My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 129: One Pot Isnʼt Enough to Sell

”One pot isnʼt enough.” Qian Duoduo stacked the last bowl on top with a crisp clink of ceramic on ceramic.

Breakfast in the main hall had just been cleared, and people still lingered on the benches. Xu Yan set the half-eaten flatbread in his hand back against the rim of his bowl.

”Last market, the sun hadnʼt even climbed overhead and the pot was already scraped clean.” Qian Duoduo said. ”The ones who came late wouldnʼt leave. They were scraping the bottom with their spoons—cleaner than if itʼd been washed.”

A He held up his fingers by the stove. ”One pot. Twenty bowls.” A Sui jumped in. ”Two pots. Forty bowls.”

”Townʼs grown by half?” Xu Yan asked.

”More than half.” Qian Duoduo said. ”Springʼs here. The rogue cultivators who went south for the winter are all back. Ours is the only stall on half the street selling hot food. People following the smell were standing all the way up on the stone steps.”

Xu Yan tapped four fingers one at a time against the tabletop.

”One pot, twenty bowls, two spirit stones a bowl—forty stones. Two pots, eighty. Ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder, thirty. One market day, a hundred ten. Spirit rice for two pots costs ten.” He looked up. ”The hundred left over—is that worth carrying an extra load for?”

Qian Duoduo hugged the bowls to his chest. ”Worth it.” Then he let his hands drop. ”But what if two pots doesnʼt sell? Leftovers sitting in the pot go bad overnight, and spoiled food canʼt be sold.”

”Last market, what time did you sell out?”

”Snake hour wasnʼt even half gone.”

”Market runs from Dragon hour to late Snake hour.” Xu Yan said. ”First pot holds until early Snake hour, second pot takes over. If it doesnʼt sell, Du Xiaochuan and I eat it. It goes in the ledger as rations.”

Qian Duoduo rubbed his belly and grinned. ”Then Iʼll ladle out two extra scoops.”

”From the fourth month on: two pots and ten bottles per market.”

Cheng Banshan sat at the far end of the bench, an empty bowl in front of him. He pushed it half an inch away with one hand. ”One furnace of Qi-Gathering Powder takes five days for ten bottles. Markets come every five days—the timing works.” He paused. ”But the furnace canʼt go out. If it dies once, the next market loses ten bottles.”

”Firewood?”

”The mountain has plenty. Huo Qing, Shao Ming, Du Xiaochuan—two trips a day, thatʼs enough.” Cheng Banshan set his bowl on the tableʼs edge. ”Iʼll tend the furnace myself. At night Iʼll stay in the Medicine Hall.”

Bai Xiaoman counted from the side. ”Four people at the stall, two pots, ten bottles. Who ladles, who takes the money, who counts bowls? How many bowls come back?”

”They all set them by the pot when they finish. Not one missing.” Qian Duoduo said. ”I ladle.”

”I take the money.” A He said.

”I count.” A Sui said, then glanced back at her brother.

Du Xiaochuan had stayed silent until now. ”I carry the pots and stand in front.”

Xu Yan nodded. ”Thatʼs how weʼll set it.”

Most everyone had left, but Shao Ming still sat there. Xu Yan remembered. ”Uncle Shaoʼs three months—that was full as of the twelfth of the third month?”

”It was.” Cheng Banshan said. ”I took his pulse that day.” He raised a hand and touched the wine gourd at his waist, then let it fall. ”Those two spots on his ribs—no problem.”

Shao Ming pressed his knees. ”Then Iʼll keep going with them up the West Slope.”

”Firewoodʼs fine.”

Xu Yan drank the last mouthful of porridge from his bowl. ”We came back to the mountain on the third, Elder Cheng reviewed the promotion document, and I filed it in the ledger. The Eighth Rank fee is due at the Autumn Evaluation on the ninth of the ninth month.”

”Just keep it in mind.” Cheng Banshan said.

