My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 126: Huo Qingʼs Left Hand

Huo Qing held his left hand out in front of Meng Ting. Meng Ting pressed two fingers to his wrist, then looked up at his face, then at his neck. Huo Qingʼs face was pale, and his neck was clean—nothing there. Meng Ting said, ”Pass.”

Zhou Kui had been checked first. He was already standing inside the ring with his staff in hand, the tip hovering half a foot off the ground, the collar of his crimson robe still standing upright. Huo Qing drew his sword from the wooden scabbard, tucked the scabbard into his belt, then stuffed his right sleeve into his belt too, pinning that arm against his side so it wouldnʼt swing as he moved. That done, he stepped into the lime line.

The clerk struck a fire starter and lit an incense stick, planting it in the bronze incense holder at the ringʼs edge. The tip glowed red, and the smoke rose straight up, only beginning to scatter halfway into the air.

The ring was three zhang across. Zhou Kui stamped his staff against the ground once, a dull thud, dirt squeezing up half a fingerʼs height around the base, then started toward Huo Qing.

The first strike came down from above, aimed at his shoulder. Huo Qing sidestepped half a pace to the right, his heel landing and pulling back as the staff slashed down past his left shoulder and struck the dirt, kicking a thin line of white powder off the lime line. Someone in the stands shouted approval—the Chixiao section—and another voice added, ”Pin him down.”

The second strike swept horizontally at his waist, faster than the first. Huo Qing ducked, and the staff passed over the back of his head, the wind of it blowing the hair from his forehead to one side. He didnʼt raise his sword to meet the staff. The tip hung down, a handspan from the ground, following his feet as he moved.

The third strike chased his feet, staying low. The staff head scraped across the dirt, kicking up a trail of loose topsoil. Huo Qing backed away to the south end, his heel pressing onto the lime line, then pulled back half a step. Zhou Kui didnʼt chase him to the line. He stopped, drew the staff back, and waited for Huo Qing to come out from the edge on his own.

In the combatantsʼ bench, Xu Yan counted the strikes in his head. On the third, he lifted his hand from his knee, then put it back. Zhou Kui never shouted a word, just kept swinging, one strike after another, every one of them carrying the intent to press a man down—faster and heavier than the Nine-Rank Trial on the ninth day of the ninth month, Alliance Year 300. That day, it was Shi Po whoʼd lasted a full incense stick in the ring, and heʼd done it by standing still. Huo Qing couldnʼt stand still. He had to give way, and after giving way he had to come back to where heʼd been—a three-zhang ring didnʼt leave room to retreat too far and still have a way back.

For half a year, Huo Qing had practiced that one thrust and one withdrawal under the veranda against a wooden target. A wooden target didnʼt move and didnʼt hit back. This staff did. When it came down, it carried a manʼs weight behind it, and after it landed it dragged to one side, herding a man toward the line. Every time Huo Qing gave way, his feet landed back on the same patches of dirt heʼd worn down before—not one extra step.

Fourth strike, fifth—one swept at his knees, one pressed in at his waist. The sixth came down at his head. Huo Qing turned his body, letting the staff pass by his ear, shifted half a pace left, then pulled his foot back. On the seventh, Zhou Kui changed his approach, flicking the staff tip up at Huo Qingʼs ankle, trying to lift his foot past the line. Huo Qing pulled that leg up, hopped once on the other foot, and landed still inside the ring. The eighth was a sweep, the ninth switched back to a straight downward blow. Every time Zhou Kui missed, someone in the stands called out the next strike for him—”low left,” ”right side”—more urgent than Zhou Kui himself. Nine strikes, and Huo Qing hadnʼt met a single one. His sword blade didnʼt even have dust on it.

Someone in the stands said, ”The one Heavenly Sword Sect threw out—he can sure dodge.”

The words werenʼt loud. Whether Huo Qing heard them, his face didnʼt show.

Jiang Wan sat in the front row of the west stands, her sword across her knees, still sheathed. She wasnʼt watching Zhou Kuiʼs staff. She was watching Huo Qingʼs feet.

