The Last Dual-Cultivator

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Yan Shuo ran.

He kicked his own lantern off the rail as he turned. It hit the stone and went out, plunging the tunnel behind him into darkness, save for the single lamp Zhao Kun had left burning on the overturned ore basket. That light threw three long shadows lurching after him down the slope.

”Get him!”

Gallery seven ran downhill for nearly four hundred paces before it split into the old workings. He knew every step of it. He had walked it twice a day for over a week, counted the rail joints, memorized which ties were cracked and where the floor dipped. In the pitch dark, his feet found the path the way a tongue finds a missing tooth.

Behind him, someone stumbled on a loose tie and swore viciously.

’Good,’ Qin Wuyue said. ’Make them run on your ground.’

His ribs ached exactly where Bai Rou had pronounced them healed. His breath came short. Three pursuers, all faster than him on open ground. Two of them were hired fighters at the fifth or sixth layer. If they caught him in the straightaway, it would be over in a few breaths.

So he would need to keep them out of the straight.

A hundred paces down, the gallery bent sharply left around a spur of hard rock. Yan Shuo swung around the corner, slapped his bare palm against the wall to keep his balance, and felt it.

The pulse.

The starving vein had been waiting for him. It came up through his palm, slow and deep. And with it, for one brief breath, he could feel the rock itself. Solid stone here. Hollow seams there. Old timber props just ahead, rotten to the very core, holding up a ceiling that had been waiting a long, tired time to fall.

He pulled his hand away before the pulse could climb any further. The hidden coal stirred, then settled. Grey water. Still. Nobody could see anything in this dark. Nobody had seen him do anything except touch a wall to catch his balance.

’Brat,’ Qin said sharply. ’The vein—’

’I know. I only listened.’

’Then listen faster. They’re gaining.’

The lamplight swung around the corner behind him, and Zhao Kun’s voice came with it, breathing hard and laughing. ”Where exactly are you going to go, trash? It’s a dead end down there!”

Yan Shuo knew better. He had read the dull grey threads of the vein for a week, and he knew that gallery seven ended in the old workings—a maze of half-collapsed side tunnels Steward Hao had marked off with red paint years ago.

Yan Shuo ran for the red markers.

He passed the first one, a slash of faded red on the wall at shoulder height, and heard Zhao Kun hesitate.

”He went past the line!”

”So?” one of the hired men growled. ”Paint’s not going to stop a knife.”

They came on.

Beyond the markers, the gallery narrowed, and the air grew thick and stale. The ceiling dropped so low Yan Shuo had to duck. Every few paces, rotten timber props leaned against the walls at drunken angles, their wood black and furred with pale mold. Fifteen years ago, the sect had decided this section wasn’t worth repairing. Nobody came down here.

He counted props as he ran. One. Two. Three.

The fourth was the one the stone had told him about. A thick upright post holding up a crossbeam that bowed in the middle. Above it ran a long, dark seam in the ceiling where the hard rock gave way to crumbling shale.

His lungs burned. His legs shook. He was a service disciple at the second layer of Qi Gathering with half-healed ribs, and he had perhaps thirty more paces in him at this speed.

And something inside him was pressing outward.

It had been building for days. Every night of his light duty, he had sat on his bunk running the Single Stream while the dormitory slept. Every night the pressure in his ordinary dantian had grown, a wall of thin ice with spring water piling up behind it. He had held it back on purpose. A sudden climb before the Re-Assessment would draw eyes.

Now, fear and exhaustion leaned against that wall with all their weight.

He felt it crack.

Qi flooded through his single meridian, warm and bright, sweeping into his limbs like a second wind. His legs steadied. His breath deepened. The darkness seemed to thin a little around the edges, just enough so he could make out the shapes of props and beams and the low ceiling just ahead.

Third layer.

Every thread of it was his own, born of six nights of patient work, and the hidden coal lay perfectly quiet beneath the water.

’There,’ Qin breathed. ’Use it.’

Yan Shuo ran past the fourth prop, spun on his heel, and swung his pick.

The heavy iron head bit into the rotten post at knee height. The wood gave with a wet crunch. For one long, silent heartbeat, absolutely nothing happened.

Then, the crossbeam groaned.

Yan Shuo was already running again. Behind him, the lamplight came bobbing around the last bend. Zhao Kun was in front, the hired men a few paces behind. He saw Zhao Kun’s face catch the glow, flushed and grinning, the broad knife raised high.

He saw Zhao Kun look up.

The ceiling came down.

It came all at once, with a sound like the mountain clearing its throat. Shale and dust poured out of the seam in a roaring grey wall. The crossbeam snapped in two. The lamp vanished. Somebody screamed, a sound instantly cut short by the thunder of falling rock, and a hot gust of dust blasted down the tunnel, throwing Yan Shuo flat on his face against the floor.

He lay there with his arms over his head while the mountain settled around him.

It took a long time. Rocks ticked and clattered. Dust hissed down in fine streams. Somewhere far behind the fall, muffled through tons of stone, voices were shouting and coughing.

Then, it went quiet.

Yan Shuo pushed himself up onto his elbows and coughed until his ribs screamed. The air was thick enough to chew. He groped for his flint, struck it three times with shaking fingers, and lit the stub of candle he kept in his sleeve for emergencies.

The little flame showed a wall of broken rock filling the tunnel from floor to ceiling, ten paces behind him.

