My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 143: Three Steps Before the Gate

April 30, before dawn, both stove eyes in the kitchen were already glowing red.

Qian Duoduo held a long-handled ladle, stirring two pots in turn. Every time he lifted a lid, white steam rushed up to the rafters, then settled, plastering A Suiʼs face. She sat on a low stool by the stove counting bamboo tallies, tying them into bundles with hemp thread. When a bundle came out crooked, she knocked it straight against her knee and tied it again. A He crouched at the firebox mouth feeding wood, his face lit red by the flames, his nose dusted with ash. He wiped it with the back of his hand and smeared it into a streak.

”Stop adding wood,” Qian Duoduo said. ”This pot needs low heat.”

Ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder sat by the stove platform, wrapped in oiled paper—Cheng Banshanʼs second batch, out of the furnace at the Yin hour. Qian Duoduo touched the backs of the bottles with his hand. Still warm. He moved them aside so the stove heat wouldnʼt bake them.

At the Mao hour, just as the sky lightened, the four of them went down the mountain. Two pots of spirit meals were packed into carrying buckets, stones pressed down on the lids. Shi Po walked last with the empty carrying pole, its ends swaying, the wooden hooks on the ropes tapping against the buckets—ding, ding—all the way down to the half-slope.

They reached town at the Chen hour. Beneath the third pillar along the wall, that old stretch of tile eave still stood. Qian Duoduo set the buckets down steady; A Sui arranged the bamboo tallies in neat little stacks, then stepped back two paces to survey her work.

The market crowd was denser than last month. On the road by the quarry at the west end of town, the Wanshou Mountain tents still stood. From the street mouth, you could see the masts of the two boats at the wharf. Someone had lit a fire at the entrance of the Earth God Shrine; a thread of smoke rose perfectly straight.

”Not one has left.” A He glanced that way as he ladled out a second bowl.

”Nobody leaves before the Hidden Realm opens.” Qian Duoduo poured a spoonful of soup, scattering a handful of chopped spirit herbs over it.

A disciple in Heavenly Sword Sect robes pushed through the crowd and bought two bowls. He ate standing, set the bowl on the wall, and left. Qian Duoduo ran over to collect it, wiped it on his sleeve, and stuffed it back into the bucket, muttering something under his breath—no one caught what.

By late Si hour, both pots had been scraped clean and all ten bottles were empty. Qian Duoduo untied his money pouch and squatted by the wall base to count: copper coins, silver scraps, and spirit stones in three separate piles. He stacked the spirit stones one by one into the old cloth pouch, then tied the mouth with a double knot.

The grain shop sat at the east end of town. The shopkeeper was working his abacus; when he saw them come in, he pushed the account book aside.

Qian Duoduo bought two more pots of spirit rice for the next market day. Five spirit stones a pot. The shopkeeper measured them out with a wooden measure, full to the brim, poured them into the sack, and tied the mouth.

The Fifth-Month rations, as usual, fifty spirit stones. The shopkeeper took out two more rice sacks.

Qian Duoduo thought for a moment, then said heʼd take three more sacks of coarse grain. Ten a sack. The shopkeeper hefted one in his hand: ”These three are coarse-cut. Perfect for flatbread.”

”Thatʼs the plan,” Qian Duoduo said. ”One sack per tray of flatbread. Once theyʼre dried, they wonʼt spoil.”

When Shi Po came in, the rice and coarse grain were already stacked by the door. He bent down, hoisted the two sacks of spirit rice onto his shoulders, and bound the four sacks of coarse grain into a pole-load—one sack from their Fifth-Month rations, three bought extra. He settled the pole on his shoulder, straightened up first, then stepped out. A He reached to take a sack; Shi Po handed him the rope end instead. A He held that rope end and walked just behind and to the side of him, not letting go until they reached the mountain gate.

They were back on the mountain by the Wei hour. Qian Duoduo carried the replenished spirit rice into the kitchen; the remaining rice sacks and coarse grain he stacked against the back wall under a reed mat.

Xu Yan rose at the Wu hour. Heʼd stood the Zi-to-Yin watch, then gone back to his room and slept until the sun climbed past the eave corners of the Main Hall. Qian Duoduo reported each transaction one by one; Xu Yan wrote each down in turn. When he finished, he tapped his brush against the edge of the inkstone and looked out the window.

”When will you make the flatbread?” he asked.

