My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 164: The Spine of the Sword

Jiang Wan turned the sword over.

The edge faced the sky, the spine faced forward, the fresh white scuff along the spine lying horizontal before her eyes. She stepped forward half a pace, heel planted. Xiong Daiʼs hand had already come up to guard his chest—it could block a palm, but not this. There was nothing fast about it, no feint. It came straight.

The spine of the sword struck him dead center in the chest.

From beneath the stone came a dull thud, like someone dropping a sack of grain flat on the ground. Xiong Dai stumbled back three steps, caught his heel on a crack in the stone on the fourth, and went over backward, his back slamming onto the stone plaza. He braced one hand against the ground to sit up, got halfway, and the arm gave out. The other palm pressed into his chest, fingers digging in, knuckles white.

He coughed once, and spat a mouthful of blood onto the stone.

Jiang Wan did not pursue. She walked over and stood before him, sword point angled down.

”Take him away,” she said.

The far side of the stone plaza went still for a moment. The four Wanshou Mountain disciples behind him ran forward two steps, the one in front shouting ”Senior Brother Xiong,” his hand already reached out—and stopped halfway, eyes on her sword. She did not move. The point hung an inch off the ground, and the hand on the hilt did not rise.

Xiong Dai lifted a hand and waved them off.

Only then did the four come up. Two took him under the arms, two supported the backs of his knees, and they lifted. Partway, one of the disciples muttered something under his breath, and Xiong Dai forced out between clenched teeth: ”Shut up.”

As they carried him past Jiang Wan, he turned his head, gave her one look, then looked toward Xu Yan and tilted his chin up.

”Sect Master Xu.”

Xu Yan looked at him.

Xiong Dai did not say more. The four carried him toward the far side of the stone plaza. As they crossed the middle, a fragment of one discipleʼs voice drifted back—”...the force of a Golden Core.”

On the far side, the four set Xiong Dai down on a flat stone. The disciple crouched before him tore open his own outer robe, ripped a strip from the hem, and wrapped it around his chest, cinching it tight. Xiong Dai kept coughing—a fit, a pause, then another. The other three stood nearby, none of them moving toward the water.

Xu Yan looked at Jiang Wan first.

She was standing, sword point pressed against the stone at her feet, both hands on the hilt. The wound under her right ribs was held in by her own weight, her face sheened with sweat, lips white. She glanced toward the far side of the plaza, then back. Her shoulders were trembling, very faintly.

”Can you stand?”

”I can stand.”

”You didnʼt take his life?”

”No.”

Shao Mingʼs hands, hanging at his sides the whole time, finally unclenched. Huo Qingʼs left hand had been pressed to his sword hilt all along; only once the men were far did he release it, finger by finger. Shi Po drew back the half-step heʼd set Bai Xiaoman to the rear with, and Bai Xiaoman still clutched the remaining two pebbles in both hands, palms slick with sweat.

”Senior Sister,” she called. ”The pebbles—”

”Hold them for now,” Jiang Wan said. ”The earth canʼt be disturbed.”

Qi Qi was still braced on one hand against the stone. He stood once his breathing evened, and glanced toward the far side of the plaza.

”People over there are watching,” he said. ”Xuanshui Palace, Zixia Palace—they all saw it.”

”They saw it, so they saw it,” Xu Yan said. ”The water flask.”

Shi Po ran over to the stone chamber, brought the water flask to the stone at the edge of the plot, pulled the stopper, and set it straight. Jiang Wan did not reach for it. Shi Po stood watching for a while, then stepped back, squatted down, and rested both hands on his knees.

Cheng Banshan was already crouched at the plotʼs edge. The oilcloth bundle was off his back and placed at his feet. He braced one hand on his knee and brought his face close to the grass, studying it for a long while before looking up.

”The sunʼs at its height,” he said. ”The dew needs another quarter-hour.”

”A quarter-hour,” Xu Yan acknowledged.

The stone plaza fell quiet. Not a hint of wind on the poolʼs surface, the water silent. The white glare at the zenith pressed down over the plot, crawling inward inch by inch. On the far side, a man from Xuanshui Palace took half a step forward, stopped, then turned and walked back.

The quarter-hour passed.

The westernmost plant flickered first, its leaf-heart catching a gleam. Then the second, the third—each drop condensing, each rounding in its leaf-heart, white-bright.

”The dew has formed,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Du Xiaochuan.”

Du Xiaochuan ran over clutching the empty medicine pouch, knelt beside him, and with both hands stretched the mouth of the pouch open, bracing the bottom with his knee and smoothing out the cloth lining.

”Donʼt touch the roots,” Cheng Banshan said. ”You only catch.”

He began with the westernmost plant, slipping his hand among the leaves, working all five fingers into the soil and circling the root mass until the earth loosened. From underneath, he lifted the whole plant out. The roots carried wet soil, and not one broke.

”One.”

Du Xiaochuan brought the pouch mouth under it. The plant dropped onto the cloth at the bottom, and the drop of dew in the leaf-heart held.

”Two.”

The second plantʼs roots were tangled with the firstʼs in the earth. He cleared the soil away, sorting the strands one by one, and only once they were separated did he lift. Halfway up he paused, checking that the roots hung whole before passing it out.

Jiang Wan stood at the edge of the plot, watching. She did not sit, did not put down the sword. The point pressed into the stone, wearing a shallow mark. Sweat ran from her temple to her chin, and she lifted a shoulder to wipe it on her collar.

