch with each step, leaving prints. The north stretch near the judging platform was packed hard and swept clean; the wind only carried a layer of dust across it. The wind came from the east, cutting diagonally through the ringʼs center. He catalogued it all in his mind and said nothing.

On the Chixiao side, Ma Ping looked toward the Qingya bench, eyes settling on Qi Qi. Qi Qi looked back. Their gazes collided halfway across the open ground. Neither moved.

At the Dragon hour, Meng Ting descended from the side of the judging platform.

He carried a lot tube in both hands. The bamboo tube was old, its mouth worn shiny. Four bamboo tallies stood upright inside, their carved heads facing outward. He walked step by step until he stood outside the lime line. The four team leaders lined up before him: Xu Yan at the west side of the ring; Ge Song directly across, hands clasped behind his back; the Cloud Terrace Sectʼs leader, lean and tall, bowing deeper than anyone when he cupped his hands; and from Azure Brook Sect an old man who stood motionless, his robe hems washed pale, both hands tucked into his sleeves.

Meng Ting raised the lot tube to shoulder height. First he turned it left, letting the Cloud Terrace and Azure Brook people see the tube mouth clearly, then right, letting Qingya and Chixiao see. All four tally heads stood facing outward without a single one out of place. His hand was steady; the tube made no sound as he lifted it.

He tipped the tube mouth downward and bounced it twice in his palm.

Two bamboo tallies jumped out and landed inside the lime line, one on top of the other.

He bent down, picked them up, matched the tally heads to the tube mouth, and read: ”Qingya. Chixiao.”

The arena went quiet for an instant. From the east viewing stand someone let out a long ”Whoa,” followed by a swell of murmuring. On the Chixiao side, Ding Zhao and Ma Ping shifted their feet. Ge Song kept his hands behind his back without moving, his face unchanged. The tall, lean Cloud Terrace leader angled his head toward the Azure Brook old man, who dipped his chin once. Up on the judging platform, Wen Su turned a page in her register without lifting her head.

He shook again. This time the tallies scattered—one bounced outside the line, and he hooked it back with his toe. He held two in his hand and read: ”Cloud Terrace Sect. Azure Brook Sect.”

At the combatantsʼ bench, Qi Qiʼs mouth fell open.

Xu Yan gave a small shake of his head.

The moment the tallies hit the ground, something in his chest knocked once and sank. Seventh day of the second month, Dog hour, that alley in the east city, the two lines spoken beneath a window: the final roundʼs draw—the Sect wanted Qingya. Heʼd heard what the draw would be once before, long ago. But heard words were not proof. Proof needed to be written, to bear a seal, to have a second person willing to stand in this arena and repeat it. He had none of that. He pulled his hand from his sleeve and let it hang at his side.

Wen Su spoke from the judging platform: ”Qingya against Chixiao, first match. Cloud Terrace against Azure Brook, second match. The two winners compete for first place at the Goat hour.”

From the row on the west stand, Jiang Wan glanced toward him.

Across half the arena, he caught that glance. He raised his chin slightly—so slight that anyone standing farther away would have missed it.

Meng Ting slid the four tallies back into the tube and raised his head: ”Lineup sheets are to be handed to the ring judges before the match begins. One per sect.”

A clerk came jogging down from the judging platform with two blank sheets, handing one to Xu Yan and one to Ge Song. The sheets were thick paper, ruled horizontally with five red grids, with ”First Round” through ”Fifth Round” printed before the lines. An inkstone was passed over as well, the ink freshly ground and gleaming wet.

Xu Yan spread the sheet flat across their bench, pinned one end with his sleeve, and knelt on one knee beside it.

The brush first wrote the sectʼs name at the top of the paper, then moved down row by row.

First round, Qi Qi.

Second round, Bai Xiaoman.

Qi Qi bent over behind him to look, his hair sweeping onto the paper until Bai Xiaoman yanked him back.

”I go first,” Qi Qi said.

”You go first,” Xu Yan said without looking up. ”The first round is to feel out the four behind it: how they inspect, how they burn the incense, how the judges rule, who speaks for whom. Watch carefully and come back with what you learned.”

”Canʼt I win my round?”

”If you can, win it,” Xu Yan set the brush down and turned around. ”If you canʼt, donʼt let him clap you on the shoulder. One hit to the shoulder and you wonʼt even be able to sit through the next four rounds.”