”Start on the first,” Qian Duoduo said. ”Cook through the fourth. Once theyʼre fully dried, theyʼre ready to wrap.”

At the Xu hour, the lamps came on in the Main Hall.

Huo Qing and Shi Po were on the You-to-Hai watch, not present. The rest arranged themselves in a half-circle on the long benches: Jiang Wan leaned against the eastern pillar, her sword propped at its base. Cheng Banshan sat at the far end, one hand resting on his knee, the wine gourd hanging at his waist. Shao Ming nudged the two younger ones inward; Du Xiaochuan sat close beside him. Qian Duoduo occupied half a bench. Qi Qi squatted by the threshold. Bai Xiaoman sat straight-backed, an old washed cloth spread across her lap.

Xu Yan stood beneath the lamp.

”The ten entering the Hidden Realm,” he said. ”Myself, Senior Sister, Elder Cheng, Uncle Shao, Huo Qing, Du Xiaochuan, Qian Duoduo, Shi Po, Qi Qi, Bai Xiaoman.”

He finished the list and raised his head. ”A He and A Sui stay on the mountain with Nie Bo.”

A He stood up. ”Iʼm a cultivator now too.”

”Someone has to stay.”

”I can sweep the mountain gate.”

A Sui tugged at his sleeve. A He pulled his sleeve back and kept standing, shoulders squared, then finally sat down after a long moment. He sat without another word.

”Is Nie Bo eating?” A Sui asked quietly.

”You cook,” Xu Yan said, looking at A He. ”From the first to the third, youʼre in the kitchen with Qian Duoduo. Learn. Soak the rice first; water a fingerʼs depth above the grain.”

A He answered sullenly: ”Mm.”

Qian Duoduo wiped both hands on his front placket. ”We all still need to eat in there.”

”Bake the three sacks of coarse grain into flatbread,” Xu Yan said. ”One bundle each. Fully dried before wrapping. Nothing damp.”

”How many days will that last?”

”Eat sparingly. Itʼll hold until we come out.”

Cheng Banshan lifted his eyes. ”Once Iʼm inside, the Medicine Hall furnace goes cold.”

”No stall at the May market. The furnace rests too,” Xu Yan said. ”Put your medicines in the medicine pouch.”

”Already packed,” Cheng Banshan said. ”One-handed work. Slow, but clean.”

”Du Xiaochuan.” Xu Yan turned. ”Four torches. You prepare them.”

”Four enough?”

”Two lit on the road. Two spare.”

Du Xiaochuan nodded.

Shao Ming asked, ”All ten of you gone—who watches the mountain at night?”

”The gate watch continues until opening day,” Xu Yan said. ”After the gate opens, the Branch decides how to guard it. On the mountain, itʼs Nie Bo with the two children. Iʼll go see Uncle Wang on the third and ask him to come up on the fifth and tenth.”

Qi Qi suddenly cut in from the threshold: ”Nie Boʼs here on the mountain.”

The moment he said it, he stopped himself. He didnʼt continue. Xu Yan neither answered nor refuted it. He turned to Jiang Wan: ”On the fourth, packs are stacked in the Main Hall. Up the mountain before the Chen hour on the fifth.”

Jiang Wan acknowledged. Only then did she speak to Bai Xiaoman: ”Formation banners rolled tight. Bring the stones.”

Bai Xiaoman nodded.

”Donʼt clutch them in your hands the whole way,” Jiang Wan said. ”Then when you get there, you wonʼt be able to unfold them.”

”Iʼll roll them into the outer layer of my pack,” Bai Xiaoman said, folding the old cloth on her lap. ”Iʼm also bringing the cinnabar and yellow silk scraps, in case I need to draw.”

Xu Yan glanced her way: ”If you can carry it, bring it.”

”I can carry it.”

They broke up at the Hai hour. Xu Yan returned to the Accounts Room, moved the lamp to the corner of the desk, drew out a fresh sheet of paper, smoothed it flat, and pressed a paperweight across the top. He dipped the brush in ink.

He wrote the first line slowly: Qingya, Landlord Sect, ten persons. Below that, ten names, one per line, in the order heʼd read them in the Main Hall. When he reached Bai Xiaoman and set down the final stroke, he lifted the page and held it to the lamp, read it through once, then laid it flat again beneath the inkstone to dry.

At the Zi hour, he carried a lantern up the Back Mountain. Qi Qi was waiting on the stone steps halfway up. They walked one before the other, past the Ancestral Hall and northward, two li of mountain path, two quarter-hours to the top.