Around the tenth strike, Huo Qing was forced to the ringʼs edge a second time. This time he turned sideways first, letting the staff pass across his chest, then lifted his foot and walked toward the center of the ring, his heel scraping along the inner side of the lime line for two inches before he came clear. Someone in the stands made a surprised sound, like they hadnʼt expected him to get out. Zhou Kui pulled the staff back, spun it half a turn in his hand, changed his grip, and glanced at the patch of dirt near Huo Qingʼs feet.

The next strike came from the side—and landed on his hanging right arm.

That arm couldnʼt lift to begin with. The staff pressed into it, and the whole arm flew out sideways, pulling his body to the left. Huo Qingʼs left foot shot out in a big step, and by the time it landed it was already pressing on the lime line—but the half of his foot inside the line held. The man didnʼt fall. In the Chixiao section, someone was already on their feet, shouting ”Heʼs out!”—shouting it loud, for Meng Ting to hear.

Meng Ting didnʼt speak. He stood on the north side of the ring, his eyes on the line beneath Huo Qingʼs foot. He looked for a moment, then looked away.

Huo Qing pulled his left foot back inside the line, settled his shoulders back into place, as if heʼd only ever taken half a step. His right arm hung down again, the sleeve sliding down another inch, a hint of bruise showing beneath. Shi Po stood up on the combatantsʼ bench, stood there for a moment, then sat back down.

Zhou Kui came in with a follow-up. The staff dropped from above; Huo Qing dodged, and it smashed into the spot where heʼd just been standing, punching a hole in the dirt. After the strike, Zhou Kui glanced at the incense stick by the ringʼs edge.

It had burned past half. The ash had fallen in a long section. Someone in the stands urged, ”Two more hits and itʼs done.” Others had gone quiet, watching the two men in the ring, one pressing forward, one giving ground. The one pressing was working harder with every swing. The one retreating was still retreating.

Zhou Kui suddenly spoke. ”How much longer can you keep dodging?”

Huo Qing didnʼt answer. He shifted left half a foot and let the staff pass.

Zhou Kuiʼs ears went red. First the ears, then his whole face, then the neck below the crimson collar—red as the collar itself, visible only from the side. He kept swinging, one strike after another, his form unbroken, but his breathing had grown heavy. When the staff landed, his shoulders sank with it, and when he pulled the head out of the dirt, he dragged up more than before.

Xu Yanʼs hands tightened on his knees. Everything Qi Qi had said that night on the twenty-seventh, everything Cheng Banshan had said in the Medicine Hall—at this moment, only one line mattered: borrowed strength will break, and when it breaks, itʼs empty. His instruction to Huo Qing had been exactly that—donʼt meet him while he has power. The moment he breaks, you only get one chance.

Huo Qing had stopped retreating. He was waiting.

By now, his retreating path had eaten up more than half the ring. The only ground left that he knew underfoot was the patch beside him. The staff wind swept in and he gave way; the staff landed and he waited, left foot hovering empty, heel off the ground, holding that half-step in reserve.

A strike slashed down diagonally from the upper right—and halfway through the swing, stopped in midair.

That stop wasnʼt an opening. It was Zhou Kuiʼs right hand shaking on the shaft, his wrist going soft. In that instant, Huo Qingʼs left foot was already there—half a step, no more, no less. The same half-step heʼd taught Shi Po. His left shoulder didnʼt move first. The sword didnʼt move first. His left hand simply thrust, and the sword tip went out and pierced the back of Zhou Kuiʼs staff hand. Pierced in. Blood welled up under the tip and ran down his wrist into his sleeve.

The iron staff fell from his hand, hit the ground, bounced once, and rolled half a foot.

Zhou Kui dropped to his knees, his kneecaps slamming into the dirt, right hand dangling, all five fingers spread, unable to close. Blood dripped onto the loose topsoil, dimpling it in small pits. He tried to push himself up with his left arm. It wouldnʼt straighten. He collapsed, half his face pressed into the dirt, his shoulders still heaving.

Meng Ting stood there, not speaking right away.

