My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 178: A Day for the Three Sects

At the hour of Wei, the people from Taiyi Temple moved first.

Ke Wujiu tucked the hem of his Daoist robe into his belt, held his compass out in one hand, and walked around the stone gate. The stone floor wasnʼt large, and he walked slowly, his heels tracing two fine lines through the dust. The needle on the compass stood upright in the center. It didnʼt move. He circled once, then walked around again in reverse, and still the needle didnʼt move—it wouldnʼt even tremble.

Back at the gate, he handed the compass to a disciple behind him and drew three talismans from his sleeve. One he pressed against the seam between the doors, one against the left side of the frame, one against the right.

The first stuck for a moment, then slid down the face of the door and fell into the dust on the stone floor.

The second he pinned with two fingers for a long while. When he released it, one corner lifted first, then the whole sheet fell.

For the third, he didnʼt press at all—just let go. The talisman quivered twice against the frame, then dropped at his feet.

Two Taiyi disciples bent to pick them up, but Ke Wujiu waved them off. He squatted down, gathered the three talismans one by one, and held them up against the light falling from the high crevice in the stone wall to examine their backs. All three backsides were clean, without a speck of dust on them.

Pinching the talismans between his fingers, he stood, extended his index finger, and traced along half of that square seal pattern. He stopped where door met frame, pressed once, pressed again, then withdrew his hand and stepped back, tilting his head up to study the top of the gate. The stone gate was set into the cliff face; the rock above it merged seamlessly with the walls on either side. No joint could be found.

”The foundation isnʼt living,” he said to the disciple behind him. His voice wasnʼt loud—from the Qingya side, that was the only sentence they caught.

On the final bend of the stone steps, the ten Qingya members sat on the lowest few flights, their bundles stacked at the edge of the first step. Jiang Wan sat on the third step, sword across her knees, one hand resting on the scabbard. Huo Qing stood half a step behind Shi Po, not sitting. Cheng Banshan sat on the highest step, having unfastened the medicine pouch from his waist and set it beside his leg. Qian Duoduo held his bundle in his arms; Du Xiaochuan leaned against the stone wall, counting steps.

Qi Qi crouched at the corner of the top step, looking out through a gap in the stones, tapping his fingers on his knee. He counted fast, then counted again, and leaned close to Xu Yanʼs ear. ”Jinding Pavilion, ten. Taiyi Temple, ten. Zhenyue Sect, ten. Thirty people.”

”Remember it,” Xu Yan said.

”Thirty people—can that stone chamber fit them all?” Qi Qi asked.

”The dust in that chamber has been pressed flat across a wide area,” Xu Yan said. ”Enough for thirty to sleep on the floor.”

Qi Qi glanced at the empty doorway of the stone chamber and shut his mouth.

Xu Yan stood on the lowest step, his feet not yet touching the stone floor.

Bai Xiaoman shifted over beside him, her voice barely above a whisper. ”Thatʼs not a formation.”

Xu Yan didnʼt respond.

”A formation has channels, carved lines, anchors, an eye. This thing has none of that.” She ticked off her fingers one by one, dropped her hand, stared at the crevice a moment longer, then spoke even lower. ”Itʼs like... a seal.”

”Like whose seal?” Cheng Banshan asked from above.

”I canʼt tell,” Bai Xiaoman said. ”A seal has a base and a face, edges and corners. This was pressed flat onto the surface, and no one lifted it off afterward.”

Cheng Banshan said nothing more. His empty sleeve was tucked behind his back; one hand rested on his leg, knuckles tapping against the step as if calculating something.

Shi Po shifted on the steps. ”Sect Master,” he said in a low voice, ”let me try.”

”No,” Xu Yan said.

”I can take it.”

”Itʼs not about taking it,” Xu Yan said. ”Fellow Daoist Pang arrived first. Their three sects have been down here since last night. Our turn comes after theirs is done.”

Shi Po swallowed his words, straightened, and placed both hands on his knees.

At the hour of Shen, the light from the high crevice shifted to the middle of the stone floor, brightening into a small elongated patch.