Huo Qing and Shi Po were at the gate, their lanterns resting on a stone at their feet. Shi Poʼs carrying pole lay across his knees.

”Ten of us.” Xu Yan stood three paces out and repeated the names, then paused. ”Coarse-grain flatbread: one bundle each. Wrapped by the fourth, brought in on the fifth.”

Shi Po listened, then shifted the pole on his shoulders. ”Iʼll carry the grain.”

”You carry one extra bundle,” Xu Yan said. ”The edges Qian Duoduo bakes—heʼll wrap a small separate bundle for you.”

Shi Po gave a single nod.

Huo Qing only nodded once, picked up his lantern, and started down. Seven or eight paces out, he stopped and looked back at the gate, then continued down, his lantern light shrinking bit by bit into the dark.

Xu Yan and Qi Qi took over the watch. Night wind slipped from the crack between the doors, gust after gust, lifting the two corners of the seal strip gently before letting them fall back.

Fifth month, first day, late Yin hour.

The sky hadnʼt fully brightened. A thin dew lay over the mountain path; the stone steps were slick—you had to mind your footing going down. Qi Qi was crouched on the stone, wiping his face with the back of his hand, when he suddenly lifted his head.

There was a sound at the foot of the mountain. Soft. One stroke, then another, unhurried: the tip of a broom dragging along the ground, rising from step to step.

Xu Yan raised his lantern and shone it down the path. The light caught the broom first—the bamboo handle polished bright—then, above it, Nie Boʼs stooped back.

He walked slowly, step by step. The broom dragged behind him, leaving a faint line where it passed, pushing fallen leaves and loose stones to one side of the path. On the last few steps, he was still sweeping. Once he stepped onto the level ground by the cliff, he drew the broom behind him and walked up to the gate.

Three steps.

He stood exactly on the line where the gatekeepers stood—not one step more, not one step less. He gripped the broom handle and raised his head to look at the gate: the stone doors, the crack between them, the paper strip across that crack, the ink-written date on the paper turning pale blue in the dawn light.

Qi Qi opened his mouth. Xu Yan neither looked at him nor made a sound. Qi Qi closed his mouth, shifted half a step toward the rock, and crouched lower.

Nie Bo stood. The dew had soaked a dark patch into the cloth over his shoulders. His chest rose and fell. Wind came through the crack in the door and stirred the loose sleeve of his hanging arm. He did not move.

After a while, he turned and walked back down, step by step. The broom dragged behind him again; the sound faded lower and lower, until nothing at all could be heard on the mountain path.

Daylight rose. The seal strip remained, its two corners still lifted. The wind through the door crack blew as before.

At the Mao hour, Jiang Wan and Bai Xiaoman came up to take the watch. Bai Xiaoman slid the charcoal stick from her sleeve and unfolded the paper, creased twice: ”What do I record for this night?”

”Wind,” Xu Yan said. He paused. ”Nie Bo came up. Stood here for a while. Went down the mountain.”

Bai Xiaomanʼs charcoal hovered over the grid. She looked up at him. ”How should I word that?”

”Write what I said.”

Jiang Wan took the lantern from Xu Yanʼs hand and cupped her palm over the shade. ”Go sleep. Thereʼs another shift after dawn.”

Xu Yan and Qi Qi went down the mountain. Past the Ancestral Hall, past the Main Hall, he stopped at the Accounts Room door, went in, opened the gate-watch log, and added one line: Fifth month, day one, late Yin hour. Nie Bo came up to three steps before the gate, stood for a while, went down. When he finished, he set the brush down, smoothed the page, and stood looking at it for a long moment before turning to leave.

He walked all the way south, through the Front Courtyard, to the mountain gate.

Half the sky was already bright. A thin layer of dawn light lay over the stone steps. Nie Bo was sweeping, stroke by stroke, gathering the fallen leaves toward one place into a small pile.

He heard the footsteps but didnʼt look up. He pulled the broom aside and shifted half a step inward to let Xu Yan pass.

Xu Yan stepped through that half-step, stopped at the edge of the steps, and turned to look up the mountain. The stone steps wound upward step after step, finally curving behind the cliff face out of sight. A faint mark remained on the steps, left by the broomʼs drag—once the light grew brighter, it would probably fade.

Behind him came the soft rustling, once, then again—same as every day.