My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 163: A Debt

Jiang Wan pulled her sword free.

The scabbard mouth scraped against stone, a short sound. The blade came out, she flipped her wrist, held it crosswise in front of her, and took half a step back to steady herself.

Xiong Dai did not draw his sword. He pulled his front lapels open to either side, his right hand hanging at his side, fingers loose. ”That sword of yours wonʼt cut me.”

Behind him, the four Wanshou Mountain disciples stepped back a few paces, clearing an open space. No one spoke, and no one moved forward.

Xiong Dai planted his feet wide, knees straight, shoulders dropped. He stood like a man waiting for something already settled.

He came forward in one stride. The ball of his foot landed first, a dull thud against the stone, and he was within two paces.

Jiang Wan thrust her sword tip at his wrist—but it went out and could not come back. Xiong Daiʼs palm flipped over, came around the outside of the blade, and drove straight for the base of her right ribs.

She swung the sword back to meet it. His palm struck the flat of the blade with a dull sound that traveled up the sword and into her shoulder socket. Half her arm went numb. She stepped back, dug her heel in before she could draw the next breath.

Xiong Dai did not pursue. He waited for her to steady herself, then advanced another step.

The second strike went for her right ribs again. She turned the blade edge outward and shifted half a body to the side—Xiong Dai did not pull back. The edge of his palm pressed down on the flat of her sword, shoving her and her blade half a step off balance, and his other hand was already at her ribs. She turned her shoulder into the blow. It landed square, and the force straightened her upright.

”If you canʼt hold your ground, donʼt try,” Xiong Dai said.

Jiang Wan let the breath out through her nose. The taste of blood rose in her mouth again. She lifted the back of her hand to her lips, wiped, glanced at it, wiped it clean, and put her hand back on the hilt.

She planted herself on the same side again. Xiong Daiʼs third palm struck the same place, and when his palm landed, he pressed down—on exactly the spot heʼd hit before.

”This sideʼs already taken one hit,” he said. ”I know.”

Jiang Wan said nothing. She gritted her teeth and blocked with the flat of her blade.

She had tried slashing. The sword got halfway up and Xiong Dai was already inside her guard, a palm to her elbow, and the strike fell apart into an empty gesture. She pulled the sword back and blocked crosswise, just catching the second palm that followed.

From then on she did not slash. She only blocked.

”Senior Sister, let me go up,” Shi Po said from behind. ”I can take it.”

”Even if you can, no,” Jiang Wan said. ”He wants us to strike first.”

Shi Poʼs foot froze mid-step, then came back down.

The white glare at the top of the cavern, the poolʼs surface, the breath Bai Xiaoman held—all of it receded. All she saw was that palm: thick, an old scar along the edge, and when the fingers spread, the black of the stone wall showed through the gaps. Wherever the palm moved, her sword moved. A beat too slow and it was over.

Xiong Dai stopped coming at her head-on. He circled to the side, one step, then half a step, probing for an opening past her left shoulder. She shifted with him, not fast, but she never left that patch of herbs. He moved left, she moved left. The two of them turned in a small arc in front of the grass, wind from both sides pressing the blades down in one direction.

”Senior Sister, let me set the last two stones,” Bai Xiaoman said from behind, her voice tight. ”If the formation rises, he canʼt get in.”

”The formation protects the grass,” Jiang Wan said. ”Heʼs standing outside it. Heʼll hit you first.”

”Then Iʼll pull them back—”

”Stay down. Donʼt get up.” Jiang Wanʼs voice was even. ”The roots loosen if the soil shifts.”

Xiong Dai advanced. She retreated. One step, then half a step. When his palm struck the sword, her arm no longer went numb the same way—the heaviness spread from shoulder to wrist, pressing the blade down into a slight bend before it sprang back. One palm slipped under the sword, grazing past her waist. Her clothes lifted and fell back.

Every step back landed on stone. Her heel probed behind first, found the surface, planted firm, and only then did her body follow. The low grass in the cracks was crushed flat under her heels, clump after clump. She did not look back. Xiong Dai followed her step for step. She retreated one pace, he advanced one. The gap between them never changed, as if measured with a ruler. He was in no hurry. Each time his palm fell, she gave up one stone; the stone she gave up, he took with his foot. After a while, the stones under her heels changed—wider cracks, thicker grass.

”Itʼs almost the hour of the Horse,” Xiong Dai said. ”I wonʼt kill you. Put the sword down, and Iʼll harvest what I came for and leave. All twelve stalks. Not one left for you.”

”Youʼll have to go through me,” Jiang Wan said.

”Then Iʼll go through.”

This palm was the heaviest. She took it sideways on the blade, held, but the force drove her down. Her knee buckled, and her back heel came down on soft soil.

Soft. The soil at the edge of the plot—turned, loosened, leaving a shallow print with every step. She knew exactly what that meant: this was not the stone plaza. The three stones were still pressed into the ground there. One more step back and sheʼd be in the grass, the grass right under her feet, and he wouldnʼt even need to lift a hand.

So she stopped retreating.

Both feet planted in that soft soil, the sword crosswise before her, taking palm after palm. Her arms began to shake, the sword tip wavering in small circles in front of her chest. She braced the pommel against her sternum and held it there with her body. The wound under her right ribs throbbed from the pressure, pain reaching into the small of her back. She clenched her teeth and breathed through her nose.

Sweat ran from her brow and blurred her eyes. She blinked. The palm blurred, then sharpened again.

”Senior Sister…” Du Xiaochuan called from behind, his voice cracking.

”None of you come over here,” Jiang Wan said.

”Itʼs the hour of the Horse,” Xiong Dai said.