”Three.”

”Four.”

The white glare overhead moved from the west end of the plot to the middle. Xu Yan remembered the incense had been lit at the start of the Horse hour; two quarter-hours meant it would burn out at the Horse hourʼs second quarter. He said nothing. He watched Cheng Banshanʼs hands.

”Five,” Cheng Banshan said.

”How long?” Jiang Wan asked suddenly.

”One incense stick,” Xu Yan said. ”Lit at the start of the Horse hour.”

She asked no more. Her chin lifted a little, and breath went out through her nose.

”Six.”

”How many left?” Xu Yan asked.

”Six.”

”Can you make it within the quarter-hour?”

”It canʼt be rushed,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Break one root, and the whole plant is just a handful of grass.”

”Elder Cheng, harvest,” Jiang Wan said.

Shao Ming walked toward the far side of the plaza and stopped between the water and the open stone, turning to face out, both hands hanging before him. He said nothing, and once planted, he did not move.

”Seven.”

The seventh plant grew at the plotʼs edge, where the earth had been trampled firm—the shallow pits from footprints still there. Cheng Banshanʼs fingers could not push in, so he loosened the soil knuckle by knuckle, tapping, prying a little away, tapping again. Only once the soil opened and the roots showed did he lift.

”Eight.”

The eighth plantʼs roots went deep; his fingers probed and found no bottom. He hiked his sleeve up past the wrist against his knee, pushed his forearm down along the soil, and his shoulder sank with it. Sweat beaded at his brow; he wiped it with the back of his wrist, keeping his hand away from his face. Du Xiaochuan stretched the pouch mouth wider, arm trembling, the opening wavering.

”Hold it steady,” Cheng Banshan said.

”Mm.”

”Nine.”

The ninth and tenth plants grew pressed together. The tenthʼs roots forked, running along the roots of its neighbor. His fingers stopped beneath the soil, worked the earth back from both sides, separated the two, and lifted the tenth out first.

”Ten.”

A small shard of stone was lodged in the eleventh plantʼs roots. He picked it out with a fingernail—two tries before it came loose.

”Eleven.”

”One left,” Xu Yan said.

”Mm.”

The last plant stood at the east end, the dew in its leaf-heart fullest, bright and drooping. Cheng Banshan reached in, lifted it, paused again to inspect the roots, then passed it to the pouch mouth.

”Twelve,” he said. ”All of them.”

Du Xiaochuan drew the pouch mouth shut and held it to his chest with both hands. His legs had gone numb from kneeling; he wobbled before finding his feet.

Cheng Banshan did not rise. Still on his knees, he pushed the turned earth back into the plot, handful by handful, patting it flat.

”Xiaoman, pull the pebbles now. Gently.”

Bai Xiaoman knelt at the plotʼs edge. First she pressed the soil with her hand, then dug out the three pebbles one at a time, smoothing each hole flat. Each one she wiped in her palm and set on the stone before her knee. Once all three were lined up, she tucked them back inside her clothes, with the other two.

The plot of grass was bare. The turned earth was damp, twelve shallow pits—countable at a glance.

The people at the far side still watched. No one came over. No one made a sound.

Jiang Wanʼs sword point slipped against the stone.

She tightened her grip on the hilt again. Shoulders still set, waist still straight, but her hand worked over the hilt—loosened a fraction, then clenched. Sweat dripped from her chin onto the stone.

Xu Yan took a step toward her.

”Senior Sister.”

”Mm.”

”The grass is all gathered.”

She made a sound of assent without turning her head. The white glare overhead settled onto the center of the pool.

When the borrowed strength left, it left without a sound. It drained from underfoot, clean, like someone sliding out the thing propping her up. The knees went first, then the waist. She pitched forward, and the sword point scraped a white streak across the stone.

Xu Yan got one arm around behind her shoulder to catch her arm, the other hand bracing her back. Her whole weight came down on his hands, knees knocking the stone. The sword did not leave her grip.

”The grass—” She lifted her head, trying to look toward the plot.

”Twelve plants,” Cheng Banshan said. ”All here. Not one missing.”

She drew a breath, the tendons in her neck jumping. Her eyes closed, then opened. Bai Xiaoman knelt before her and held out the five pebbles from inside her clothes: ”Senior Sister, theyʼre all dug out. Really.”

Jiang Wan looked at her for a moment, let the breath out through her mouth, turned her head back, and lifted her eyes to Xu Yan.

”Sect Master.”

The voice was not loud. Everyone on the stone plaza heard it.

Xu Yan answered at once, like a name called during roll.

”Here.”

She heard it. Her eyes closed, and her hand still gripped the hilt. The sword lay across the stone before her, spine up, that white scuff marking the sky.

Shao Ming turned his head away, looking toward the far side of the plaza. Qi Qi crouched down and picked the scabbard up off the ground, holding it in both hands. Du Xiaochuan stood clutching the medicine pouch to his chest, holding it too tightly, looking at Cheng Banshan. Shi Po pushed the stopper back into the water flask—two tries before it seated.

Cheng Banshan came over and laid three fingers on her wrist. After a moment he looked up at Xu Yan.

”Carry her into the stone chamber,” he said. ”Get her lying down first.”

Xu Yan lifted her arm around his own shoulder and hoisted her from underneath, rising with bent knees. The sword stayed in her hand, its point dragging across the ground, leaving a shallow scratch. The plot on the stone plaza was bare; the turned earth was wet.