And at the foot of it, half buried, was Zhao Kun.

He had been in front. He had almost made it. A slab of shale lay across both his legs from the knees down. He was clawing at the floor with his fingers, his face grey with dust and bone-white beneath it. The knife lay a pace from his hand, just out of reach.

On the far side of the fall, the muffled shouting had become two voices arguing. Then one voice. Then footsteps, retreating fast, heading back toward the main gallery and the lift.

The hired men had decided they were not paid nearly enough for this.

Zhao Kun heard them go. Yan Shuo watched him understand it, and watched his face change.

”Wait,” Zhao Kun croaked, his voice cracking. ”Come back. Come back, you cowards!”

Nobody came back.

Yan Shuo got to his feet. He walked over, slowly, and stopped beside the knife. He picked it up and turned it in the candlelight. It was a good knife. Heavy. Broad. Sharpened to a vicious gleam.

Zhao Kun stared up at him.

The Outer Valley had a long memory, and so did Yan Shuo. Six years of shoves in the meal line. Six years of his rice bowl knocked into the dirt, and the laughter afterward. The beating on the track ten days ago, the boot on his hand, the voice saying make it look true.

And now this. A knife, and two hired killers, and a young master’s regards.

”Your legs are broken,” Yan Shuo said quietly. ”The air back here is bad. Hao marked this section off fifteen years ago, and nobody comes past the red paint. If I walk away, Senior Brother, you’ll be here a very long time.”

Zhao Kun’s lips moved but nothing came out.

”You came down here to make me an accident.” Yan Shuo crouched beside him, the candle in one hand and the knife in the other. ”It seems to be catching.”

”Please.” It came out as a ragged whisper. Zhao Kun’s eyes were wet. ”Please. It wasn’t my idea. The young master, he paid me, he said, please—”

Yan Shuo looked at him for a long moment.

Then he tucked the knife into his own belt and stood up.

”I know whose idea it was,” he said.

He walked back up the tunnel toward the lift, shielding the candle flame with his hand, and left Zhao Kun crying in the dark behind him.

Steward Hao heard the cave-in from his stool by the lift. By the time Yan Shuo reached the main gallery, the old man was already shuffling toward gallery seven with a lantern in each hand, half a dozen deep-shaft workers behind him carrying ropes and pry bars.

Hao stopped when he saw Yan Shuo coated head to foot in grey dust.

”Seven?”

”Past the red markers, Steward. The props came down.” Yan Shuo coughed. ”There’s a man trapped under the fall. Outer disciple. His legs are pinned.”

Hao’s dried-plum face creased further. ”What’s an outer disciple doing past my markers?”

Yan Shuo drew the broad knife from his belt and held it out, handle first.

”Chasing me with this,” he said. ”There were two more with him. Not sect disciples but hired men. They ran for the lift when the ceiling fell.”

Hao looked at the knife for a long time.

The deep-shaft workers behind him went very quiet. Every one of them knew what level nine was. Every one of them knew what it meant when outsiders came down the lift with blades.

”Old props on seven,” Hao said at last, slowly. ”I’ve been telling the Law Hall for ten years those props would go.” He took the knife and tucked it into his sash. ”Bad luck for whoever was under them.” His eyes flicked to Yan Shuo. ”Good luck for whoever wasn’t.”

He jerked his chin at the workers. ”Dig him out. Carefully. The Law Hall will want to hear him explain himself.”

They went. Hao didn’t follow at once. He stood a moment longer, looking at Yan Shuo with his flat, tired eyes.

”You knew those props were rotten,” he said.

”Everyone on nine knows the props past the markers are rotten, Steward.”

Hao grunted.

”So they do,” he said, and shuffled off after his men.

It took the workers an hour to dig Zhao Kun out.

They brought him up gallery seven on a door laid across two ore carts, both legs splinted with pry bars, his face turned to the wall. He didn’t look at Yan Shuo as they wheeled him past. The deep-shaft workers did. Every one of them, one after another, looked at the dust-covered service disciple who had walked out of the old workings while the man with the knife had to be carried.

Nobody said anything. Nobody needed to. By morning, all of level nine would know the story, and by evening, the Outer Valley would too.

Zhao Kun, seventh layer, Elder Gu’s favorite runner, had brought hired outsiders into the sect’s mines to murder a service disciple. And the mountain had dropped a ceiling on him for it.

A mine accident. Bad props. Bad luck.

The sort of thing that happened all the time.

Yan Shuo sat on an overturned cart by the lift and let the dust settle on him and breathed. Third layer. He could feel it humming in his meridian, steady and new.

’You let him live,’ Qin said quietly.

’A dead outer disciple is a mystery. But a living one with broken legs and a murder knife would be a story.’

’Cold, brat.’ But she didn’t sound displeased.

Across the cavern, at the mouth of the barracks tunnel, a thin figure in a work robe stood with a half-eaten bun in one hand, staring at the stretcher as it rolled onto the lift. The new Law Hall watcher. He had come back from his meal to find his quiet assignment turned completely upside down.

His gaze moved from the stretcher to Yan Shuo. It stayed there for a long moment, dark and entirely unreadable.

Then he dropped the bun, stepped onto the lift beside the stretcher, and rode it up into the dark without a single word.

’Running to his master,’ Qin said softly. ’Let’s see what a patient man does when someone else tries to steal from his garden.’