Dragon Hour sunlight climbed onto the window lattice. The group dispersed—Huo Qing went to the veranda, Shao Ming led the two children toward the Ancestral Hall, Qian Duoduo returned to the kitchen. Xu Yan went into the Accounts Room east of the main hall and copied the third monthʼs entries, one stroke at a time, onto a fresh page: one pot and ten bottles per market, seventy stones earned, Spirit Rice replenished after each market at five stones, sixty-five remaining; six markets, three hundred ninety stones total. On the thirtieth, heʼd weighed out the fourth monthʼs rations at the grain shop—fifty stones out. At the bottom of the page he wrote one line: Fourth month, first day, balance on hand—2,413 stones.

On the fourth, during Dog hour, two large wooden basins sat side by side on the kitchen floor, both potsʼ worth of Spirit Rice soaking in water that rose past the back of a hand. Qian Duoduo crouched and pressed the rice. ”Soak until Yin hour tomorrow. When one press breaks the grains, it goes in the pot.” A Sui dragged a wooden sliver along the basinʼs edge, counting each line she drew. Bai Xiaoman sat on the threshold, whittling bamboo chopsticks into tallies—each finished one went into an empty bowl on the floor.

On the fifth, at early Yin hour, the lid came off the furnace in the Medicine Hall. Cheng Banshan hung the furnace hook back on its rack and set ten small porcelain bottles in a row along the long table, one at a time. Medicine paper pressed over each mouth, fingertips twisted once—sealed tight. He counted twice. Not one short. Then he placed them all in a bamboo basket and covered it with cloth.

At Mao hour they left through the Mountain Gate. Qian Duoduo carried a shoulder pole—two pots, one front, one back, every step pressing him down. Du Xiaochuan carried ten bottles on one end, a stack of bowls on the other, straw packed beneath. A He had a cloth sack over his back, tally sticks in one fist. A Sui carried a small water jar. The sky wasnʼt fully bright; frost on the mountain path had half melted, grass blades soaking their shoe uppers.

Dragon hour brought them into town. Against the third pillar from the wall, beneath that same span of old tiled eave above their heads, the spot sat empty—as if it had been waiting for them all along. The market was more crowded than in winter: straw sandals, hoes, salted fish—stalls stretched from the first pillar to the mouth of the alley. Several familiar rogue cultivators squatted against the wall. When they saw the group arrive, they nudged their bowls forward.

Qian Duoduo set the pot steady. One ladle down, steam surging up.

A rogue cultivator craned his neck. ”Two pots?”

”Two.”

”Last market I got here late. The bottom of the pot was polished to a mirror.”

Someone behind asked the price. A He answered: ”Spirit Meal, two stones a bowl. Qi-Gathering Powder, three a bottle.”

”Three?” The man held up a bottle, inspecting it. ”Even in the Market, a bowl of spirit foodʼs up to four stones, and your bottles are still three?”

”Never raised.” Qian Duoduo said. ”Herbs come from the mountain. No spirit stones spent. The work we donʼt charge for.”

Another asked, ”That Eighth Rank of yours—is it real?”

”Real. Dongzhou Grand Tournament. Second place.” A He dropped the stones into the cloth sack, his voice louder than usual.

”Who got first?”

”Cloud Terrace Sect.” A He said. ”We didnʼt fight him.”

The man clicked his tongue and handed over his bowl.

A Sui crouched by the pillar. Each bowl returned, she set one tally stick in the pile. At twenty, the first pot hit bottom. Qian Duoduo took his ladle to the second one. Du Xiaochuan planted his feet apart—people pressing in bounced half a step back the moment their shoulders touched him.

A spirit stone slipped through A Heʼs fingers and rolled into a crack between the flagstones. A Sui dropped flat, pried it out with two fingers, wiped it on her sleeve, then handed it back.

Past mid-Snake hour, the second pot ran shallow. An old rogue cultivator whoʼd wintered the whole season in the south handed his bowl over. ”Qingyaʼs spirit meals—sturdier than that winter pot.” Qian Duoduoʼs ladle never stopped. ”Bigger pot. Even fire.” When the old man finished, he bought two more bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder—said he was saving them for his breakthrough.

Market dispersed in late Snake hour. A Sui counted the tallies—forty. She counted them again. A He dumped the stones from the cloth sack onto the flagstones by the wall and stacked them piece by piece, ten to a pile. He reached eleven piles. Nothing left.

”Two pots again next market?” a rogue cultivator by the wall asked, empty bowl in hand.

