My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 173: The Ledger Warmed

In the Chou hour, Xu Yan rose from below the stone wall.

Inside the stone chamber someone was still turning over; the cloth rustled once, then nothing. He didnʼt strike a fire starter—the fire starter was in his chest pocket, unlit since theyʼd entered the Hidden Realm—and felt his way along the wall to the door.

Du Xiaochuan sat on the flat stone outside the door, hands clasped around his knees, head not lowered.

”Nothingʼs stirring,” Du Xiaochuan said, then added, ”Senior Sister coughed twice in the night. She turned over and it stopped.”

Xu Yan grunted and sat down beside him. A little warmth came up through the stone beneath him—his own, from sitting; the night in the Hidden Realm was cold enough that even this warmth could be felt. He gathered his lapels and pressed the ledger against his chest, separated by two layers of cloth.

”Go on in and sleep.”

Du Xiaochuan stood up. His knee cracked; he stood still and waited a moment before stepping through the door. Inside, someone asked a half-mumbled question. He answered, and then there was silence.

Xu Yan sat alone at the door.

He crossed his legs flat and laid his hands on his knees, first taking a mental inventory of everything at the doorway: the characters on the left doorframe had long worn smooth; the right half of the pivot was still sound. The flat stone at the door had one corner polished round. The pool lay a dozen or so paces to his left; no wind stirred its water, and it made no sound.

The stone chamber was too dark to make out people, but he could hear them. Qian Duoduoʼs teeth-grinding stopped and started; Shi Po slept heavily, letting out a long breath every so often; Cheng Banshanʼs breathing came in even measures, as though even in sleep he was keeping track of something; Jiang Wan turned over, her clothes scraping the stone wall, the sound faint.

In the corner, the breathing was level—level the whole way through. A sword lay across a lap, its scabbard tail braced against the floor.

On the night of the twenty-eighth, heʼd taken the Chou-Yin shift. Twice someone had shifted position, and both times it had come from that corner. On the night of the twenty-ninth, the person in that corner hadnʼt lain down at all.

Xu Yan didnʼt go in, and he didnʼt ask.

The fight on the stone plaza on the twenty-eighth—heʼd stood at the doorframe and watched it start to finish. Nineteen sword strikes, all conceded, until his heel was backed up against the waterʼs edge; then the final thrust that cut open a sleeve and stopped the sword tip an inch from the throat. When it was over, Huo Qing had spoken first, his voice low. That evening heʼd sat until the daylight was completely gone before coming back, and when he entered heʼd said nothing more.

Xu Yan had been there for all of it; heʼd seen what there was to see. Why the man sat awake in the stone chamber all this night—he had no one to ask, and he didnʼt guess at it. Which nights the door at the far end of the stone plaza had creaked, who had gone out, who had come in—he kept no count.

He laid the past few days out in his mind: Elder Cheng had said ”through the end of this month,” and today was the end of the month. How much flatbread remained, Qian Duoduo had accounted for. What came after, Xu Yan hadnʼt spoken of.

Having laid it all out, he still sat.

He thought of that time at the wharf. The scabbard tip had knocked over the charcoal basket; charcoal scattered across the ground, and Huo Qing had picked it up piece by piece with his left hand while the other man had said across that basket of charcoal: ”Draw, and I wonʼt strike back.” Xu Yan had stood to the side, able to say only: ”Third day of the third month.” At that time, heʼd had nothing else to hold onto: the accounts werenʼt settled, the people werenʼt raised up, and one sentence couldnʼt stand against that sword.

Now the third day of the third month had long passed, and the matter of that sword remained not one bit clearer.

He divided the nightʼs listening into two halves: the first half he listened to the water, the second half to people. The breathing in the stone chamber had kept the same depth all along—a sleeping personʼs breath sinks, catches, breaks off; but that one never broke, running level from the Chou hour straight through until the stone plaza began to fade.

In the late Yin hour, the outermost layer of darkness on the stone plaza thinned first, turning gray. The gray crept toward the waterʼs edge, and a pale streak of light appeared on the waterʼs surface. Xu Yan sat without moving, his eyes following that pale streak, his ears still tuned behind him.

