Chapter 115: The Iron Staff in the Torchlight

On the twenty-seventh day of the Second Month, in the Monkey hour, the sun had dropped to the western slope. The veranda lay half in light, half in shadow.

Huo Qing stood before the old wooden target. Thrust, withdraw. Wood shavings fell at his feet.

Qi Qi came down the veranda, each footstep sounding on the brick. He stopped beside the target. "I'm heading down."

The tip of Huo Qing's sword paused against the target before drawing back. "Watch two things."

"His opening, and how he fights within that one incense stick."

"Don't let him see you."

"He won't see me." Qi Qi tugged his sleeve down. "Leave in the Monkey hour, reach the slope by the Rooster hour, back before dark."

Huo Qing nodded once. The sword went out again.

In the courtyard, Shi Po stood in pillar training, a ring of white dust around his feet where the green bricks had been worn down a layer. Eyes still closed, he said, "Don't go over the wall."

"I won't."

At the kitchen door, Qian Duoduo chased out two steps and stuffed two flatbreads into Qi Qi's chest. "Cold. Eat them on the road."

"Won't pick anything on the way down the ridge," Qi Qi said, tucking the bread inside his robe. "Won't mooch off anyone either."

Qian Duoduo wiped his hands on his apron and went back inside.

Out the Mountain Gate, east, up the Back Ridge. The Second Month wind poured down off the ridge; the trees hadn't leafed out yet, branches thin, not enough to hide a man. At the fork in the road, those twelve mu of spirit fields below the mountain lay under a skin of thin water, catching the sky, fine ripples running across the surface. Farther east, the ridgeline was so narrow two men could barely walk abreast, slopes dropping away on both sides. Looking west, you could see Qingya's back mountain behind you; looking east, that stretch of tiled roofs belonging to Chixiao, and among them a raised platform, open on all four sides.

Thirty li, over one ridge, one shichen.

Qi Qi kept his steps light, walking a while, resting a while. Early in the Rooster hour, he picked his way down the east slope along a path the goats had worn, down to the dry gully outside the wall, then climbed halfway back up and flattened himself behind a dwarf cypress.

The wall was built of mountain stone, capped with tile. The slope sat higher than the wall, and the open ground inside was clear to see—only the wind got in the way, so sound reached the ear already thinned.

He waited close to an hour. The cold bored up from the ground into his knees; he shifted his weight twice before he could press his body as flat as the slope. The hard edge of that flatbread pressed against his ribs. He didn't touch it.

At the end of the Rooster hour, someone came out inside the wall. An outer disciple in red robes carrying a fire starter, lighting the two torches set on either side of the martial platform. The flames leapt up, and the stone posts buried halfway into the platform showed themselves one by one—five of them, the exposed stumps battered and pocked. The second one from the east had taken the worst of it, a ring of stone dust around its base, shards piled against the bricks at the platform's edge. The disciple finished lighting and went back inside. No one else came out.

A while later, Zhou Kui walked up from the veranda onto the platform. Red single-layer robes, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He lifted that iron staff—the one level with a man's brow—from the base of the wall, weighed it across his palm, walked to the center of the platform, planted his feet apart, and stood.

The first strike landed, a dull thud.

Through the wall, Qi Qi listened, and the sound didn't carry the weight it showed to the eye—if anything it came heavier to the ear. His hand went out along the slope, feeling for pebbles. He found one, remembered he wasn't supposed to pick anything this trip, and put it back. He pressed his fingernail into the flat stone beside his foot instead.

Ten strikes, one scratch.

The first round ran some thirty-odd strikes. When it ended he stopped, stayed standing rather than sit, lifted a hand and wiped his neck, then started again.

The second round opened faster. The staff still came down on those five posts, one after another, the post faces beaten white with powder, shards spitting onto the bricks at the platform's edge. Qi Qi's finger kept count, his nail scratching a second line into the stone.

Halfway through the third round, his neck turned red. The red climbed from that line at the collar up to his ears.

Qi Qi looked at his face again. The torches were close, the face was lit clear—still its original color.

He filed that away and kept watching. Striking that hard, sweat should have been streaming down his forehead; under the torchlight it was plain to see—his forehead held only a sheen, not a single drop rolling down.

Fourth round, fifth. The staff fell on the posts again and again, the sound never slowing. A drop of fire oil dripped from a torch, the flame guttering sideways before straightening. After every round, his hand came up to his neck and wiped. The hand came down—no flick, no wiping it off, and it was dry.

The wind leaned the flames over, shadows stretching long across the platform and snapping back. Inside the wall, the lamps in the other buildings went out one by one, until only those two torches remained. Qi Qi remembered Xu Yan saying "be back before dark," and drew his hand off the stone, flexing it inside his sleeve. It was already pitch dark. He pressed himself lower and decided to wait for the last round—thirty-odd strikes a round, worth the wait.

Qi Qi's nail scratched a sixth line.

In the latter part of the sixth round, he slammed the staff down against the platform and stood still after it. He raised a hand and touched his neck, then lowered his head and extended his right wrist, pressing the fingers of his left hand against it. He pressed for a long while before lifting the staff and walking back to the veranda.

The torches on the platform still burned—both of them.

Qi Qi ran the timing through his mind: out the Mountain Gate in the Monkey hour, in place on the slope early in the Rooster hour, torches lit at the end of the Rooster hour—now it was the Dog hour. Six rounds, a hundred and seventy-odd strikes, and he hadn't sat down once. Back on the second day of the Ninth Month, Alliance Year 300, it had been sixty-odd strikes to one incense stick, and by the end the posts had cracked. He was still at it.

He withdrew down the slope, followed the goat path into the gully, then back up the ridge. The wind pushed at his back the whole way. When he came through the Mountain Gate, the front courtyard was empty, the kitchen dark. The Accounts Room door stood open a crack, a strip of light inside.