The white glare from above fell full on the plot. The grass blades turned their hearts upward, one after another, the hollow center of each blade catching a layer of light. The dew had not yet condensed. No wind moved over the pool; the water was silent.

Xiong Dai raised his palm again.

Jiang Wanʼs right leg gave out, her knee cracking against the stone. She did not pitch forward. She braced the sword crosswise in front of her, one hand on the hilt, the other supporting the blade.

Xiong Dai stood a pace in front of her, looking down. ”Give it up.”

She raised her head, looked at him, and did not answer. The sword lay crosswise on the stone before her. Not an inch had it moved.

”Then Iʼll harvest,” Xiong Dai said.

A shout came from across the stone plaza, from the direction of the pavilion, voice breaking: ”Sect Master—by the water—”

Footsteps. First one person, urgent, heavy, not watching where he stepped. A loose stone went skittering into another.

Xu Yan ran from the far side of the plaza. Halfway across, he saw it: someone kneeling at the edge of the plot, a sword held crosswise; a line of blood running down the edge of a nearby stone, already dry.

He was the first to arrive. His front lapels were wide open, one hand pressed to his chest—to something at his chest. He looked first at the line of blood on the stone, then at Jiang Wanʼs knees, and only then at Xiong Dai.

Xiong Dai turned. ”Sect Master Xu. Sheʼs blocking the grass.”

Xu Yan did not answer him.

Shao Ming arrived second, stopping half a pace in front of Bai Xiaoman and Shi Po, chest heaving, both hands hanging at his sides, making no move to raise them. Huo Qing came next, standing to Shao Mingʼs right. He glanced at Jiang Wan, then his eyes traveled down Xiong Daiʼs arm to his hand; his left hand rested on his sword hilt. He did not draw. Du Xiaochuan stood clutching the empty medicine pouch, legs still trembling, teeth biting his lower lip. Qi Qi arrived last, running so hard he pitched forward and only caught himself on a stone with one hand to keep from falling to his knees, too breathless to speak.

Cheng Banshan came in last. He carried the oilcloth bundle on his back, his breathing still ragged. He squatted down beside Jiang Wan first, three fingers resting on her wrist, one elbow braced on his knee to steady himself.

”Xu Yan,” he said. ”Her pulse is sinking. Her qi is scattered.”

Xu Yan did not move immediately. He stood there, his eyes sweeping from Xiong Dai to the four disciples, then back to the plot of grass. Five people, and none had come forward. Xiong Dai wanted the twelve stalks, not anyoneʼs life. The grass was still in the ground. A person was kneeling on the stone. Which part of this account was hardest to calculate—he knew that very well.

He pulled the thin ledger from inside his robes.

An old account book, the cover worn pale, the edges and corners curled. He held it in one hand, turned to the middle, and opened it.

Xiong Dai saw it and frowned. ”You Qingya people think you can block someone with a book? Thereʼs no provision for that in the rules.”

Xu Yanʼs eyes fixed on the page.

What others saw was a blank old ledger: yellowed paper, not a single character on it.

Characters began to appear on the page. One line, then another, four lines in succession:

[Debit: Heritage 10 points, opened as a line of credit.]

[Debit: Heritage 1 point, credit: Jiang Wan, Golden Core early stage, one incense stick.]

[Balance: Heritage 11 points.]

[Debt: One line of credit, Jiang Wan.]

The characters settled on the page. The paper lay flat. Even the wind was still.

Xu Yan read the second line twice. Jiang Wan was at mid-Foundation Establishment. He was too. This ledger never wrote down anything that did not exist. He read the last line twice more. The final character was ”debt.” He stared at it for a while before closing the ledger and tucking it back into his robes.

Behind him, Shao Ming asked in a low voice, ”Sect Master, should we move?”

”No,” Xu Yan said.

Cheng Banshanʼs three fingers on her pulse had not moved. He looked up at Xu Yan for a moment, then down again. His hand stayed where it was.

”Sect Master Xu,” Xiong Dai said again. ”The grass is still in the ground.”

Xu Yan walked over, between him and Jiang Wan, and squatted down so their faces were level. He did not look back at Xiong Dai.

”Senior Sister,” he said. ”One incense stick.”

Jiang Wan heard him.

She looked into his eyes first. The words landed on her and rose up from the ground—up from the soft soil under her feet. Warmth started in her soles, climbing to her ankles. The bone-deep fatigue in her calves was pushed aside by something rising from below. Her knees held on their own. Her spine straightened. Her shoulders loosened. The wound below her right ribs was still there, the pain still there, but the pain was pressed into that one spot, unable to travel anywhere else.

Her arms stopped shaking. The hilt in her hands grew heavier, heavier than before, and more obedient. The new white scuff on the flat of the blade steadied along with her hands. She gripped the hilt, her knuckles tightening, once, again, to the limit, then easing just slightly.

She stood up.

Her knees left the stone, straightening inch by inch, the sword held crosswise before her. The moment she stood straight, the taste of blood in her mouth faded again. She sent the sword forward half an inch, then stopped.

Cheng Banshan released her wrist and stepped back half a pace. Shi Po pulled Bai Xiaoman back half a pace. Bai Xiaoman clutched at her clothes with both hands, mouth open, no sound coming out. Huo Qingʼs left hand still rested on his sword hilt, not letting go.

The pits where the three stones lay buried were still behind Jiang Wanʼs feet. The grass blades held their hearts up to the light, dew not yet condensed. The white glare from above pressed down on the plot.

Xiong Dai looked at her. The easy, workmanlike composure on his face was gone. He stepped back half a pace, raised his hand—the palm already open—then slowly curled it shut, fingertips pressing against his own chest.

”Golden Core…”