Inside the stone chamber, that breath stopped halfway.

It paused. Breathed in and did not come out. After half a quarter-hour, it finally descended—lower than before, settling with a steady press, never floating back up.

Against Xu Yanʼs chest, something warmed. The warm place was only the size of his palm, spreading outward from his chest through two layers of cloth. He reached in, drew out the ledger, and opened it.

By the faint gray light now rising over the stone plaza, two lines showed in the ledger:

[Credit: Huo Qing, Qi Condensation Ninth Layer.]

[Balance: Sect Master, Foundation Establishment Late Stage.]

He read the two lines over, then read them again. Below the two lines was empty space; nothing else. He held the ledger open on his knees without turning the page, without closing it, the warmth from the paper pressed against his palm.

Something at the base of his dantian sank first. Qi rose from below, and halfway up its path it fell back, settling; once settled, it began to flow outward through his meridians. Heʼd walked this road before—the last time he advanced to mid-Foundation Establishment, the qi had faded below the elbow, never reaching the fingertips. This time it passed the elbow, passed the wrist, reached the base of the fingers, and that hand moved on its own. He pressed his fingers still, pinning them against his knee.

The narrowest stretch behind his shoulder had also cleared. Passing it had been rough—rough for a while, then open. The blocked spot behind his waist had loosened only halfway this time; the other half remained, still firm when he pressed.

His spine eased, a wave of heat passed over the back of his neck, and even his scalp loosened.

He sat without moving, only gathering the qi back in, down to that place at the base of his dantian, holding it. Then he released it out again and walked it through once more: elbow, wrist, base of the fingers—every point still there, not scattered by that first rush. Only on the third pass did he believe this layer had truly settled in. In the darkness he opened that hand and clenched it; the base of the fingers throbbed, as if heʼd just set down a brush after holding it all night.

In his ears, the sound of his own blood passing through.

The stone beneath his knees was cold, cold with perfect clarity. The stones by the water had shown only black before; now edges could be picked out in the dark. A sound came from the stone plaza: someone turning over, wood knocking against stone, then gone.

The breathing in the corner was different now from before. Before it had been level—level as if held down by someoneʼs hand. Now it was deep; each inhale and each exhale reached the bottom, and from the bottom it rose again, never wavering in between. A faint rustle of cloth came from that spot, as though the seated person had lowered his shoulders slightly, then straightened. Xu Yan did not turn his head.

One unit. He counted it in his mind: Qi Condensation Eighth Layer to Ninth Layer—one layer. A disciple advancing a layer: one unit added to the ledger, no more, no less.

This unit was one Huo Qing had trained himself. On the twenty-eighth heʼd yielded nineteen strikes, and afterward heʼd spoken up and conceded. On the twenty-ninth heʼd faced that stone all day, thrust and retract, thrust and retract, until the stone face showed a white spot. The ledger only recorded it.

He wanted to write these two lines down on paper, but in the Hidden Realm there was no paper for such a thing—the page in his chest couldnʼt be written on, and the sheaf in the oilcloth was someone elseʼs daily ledger. These two lines could only be written on his own person.

That time on the eighteenth of the fifth month, heʼd sat on the threshold, the daylight seeping up through the layers just like this. That time it had been Bai Xiaoman who sat inside all night. This time he didnʼt need to look up to know who sat inside, and he didnʼt need to ask. Both times, around the breaking of day. Both times, heʼd sat at the door.

Someone in the stone chamber turned over, and breathing sank back down. He waited until the rustle of cloth stopped, then closed the ledger and pressed it on his knees. The paper was warm at first; pressed a while, and it followed the night chill away.

In the Mao hour, daylight climbed the stone wall, and the black inside the stone chamber became gray.

Cheng Banshan was the first awake. He pushed himself up with one hand, pulled the empty sleeve pinned beneath him out and tucked it behind his waist, then raised his head to look toward the corner. After studying it a while, he said, ”Ninth Layer.”

Bai Xiaoman sat up from her bed, hair sticking up on one side. ”Senior Brother Huo reached the Ninth Layer?”