Jinding Pavilion moved. Two disciples hauled a wooden chest over to the gate. Pang Ce lifted a bronze chisel from the lid—half an arm long, flat at one end and rounded at the other, the bronze worn bright. He tucked the hem of his outer robe into his belt, squatted before the gate, set the flat end against the seal pattern, and drove the heel of his palm down onto the chiselʼs tail.

A clean ring. The chisel slid along the seal pattern, its tip skidding from stone into the seam, bounced once, and flew from his hand.

Pang Ce retrieved it, tried another angle. This time the tip moved slower; he applied only half his strength, working it forward bit by bit. But when the chisel reached the corner of the seal pattern, it slipped again—the same clean ring, the tip springing free and dragging a faint bright line across the stone.

On the third attempt he wedged the chisel tip into the door seam and braced both hands on the shaft, levering outward. The bronze groaned. The door didnʼt move. The chisel slipped from the crack, his wrist twisted, and he caught himself against the stone wall.

The stone face was still pristine. The seal pattern didnʼt even have a scratch.

Pang Ce set the chisel aside and suddenly squatted down, running his palm over the shallow depression before the gate. The groove ran from the foot of the steps all the way under the gate, a little wider than a hand, polished bright by wear, smoother than the stone around it. He followed it down to the base of the gate, couldnʼt get his fingers into the seam, and drew his hand back, wiping it against his trousers.

”This groove was worn by walking,” he said, standing. He was speaking to Ke Wujiu.

Ke Wujiu came over for a look but didnʼt reply.

Gan Ren turned around from outside the threshold. He rolled his sleeves up two turns, planted his feet apart, and pressed both palms flat against the gate.

The first strike kicked up a layer of dust from the stone floor; it rose and settled again.

The second was heavier. A little stone powder sifted down from the high crevice and landed on Gan Renʼs shoulder.

Strike followed strike. Eventually he stopped shifting his breath; his palms began their attack an inch from the surface, landing with a short, muffled sound. The dust on the ground lifted clean off it, floating around his feet.

The gate didnʼt move. Neither did the half of the seal pattern on the frame.

After a dozen-odd strikes, Gan Ren withdrew, shook out his right hand—the webbing between his thumb and forefinger was red. ”Canʼt move it,” he said. Not loud. Not to anyone in particular.

The three sects had been testing since dawn. A full day.

Shao Ming crouched on the step below, turned his shoulder, and said quietly to Shi Po, ”You see that? The force in his palm disperses the moment it hits the face.”

Shi Po nodded.

”The gate is set into the cliff,” Shao Ming said. ”Force enters the gate; the gate doesnʼt move, so it travels off through the wall. Where it goes, you canʼt see.”

”Then where do you strike?” Shi Po asked.

”You tell me.”

Shi Po stared at the two doors for a while. He noticed that on either side of the black seam between door and frame ran an extremely thin edge, half-filled with dust, polished bright. ”The hinges,” he said.

”Where are the hinges?”

Shi Po looked longer, then shook his head. ”Canʼt see them.”

”If you canʼt see them, donʼt strike,” Shao Ming said. ”Strike blindly, and the force comes back and snaps your wrist first.”

Shi Po pressed his hands against his trousers and sat back, his eyes never leaving the gate.

Jiang Wan hadnʼt spoken the whole time. Around Gan Renʼs seventh or eighth strike, she suddenly said, loud enough only for those nearby to hear: ”His qi is running through his right shoulder.” A pause, then she added, ”From the third strike on, his heel lifts. When the heel comes up on a downward strike, you lose three-tenths of the force.”

Huo Qing stood half a step behind her, eyes also on the gate. ”After the fourth strike, the pause between strikes grew longer than before.”

”The force isnʼt connecting,” Jiang Wan said.

Huo Qing grunted in agreement.

Cheng Banshan, hearing clearly from above, gave a snort. ”Two sword cultivators, watching a man beat on a door for a quarter-hour, and thatʼs all you see.”