No one at the ringʼs edge dared rush him now. The incense kept burning, a small stub left, and it burned slow. The clerk held his brush poised over the register, waiting for the verdict. The crowdʼs eyes moved from Zhou Kui to Meng Ting, then back to Zhou Kui.

On the judging stand, Wen Su said, ”Ring judge.”

Only then did Meng Ting speak. ”Chixiaoʼs Zhou Kui is down and cannot rise. Qingyaʼs Huo Qing wins.”

The clerk pressed out the incense, opened the file copy, and recorded it stroke by stroke. Someone at the ringʼs edge muttered ”three to two.” Once it was said, no one in that section echoed it. The ones whoʼd bet on a Chixiao clean sweep in three rounds, the ones whoʼd shouted ”the Foundation Establishment cultivatorʼs too scared to fight,” the ones whoʼd said ”Qingyaʼs giving this round away”—all of them had gone quiet now. Only after a while did someone in the back of the stands work it out: Qingya had won three of five rounds.

Huo Qing sheathed his sword. Blood was on the tip. A cut had opened in the web of his left hand, blood running down the back of his hand to his wrist, dripping inside the lime line. He went to slide the sword into the scabbard at his belt and missed twice before it went in.

He didnʼt look back. Didnʼt glance east either. He walked back to the combatantsʼ bench the same way he always walked, as if the last few moments in the ring had nothing to do with him. Shi Po stood and offered him the inner half of the long bench. Huo Qing took the sword from his belt, set it at his feet, sat down, laid his right arm across the bench, and pressed his left hand over the back of his right. Blood seeped through his fingers.

”Your foot got there first,” Shi Po said.

Huo Qing nodded once.

Xu Yan turned his head. ”Your hand.”

”I can grip,” Huo Qing said.

”Have Elder Cheng look at it when we get back.”

”Mm.”

In the west stands, Jiang Wan rose to her feet. She stood up slower than usual, her left shoulder and back injured, one hand pressing against her knee before she steadied. Once steady, she stayed standing, right hand hanging at her side, not moving back to the mouth of her scabbard. Qi Qi wanted to call out, opened his mouth, then closed it, pressing a hand to his own right shoulder. Bai Xiaoman was still clutching the two pieces of cloth in her hands; the places where the cinnabar had smeared had long dried to a dark red. She folded the cloth, walked over, crouched down at Huo Qingʼs feet, looked at his left hand, and didnʼt dare touch it.

In the front row of the observersʼ seats on the east stands, the man with the sword on his back stood up.

When he rose, no one around him moved. He watched Huo Qing in the ring and said nothing. The crowdʼs eyes followed his gaze for a while, then turned back to the man kneeling in the ring, unable to rise. He stood for a long time—until a small swirl of wind lifted a pinch of incense ash—before sitting back down.

Huo Qing never looked that way. Jiang Wan glanced toward the observersʼ seats, then pulled her gaze back and let it rest on Huo Qingʼs back.

Below the judging stand, the Cloud Terrace Sect people were craning their necks up. On the Azure Brook Sect side, some were already packing. Over in the Chixiao section, Ge Song stood in front of the long bench, stood for a while, and neither entered the ring nor sat down to speak. Ma Ping made to step into the ring; Ge Song reached out and held him back. Ding Zhao walked over from the Chixiao bench and picked up the iron staff that had rolled to the ringʼs edge.

In his mind, Xu Yan went over the lineup sheet from the top: first round Qi Qi, second Bai Xiaoman, third Jiang Wan—forfeit, fourth Shi Po, fifth Huo Qing. Three wins out of five rounds. That account was settled. The parts of the regulations still unsettled lay ahead—the body inspection clause, the chief judgeʼs personal inspection clause. He put them away in his mind and didnʼt move on them yet.

On the judging stand, Wen Su rose from her chair. She walked around the railing at the front of the stand and descended the steps one by one, not calling for a clerk to help her, not pausing. The two clerks—one holding the ratings register, one guarding the seal box—both stood but did not follow. The people at the ringʼs edge fell back half a step, one after another.

The crowdʼs eyes followed her feet as she descended. She walked steadily, down the last step, the soles of her shoes pressing into the dirt of the martial arena, and came toward the ring.