Early in the Hai hour, Qi Qi scraped his shoes twice on the stone step at the threshold before going in. He found the clay pot on the table first and poured half a bowl of cold water, downed it in one go.

"You're late." Xu Yan set his brush on the inkstone.

"He didn't stop until the Dog hour. I waited for his last round."

"Anyone see you on the road?"

"No. Didn't meet anyone on the ridgeline, and the gully outside the wall was empty."

"Give me the times."

"Out the Mountain Gate in the Monkey hour. In place on the east slope early in the Rooster hour. Torches lit at the end of the Rooster hour—two of them. He put the staff down in the Dog hour." Qi Qi set the bowl down. "The opening's still from the right, pressed down and not lifted. When he finishes, the staff comes up half an inch first, his waist rising with it. Same as Huo Qing said."

"How many strikes."

"Six rounds, a hundred and seventy-odd." Qi Qi said. "Between rounds he rests two breaths. He doesn't sit—stands, wipes his neck once, and starts again."

Xu Yan pulled that old ledger slip out from under the abacus and spread it beside his hand, then dragged the abacus in front of him, pushed two beads up, stopped, and slid it back to the corner of the desk.

"What else."

"His neck goes red to the ears. The red won't reach his face. No sweat—there was only a sheen on his forehead, and the hand he wiped with was dry." Qi Qi thought for a moment. "One more thing. After the last round, he stood there pressing his right wrist, for a long while."

Xu Yan's hand stopped over the paper. The brush didn't come down.

"Back on the ninth of the ninth, it was sixty-odd strikes to one incense stick." Qi Qi picked up the thread himself. "This time, most of a shichen, a hundred and seventy-odd strikes. Never sat down once."

"Did he ever look up at the wall?"

"No. After each round he looked at the posts, then raised his hand and wiped his neck. The second post from the east took the most. The ring of stone dust around its base was swept twice."

Only then did Xu Yan put a few strokes to the paper, writing slowly. When he finished, he folded the slip once and pressed it back under the abacus.

"There's a pot of porridge left in the kitchen," he said.

"First, talk."

Xu Yan didn't push. He shook out his sleeves and stood. "Come with me to the Medicine Hall."

A small lamp burned in the Medicine Hall. Cheng Banshan sat on a low stool, one foot holding the stone mortar steady, one hand pushing the grinding wheel. The wine gourd rested on his knee, the stopper out, the room thick with the smell of liquor.

He glanced at the two in the doorway and didn't stop working. "Talk."

"Zhou Kui of Chixiao, alone on the inner sect martial platform tonight, striking stone posts." Qi Qi said. "Six rounds, a hundred and seventy-odd strikes, most of a shichen without sitting. Neck red to the ears, face not red, no sweat. When he stopped, he wiped his neck, then pressed his right wrist."

The grinding wheel stopped.

Cheng Banshan pressed the stopper back into the wine gourd, wound the cord around it twice, hung it back on his belt, freed that hand, and pressed it against his knee. "Go through it again. Toward the end—his hand, faster or slower."

"Not slower. The sound on the stone didn't change."

"Face red or not."

"Face not red."

"Sweat."

"None. The hand he wiped with was dry."

Cheng Banshan leaned toward the lamp. He studied Qi Qi, then looked at Xu Yan.

"Eight in ten it's Boiling Spirit Powder."

Xu Yan took his hand off his cuff. "What's it do?"

"A spirit-surging elixir." Cheng Banshan said. "The Alliance bans this one. When I was learning, my master named it first."

"How is it used."

"Taken for several days running. The last pill right before the match." He held up a finger. "Borrowed power for one incense stick—early Foundation Establishment strength."

"One incense stick."

"One stick, not a breath more." Cheng Banshan said. "The drug locks the power in the meridians. It can't be released outward, so it all piles up at the neck and shows. The neck reddens first, the face reddens behind. Sweat is suppressed—can't come out. No matter how hard he fights, his clothes stay dry."

"His neck," Xu Yan said.

"Red to the ears. Not the mark of one or two days."

"How do you test it."

"Prick a drop of blood into a bowl of clear water." Cheng Banshan said. "If the water reddens, it's him. Xu Yan, the method's clear when I look at it; someone else might not see it. To check by the neck, he has to lower his head—and few men are willing to lower their heads."

Xu Yan didn't answer that. He reached into his robe and felt the registration rules, his fingers stopping at the two folded creases.

"It's written in the rules: magic implements, talismans, and formation banners may be used; taking medicine on the field is forbidden." He read it out slowly, line by line. "There's another article: before the match, the ring judge inspects the body face to face. If the chief judge sees cause for doubt on the field, he may descend and inspect personally, and the chief judge's inspection stands. Anyone confirmed to have taken a spirit-surging elixir loses that round, the sect's ranking is struck off, and it is filed on record."

"Written as 'confirmed taken,'" Cheng Banshan said.

"'Confirmed taken.'" Xu Yan folded the rules back up and tucked them away.

"How do you plan to say all this."

"Tomorrow at the Dragon hour, in the Main Hall." Xu Yan said. "First, lay out what we know clearly. Whoever understands can do their own math."

Cheng Banshan didn't answer. He laid his hands flat on his knees. The room went quiet; the lamp wick burned to its bend, the flame dipping low, then straightening again.

"Elder Cheng, this drug—what happens to a man afterward." Xu Yan asked.

Cheng Banshan lifted his eyes from the lamp and looked at the two at the door.

"Borrowed strength. What's borrowed cuts out within one incense stick. Afterward, the meridians empty out."

Qi Qi looked down at his shoes. The mud on the uppers had dried; he scraped at it with a nail, and a piece flaked off.