Qi Qiʼs mouth twisted into something like a grin, swallowing his words. ”Understood.”

”Who do you think their first round is?”

”Most likely Ma Ping,” Xu Yan said. ”Fast hands. Palm strikes that never aim at the face—he waits for you to present your shoulder.”

Qi Qi looked down at his own shoulder, lifted a hand, and pressed it.

”You circle, he wonʼt chase,” Xu Yan continued. ”He holds the center. Whichever way you circle, he cuts you off. If you circle four times and he hasnʼt moved, stop wasting energy. Find his weak point and strike. Even if you lose, make sure people see you tried.”

”Iʼll remember.”

Writing the third round, the brush point fell on ”Jiang Wan.” He only paused after finishing the name, lifting the brush to keep the ink from bleeding into the thick paper.

All five gathered behind him.

Bai Xiaoman leaned in to study the two completed rows, then said after a long while: ”Iʼm second. I can plant the banners.”

”Plant all four, light the formation, then back out.”

”I know,” she said. ”Deflected force works better than blocked force. Blocking stops the blow—deflecting it once, he throws himself off balance.”

”The steps before the formation rises matter most,” Xu Yan said. ”After each banner, step back once. Donʼt stand there watching.”

”What if he lunges?”

”Plant it anyway. If the fourth goes in the ground, get low to plant it.”

Bai Xiaoman pressed her lips together, nodded once, and hugged the cloth bundle tighter.

”Four rounds, need to win three,” she said. ”Iʼve counted four times. Discard one round; of the four left, three must be won.”

”You counted right,” Xu Yan said.

”Third round—write the Senior Sister,” Shi Po said.

”Writing it,” Xu Yan said. ”All five entries must appear. This round is forfeit, but the name goes down. The loss goes on her record.”

Shi Po looked at the name and said nothing more.

”Iʼm fourth.”

”Hold until heʼs spent,” Xu Yan said. ”One incense stick. As long as you stay in the ring and stay standing, the incense burns out and the judges rule for you. Heʼll strike again and again—you stand your pillar form and donʼt return a blow. Same as the Ninth Rank Trial on the Double Ninth, Alliance Year 300.”

”That day, after the incense burned out, he swung his staff again,” Shi Po said.

Xu Yanʼs brush paused.

”This time, when the incense is done, itʼs over,” he said. ”Before it burns out, if he hasnʼt stepped down, walk toward him. When heʼs out of strength, every step you take makes him take one back.”

”Every step.” Shi Po repeated it once. ”I remember.”

Huo Qing stood on the far edge. From the moment Xu Yan knelt to write the first row, he hadnʼt made a sound, his eyes fixed on the very bottom of the paper. When Xu Yan wrote the fifth row and the brush came to rest after ”Huo Qing,” he looked up.

”The last round is the chief fighterʼs round,” Xu Yan said. ”If Chixiao takes three of the first four, theyʼve won—so theyʼll put their hardest man at the end. Zhou Kui is in the fifth. They want that incense stick where the match is decided.”

Huo Qing stared at the row on the paper.

”Good,” he said.

Nothing more.

”If he doesnʼt come at you, let him press you,” Xu Yan went on. ”Save that move youʼve been drilling. Save it until the force in his hands breaks.”

”I know when it breaks,” Huo Qing said.

”Shi Po is on the outside,” Xu Yan lifted the sheet from the bench. ”The three of you stay seated here. Donʼt get up.”

The sheet folded in half, then half again, then in thirds. He pressed each fold flat, blowing the ink dry inside so the seal wouldnʼt smear when closed. The clerk offered a small dish of paste, and Xu Yan dabbed it along the sealed edge with a finger, pressed it down firmly, and wrote the sectʼs name across the seal.

At the ring, Ge Song had already folded Chixiaoʼs sheet and stood waiting outside the lime line.

Xu Yan stood and walked to the ringʼs edge.

”Qingya Sectʼs lineup sheet.”

Meng Ting took it. Both sheets were now in his hand—one corner labeled Qingya Sect, the other Chixiao—equally thick, equally sealed. He squared the two sheets together, then, without looking at Xu Yan, glanced east.

On the Chixiao bench, Ge Song had already sat down. Four men seated; only Zhou Kui still stood, his iron staff propped at his foot, the cloth around its head still unwrapped.