Jiang Wan didnʼt turn. ”Did Elder Cheng spot anything?”

”One thing,” Cheng Banshan said. ”His palmʼs definitely going to swell.”

Qian Duoduo hugged his bundle and asked quietly, ”What if they keep testing until dark?”

”Then they test until dark,” Xu Yan said.

”Then we—”

”Watch.”

Qian Duoduo clutched his bundle a little tighter. Du Xiaochuan offered him a drink of water; he shook his head.

The patch of light drifted from the center of the floor to a thin line near the base of the steps. The area before the gate grew dim instead. Ke Wujiu folded his three talismans neatly and tucked them back into his sleeve, wrapping the compass in a cloth. He walked to the foot of the steps, looked up at Xu Yan, and clasped his hands. ”Sect Master Xu, I canʼt open this door.” He spoke flatly, like quoting a price for goods. ”Thereʼs no formation beneath it. Taiyi Templeʼs methods end here.”

Xu Yan returned the salute. ”Safe travels, Fellow Daoist Ke.”

The Zhenyue disciples smoothed the dust before the gate. Pang Ce packed the bronze chisel into the chest, wiped both palms on his robe front twice, and walked to the base of the steps, looking up.

”Sect Master Xu is the landlord,” he said. ”Wonʼt you try?”

The steps went quiet. Qian Duoduoʼs hand froze on his bundle. Shi Po half-rose, but Shao Ming pressed him back down with one hand.

Xu Yan stood on the lowest step, still not stepping down. ”Fellow Daoist Pang arrived first,” he said. ”He tries first.”

Pang Ce looked at him for a moment, then laughed—neither light nor heavy. When the laugh was done, his eyes swept over the ten people sitting on the steps: empty-handed ones, bundle-huggers, one with a medicine pouch beside his leg.

”Three days until the gate is sealed,” he said, turning to call to the Jinding disciples. ”No point wasting more time on this door.” He bit down hard on the last two words: ”Up the mountain.”

Jinding Pavilionʼs people lifted the chest, rolled up their felt mats, and lit torches. Taiyi Temple followed suit, Ke Wujiu walking behind his own disciples. The three sects climbed the steps; the torchlight retreated layer by layer, and by the second switchback it was only a point of yellow.

Zhenyue Sect went last. Gan Ren wiped his palms dry on the corner of his robe, walked out from the gate, and stopped beside Shi Po.

”You were watching my hand earlier,” he said.

”I was,” Shi Po said.

”Notice anything?”

Shi Po looked at the right hand: the web between thumb and forefinger swollen red, the heel of the palm thickened. ”Itʼs swollen,” he said.

Gan Ren paused, then his face split into a grin, the laugh echoing once at the bottom of the steps. ”Good kid.” He tucked his hands into his sleeves, said nothing more, and started up. After a dozen or so steps, he stopped abruptly, glanced back down at the gate, said nothing, and turned to climb on.

The torchlight on the steps went out layer by layer. The footsteps faded, and from the direction of the stone wall came a very soft sound—then silence.

Only the ten Qingya people remained on the stone floor.

Xu Yan stepped off the last step and onto the stone. The dust had accumulated for who knew how many years; his sole sank half an inch. Step by step he walked to the gate, stopping three paces away.

The light remained only as a thin line near the base of the steps; the gate stood in shadow. By that last trace of light he studied the seal pattern: half on the door, half on the frame, the two halves edge to edge, perfectly fitted. Pang Ce had chiseled three times, Gan Ren had struck a dozen-odd times, and the seal pattern had not a chip, not a scratch. Then he looked down at the polished groove beneath the gate—Pang Ce was right; it was worn by walking. How many crossings would it take to wear a groove like that?

Behind him, Jiang Wan still sat on the third step, sword across her knees, silent.

”Sect Master.” Bai Xiaoman called from the steps. ”Tonight... where do we sleep?”

Xu Yan didnʼt answer right away. He stood before the gate, pressing his hands together inside his sleeves, and only then turned back.

The seal pattern lay on the seam, exactly as it had at the hour of Wu.