Huo Qing nodded once. He sat in the corner without getting up, sword still lying across his knees. His face gave nothing away, but there was a layer of bruise-blue under his eyes—from sitting up all night.

”When did it happen?”

”Before dawn,” Huo Qing said.

”Before dawn,” Bai Xiaoman repeated, pushing her hair back with one hand. ”I didnʼt notice a thing. Senior Brother Huo, did you feel it yourself? Or did you hear something first? Can you touch the threshold of Foundation Establishment once youʼre above the Ninth Layer—”

”Eat your flatbread first,” Cheng Banshan said.

Bai Xiaoman swallowed the second half of her sentence, her ears going a little red, and settled back with her arms around her knees.

Qian Duoduo untied the bundle and passed out flatbread piece by piece. The piece he put in Huo Qingʼs hand was a bit thicker at the edge. His voice came out as usual: ”Keep it down. Some people arenʼt up yet.” His own voice was the loudest. Qi Qi and Du Xiaochuan crowded over, pressing in by Huo Qingʼs bed, blocking half the light that came through the doorway.

Shi Po went over and crouched in front of Huo Qing, raised his eyes for a look, and said, speaking first of the stone: ”That stone on the plaza. Thereʼs a white patch on it.”

Huo Qing glanced at him. ”Mm.” Shi Po seemed to have been waiting for exactly that. He cracked a grin and retreated back to his crouch.

Qi Qi squeezed up from behind: ”Senior Brother Huo, from now on when I go down the mountain to run errands, youʼll be up on the mountain watching my back.”

”Worry about that mouth of yours first,” Qian Duoduo said from behind. Qi Qi shrank his neck a little but didnʼt talk back. Du Xiaochuan squeezed in at the very back, standing on tiptoe to watch Huo Qing for a while, then looked down at his own hands and said nothing.

Cheng Banshan came over and set three fingers on Huo Qingʼs wrist, pressing for a while. ”Your qi is thicker than yesterday. No damage to the wrist.” He withdrew his hand and tucked it behind his waist. ”Breaking through while sitting. Saves me a dose of medicine.”

Huo Qing pulled his wrist back and laid it flat on his knee. Cheng Banshan didnʼt leave right away; he looked down at Huo Qingʼs drooping right hand once, and after looking, said nothing at all. He went back to his own spot and sat down.

Shao Ming had not risen from his bed. From halfway across the room he spoke: ”Ninth Layer to Foundation Establishment—thatʼs a gate.”

Huo Qing bit into his flatbread and nodded.

”Iʼve been stuck at that gate for twenty years,” Shao Ming said. ”Never stopped for a single day.”

The stone chamber went quiet. Qi Qiʼs mouth opened, but nothing came out. Qian Duoduo stuffed a piece of flatbread into his hand, and he went on eating. When Shao Ming finished speaking, he lowered his head and ate his own flatbread too, eating slowly.

Jiang Wan sat leaning against the stone wall, her sword still resting against the wall beside her. Her right hand pressed once at her right ribs, then released. She didnʼt get up. She watched for a while, then said, ”Stay steady.”

Huo Qing acknowledged it. Jiang Wan closed her eyes as soon as sheʼd spoken, leaned back against the wall, and pressed her right hand to her ribs again—as if even saying that much had cost her some strength.

Xu Yan was at the door and hadnʼt gone in. He waited until the talk inside was finished before speaking: ”Donʼt let your hands stop.”

Huo Qing lifted his head and looked toward the door. Xu Yan had already turned his face away, looking out toward the stone plaza.

In the Chen hour, the daylight reached the stone plaza.

Huo Qing finished the rest of his flatbread, wiped his hands on his lapel, and turned to pick up his sword. As he passed through the doorway, Xu Yan yielded half a step. On the stone plaza, Huo Qing planted his feet, feet apart. Thrust, and retract. After twenty-odd thrusts he paused, then raised his hand again. When he raised it, his left shoulder barely moved; the sword came up from the waist, and the white ring at the scabbard mouth was clearly visible in the light.

Xu Yan went into the stone chamber and pressed a hand against his chest. The ledger was in his inner pocket, the paper still carrying a personʼs warmth. He did not look back at the man on the stone plaza.