My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 181: Half a Sheet of Paper in the Stone Box

He stepped over the threshold first, walked five paces, then blew the fire starter to life.

The flame was only a tiny bead. He cupped it with his left hand; the light fell three feet in front of him, and beyond that the darkness held. The dry air of three hundred years rushed into his nose and tickled. He raised a sleeve over his mouth and nose, stood still and waited for it to pass. He waited a good while before the itch in his throat receded. He did not press deeper at once. He made a mental note: the fire starter burned fast and limited. When it looked low, he had to move.

The stone chamber was small—four or five paces square—and he could not touch the ceiling with an upraised hand. Where the flame leaned, the shadows leaned with it. When he took a step, the black shape on the wall took one too, spreading until it covered half the wall. The four walls were bare. No carved characters, no carved lines, no painted marks. He ran the back of his hand along the stone as he went, pausing where the damp gathered thickest, then moved on. The floor was level, covered in an even layer of fine dust. His footprints left a trail behind him. In the center of the room stood a waist-high stone platform, and on the platform sat a stone box.

Both doors were recessed into the rock. Five paces from where he stood to the threshold. He could get out. And if he could not, it would not matter: he had opened the door himself, and the ledger was in his hand.

He did not touch the platform at first. He circled the chamber once, crouching to inspect all four corners: no bones, no broken tiles, nothing else. One patch on the south wall was lighter in color—water had dripped there once and dried. He touched it. Nothing came off on his fingertip.

This room did not look like a resting place, nor a storehouse. Empty as it was, holding only a single box, it seemed built for the sole purpose of keeping this one thing.

He returned to the platform and tilted his head to listen toward the door. A dozen or so steps above, nine people slept. The silence was so deep he could hear his own sleeve brush against his clothes. He set the fire starter on the platform, an inch from the stone box, so more light fell on the lid. The flame stood straight, perfectly still. The box cast a square, clean-edged shadow on the stone.

No characters on the lid. No marks, no polished designs. The dust lay as thick as on the platform, too thick to tell whether anyone had touched it. Between lid and body ran a fine seam, no lock, no clasp. He pressed both hands against his clothes to dry the sweat from his palms, then set them on the lid. He tried a little force. The dust in the seam cracked open in a line. He stopped, listened again, then pushed along the groove.

Stone ground against stone. The sound was small, but the room was so empty that any sound rang too loud. He pushed it open an inch and paused. Another inch, paused again. Once, someone above shifted in sleep. He kept his hands still on the lid until the sound passed, then pushed on. At three inches, the lid came free. He lifted it and laid it sideways on the other end of the platform.

The bottom of the box was dusted too. On the dust lay a sheet of paper, folded in half. One edge was even; the other was a torn break—frayed at the edge, not cut.

He did not reach for it at once. First he ran through the reckoning: within the Hidden Realm, each kept what they found. The entrance only counted heads—no inspection, no reporting. Old objects bearing a sectʼs name or mark belonged to that sect. This box carried no name. He would still have to check the paper itself. Only after he finished that reckoning did his hand go out.

The paper was more brittle than it looked. He pinched the even edge between two fingers and lifted gently. One corner drooped, then bent back, and did not break. He held the paper to the light and first studied the fold line: hard, pressed for countless years. The paper had memorized the crease. Then he propped open the spreadable corner and looked.

The corner was ink. The ink base was dark, pressed deep and solid, and over it stood white characters—the white left where the steleʼs surface had been carved in. The paper was old, but the ink had not bled. Under his fingertips it held a faint ridge, passing over them joint by joint. The stone beneath his knees was cold. He shifted his weight to the other leg before slowly folding back the sealed half, bit by bit, until he could make out a full face, propping his elbow on the platform to spare his strength, keeping the sweat from his fingers.

The stele crown ran across the top. The paper was broken on the right; that half was gone with the torn edge. The character on the left was whole: ”Tian.” The one on the right had only the leftward stroke remaining, sweeping upward, cut off at the break. Put together, they were recognizable: ”Heng.”

Tianheng.

He knew the name, and for no small reason: at the center of the Alliance Headquarters stood a Tianheng Stele. Sects above Fourth Rank, when they rose to that level, had to be assessed before it—one sect after another, standing before the stele while the Headquarters took their measure. Everyone who dealt in rank assessments had heard that steleʼs name. Qingya was still far from Fourth Rank; he knew the name only from other peopleʼs mouths.

He did not pursue the thought.

Beneath the stele crown ran a few vertical columns of small script, row after row, the strokes dense. He read down to the break: the paper was torn in the middle, and the rest sat folded in the other half. He did not read aloud, nor did he piece the recognizable strokes into sentences in his mind. He had seen enough to settle one thing: this was a rubbing taken from the stele—not a ledger page, not a document, not a receipt issued by any sect.

He looked over everything visible, then turned the paper over to check the back: blank, only an old fold crease. The four edges, the four corners, the bottom of the box, its inner walls, the underside of the lid—he checked them all. No vermilion mark, no signature and seal, no sect name. He brushed aside the dust at the bottom of the box and looked: no second sheet, nothing padding underneath.