”Tenth.” Qian Duoduo said. ”Fives and tens. Just come.”

Qian Duoduo packed the pots. Du Xiaochuan combined the two loads into one and headed for the grain shop. The shop hand measured out two potsʼ worth of Spirit Rice with a dou measure—five stones per pot, ten total. Half a sack of rice.

They were inside the Mountain Gate by late Wei hour. Shi Po heard the commotion from the front courtyard, came out, and lifted the half-sack from Du Xiaochuanʼs shoulder with one hand, carrying it to the kitchen door. Nie Bo was sweeping; he pulled the broom aside to clear the path.

Dog hour, the Accounts Room. Xu Yan poured the spirit stones from the cloth sack—one hundred ten. He counted twice and locked them in the cash box. Beneath the line for the fifth of the fourth month, he wrote: Income, 110 stones; expenditure, Spirit Rice for two pots, 10 stones. Balance on hand: 2,513 stones.

The sixth and seventh passed as usual on the mountain. The kitchenʼs rice was soaking again, the Medicine Hall furnace still burning, Huo Qing in the veranda before the sky was light.

On the eighth, at Mao hour, Xu Yan left the Accounts Room with the account book hugged to his chest and walked toward the East Courtyard. Inside the wall, sword-wind came in bursts, punctuated by a dry snap at the end of a form. He stood outside the gate.

Jiang Wanʼs sword came down from high, and at the lowest point she pulled it in—a white scar left on the blue stone at her feet. Her left shoulder stayed loose; even on the finish, she didnʼt raise it. Sweat ran from her temples down to her jaw. She wiped it with her sleeve and turned.

”What are you standing there looking at?”

”The sword.”

”Done with the books?”

”March is done. Aprilʼs just starting.”

Jiang Wan sheathed the sword and leaned against a veranda pillar. ”Howʼs the market going?”

”Two pots sold clean.”

”One pot wasnʼt enough. Neither is two.” She said. ”Springʼs here.”

”Two pots—any more and the loadʼs too heavy to carry.”

Jiang Wan didnʼt answer. She went inside. At the door she glanced back at what he held. ”You carry that thing even when you walk.”

”Itʼs damp out.”

Beneath the veranda, the wooden target leaning against the wall already had Huo Qingʼs sword in it. Heʼd been there since before dawn. Thrust out—tip stopping one inch from the targetʼs face—draw back, left hand turning half a circle, thrust again. The bullseye had long since been punched into a pit, the wood gone white.

Xu Yan stood three paces away. Huo Qing finished a thrust before speaking. ”This block wonʼt last past autumn.”

”Thereʼre two more lengths in the firewood shed.”

”Two lengths—enough for three targets.” Huo Qing said. ”Cut them and bring them to me.”

”Pick them yourself.”

Huo Qing nodded once, then thrust again.

In front of the Ancestral Hall, A He recited the formula for Shao Ming. He got stuck halfway through, choked out half a sound, face going red. A Sui picked it up for him and carried it to the end.

Shao Ming sat on the lowest step. Only when both children fell silent did he speak. ”Again. A Sui leads him.”

A Sui recited one line, A He echoed it. When they finished, A Sui stayed put. ”Uncle Shao, I know it better than he does.”

”Mm.”

”But the qi still wonʼt come in.”

Shao Ming thought for a while. ”The qi only finds the road once you know it by heart. My first ten years—nobody told me that line either.”

The incense in front of the hall had burned halfway. In the Accounts Room, Xu Yan laid out Aprilʼs remaining markets again: tenth, fifteenth, twentieth—three markets, two pots and ten bottles each; Spirit Rice three times, ten stones; rations had been weighed out at the end of March, no further expense. He closed the ledger.

Fourth month, ninth day, late Yin hour.

From beneath his bed board something pushed upward. The whole bed jumped half an inch. A weight slammed into Xu Yanʼs back—he was awake instantly, fully. The brush on the desk rolled off and bounced twice on the floor. The window paper shuddered. Someone in the West Wing shouted—what, he couldnʼt make out.

Several tiles slid from the eaves and smashed against the steps in front. One chipped off a corner.

From the Back Mountain came a dull, muffled boom—pushing up from under the earth.