He folded the paper shut along its original crease. First he laid it back on the platform, aligned it to the old line, pressed along the fold with two fingers, checked it—both edges even—then closed the other half. Once shut, it clung to itself, as if it had never been opened. He reached into his clothes and found the edge of the page he wore close to his chest. That page was folded as well, its edge rough, scorched. He slipped this new sheet in along the crease, placed it beside that page, pressed down with the cloth inside. Neither page was thick; only by pressing could he tell there was an extra layer now.

He pushed the lid back, all the way to the end, and the dust along the seam settled shut. Two push marks remained on the platform. He did not wipe them: wiping would not make it look untouched; it would look like someone came and wiped after themselves.

He raised the fire starter and turned. The light swept past the back of the platform and fell on a flight of stone steps.

The platform stood two paces from the rear wall. The steps descended from there—the first three visible, but from the fourth down, they were blocked by a single massive stone. Its faces were smoothly finished, wedged into the stairwell, the seams packed with dust. The dust was dry. No fingerprints, no prying marks.

He crouched and held his palm over those three steps, waiting: no draft from below, no sound. The dust lay as thick on the steps as on the floor. Not a single footprint. The stoneʼs color was a shade darker than the walls on either side. Near the left wall there was one chisel mark, then nothing more had ever been done. Whoever did this was in no hurry, and did not fear being seen—back then, there was likely no one to see.

He took the ledger from his clothes and pressed it to the stoneʼs face.

The ledger produced no characters, no sign at all. He shifted it to three spots: the center, one near the left wall, one beside the chisel mark. All three the same. Each time he held it there for the space of a full breath, until the back of his hand turned cold, then moved it away. The stoneʼs face gave nothing back—no pattern, no impression. It was just a stone, wedged there.

He withdrew his hand. Whether it could be moved or not, the ledger would tell him. It told him nothing—so it was a thing he could not move. He did not touch the stone again. When he stood, his knees carried up a layer of dust, and he clapped it off onto the third step. When he looked back, two faint knee prints marked the dust on those three steps, shallow, like the two push marks on the platform. He did not wipe those either.

The fire starterʼs flame had shrunk. It was burning faster than heʼd expected. One tube, nursed carefully, was enough to see a single room. This room was done, and the remaining flame had to be kept for the path out of the Hidden Realm. He held it in one hand, pressed the other against his chest: the two pages lay together, against his heart, a small hard square. He pressed again, smoothing it flat, then closed the fire starter and blew it out.

Darkness fell. The hairline of light at the door crack was still there, a thin bright line. He stood still, letting his eyes adjust, then followed that line to the door, testing each step with his foot before shifting weight.

Outside was a little brighter. The stone floor held a faint gray-white, night light seeping down from the stone steps above. He crossed the threshold, walked three paces, and looked back.

The two doors had already closed. They showed no sign of having been opened. The seal pattern floated up through the stoneʼs natural color, bit by bit, half rising onto the one door, half onto the frame, thickening until it matched the daylightʼs depth, then stilled. The dust in the seam was where it had always been.

He climbed, one hand on the stone wall. A dozen-something steps, one at a time. At the turn, he stopped and first peered toward the doorway: no one in the opening, no one on the stairs. A draft came down from somewhere above, thinning the dry dust smell from his clothes.

He sat back down at the entrance, in the same spot as before, smoothing his clothes, hands resting on his knees, back against a stone beside the doorway.

Only then did he listen to the room inside.

Nine peopleʼs breathing, one by one, just as before. The one by the door, deep; the one furthest inside, halting, stopping and resuming; two in the middle, one rough, one even; in the corner, the lightest of all, so light it was almost inaudible. He counted once: nine. Counted again: still nine. The roster listed ten; the stone chamber held ten. The two numbers matched.

Jiang Wanʼs breath was longer than the Hai hour called for. She turned over against the wall; her sword sheath knocked against stone, once, then silence. No one woke. In Huo Qingʼs corner, there was no movement at all.

He sat and ran the nightʼs ledger through his mind: how many steps, how many paces, how many sounds of stone—all within those dozen-something steps. No one in the stone chamber had gotten up. The door had opened and closed; the box had opened and shut; the dust on the stone had not been wiped; there was now one more page against his chest.

That page did not enter the books. It was not in the cash box, not in the account books; it was not spirit stones, not medicine, not herbs—unsold, unrecorded. It was his alone to keep.

If no one asked after sunrise, then this matter would simply be two pages pressed against his body, concerning no one else. If anyone asked about that door, he would tell only the truth—the door was as it always had been.

Thinking this, his hand went again to his chest, pressing until he found the paperʼs edge, then returned to his knee. The cold from the stone wall seeped into him layer by layer. He straightened his posture a little and thought through the Mao hour as well: Bai Xiaoman would come to look at the door. If she asked, he would answer plainly—one sentence, nothing more.

The gray-white line above the stone steps thickened, little by little. The Yin hour passed. In the stone chamber someone turned over, someone coughed, someone felt along the floor for their shoes.

He did not go in and lie down. He stayed seated beneath the doorway, rubbing his hands together over his knees once.

That layer of paper over his heart stayed where it was, always there.