Chapter 219 — Floor One

CHAPTER 219

Floor One

Nine nights of patrol paid twenty-seven spirit stones, and the Treasury converted them into contribution points with the face of a man handing over his own purse.

“Twenty-seven points,” Elder Qian Mo said through the window. “One day on the Sword Pagoda's first floor costs twenty-five. Spend the extra two on something sensible.”

“Like what?” Shi Feng asked.

“Soap,” Qian Mo said.

The window shut. Zhu Liu wrote the figure down, then wrote “soap” next to it, then crossed it out.

The Sword Pagoda stood at the north end of Thousand Forge Peak, a tower of grey stone with a roof that had been mended with tiles of three different colours. A bamboo grove surrounded it.

At the door sat an old keeper in a patched jacket, holding a cup of tea in both hands.

“Foundation Establishment-grade arts on the first floor,” Keeper Ou said. “Twenty-five points for a day. Choose a circle, watch its tablet, and copy the form. Don’t rush it. One mouthful won’t make a fat man. Most disciples take a month to learn one art.”

“I'd like three,” Shi Feng said.

Keeper Ou finally looked up. His eyes went to Shi Feng's belt, to the plain knife, to the outer-court token.

“In one day?” Keeper Ou asked.

“I only have one day paid for,” Shi Feng said.

“Hm,” Keeper Ou said, in the voice of a man who had heard enough boasts to fill a well. “Third circle, left wall. Don't break the tablets.”

The first floor was one long hall of pale stone, with forty circles carved into the floor and a tablet standing in each. Three disciples sat cross-legged near the entrance, frowning at the slow shapes the tablets showed them.

Shi Feng chose Hanging Rain Sword first. It was a defensive form, all small cuts and quick turns, designed to keep a blade between the user and the world. He stepped into the circle. The tablet flickered, and a pale figure of light began to move.

He watched it once.

Then he copied it. The wrist came first, then the footwork, and by the third pass he stopped thinking about it. His Iron River Sword Art had given him a base of rhythm, and the new form fit onto it easily.

“One,” Shi Feng said to himself.

Hanging Rain reached Entry in the time it took the incense stick on the wall to burn down to its first notch.

He moved to Iron Gate Thrust, a hard, straight form that taught a swordsman to hold a doorway against anything. The tablet's figure of light drove forward again and again. Shi Feng drove forward with it. His knife was too light for the art, but his arm wasn't.

Entry.

Stone Splitting Slash was the third. It was ugly and heavy, and the pale figure on its tablet grew visibly tired as it swung. When he finished, the tablet flickered once, slowly, like a lamp running low.

Entry again.

Zhu Liu was watching from the doorway with his receipt book held against his ribs.

“Senior Brother Shi,” Zhu Liu whispered. “That was fast, wasn't it?”

“So-so,” Shi Feng said.

“So-so?” Zhu Liu said.

“Chief Disciple Lin only needs one look,” Shi Feng said, wiping his forehead. “I had to copy it three times before it felt right.”

Behind them, a cup clattered on stone.

Keeper Ou stood in the hall's entrance. The tea he had been holding lay broken at his feet, pooling toward the nearest circle. His hands were still raised, as if they hadn't noticed their burden was gone.

“Three arts,” Keeper Ou said.

“Yes,” Shi Feng said.

“Three arts in one day,” Keeper Ou said.

“I only paid for one day,” Shi Feng said.

“Eleven days,” Keeper Ou said weakly. “That’s our record for three arts. Two hundred years of disciples, and eleven days was the best. Beyond the sky there is another sky; beyond people there are other people.” He pointed at the plaque overhead. “And you’re calling yourself slow? Who are you comparing yourself with?”

“Chief Disciple Lin,” Shi Feng said.

Keeper Ou opened his mouth. Then he closed it, because a man could not argue with that comparison. Everyone on the mountain knew what Lin Langtian was. Nobody had ever managed to measure it.

“…I'll get a mop,” Keeper Ou said.

Outside, the afternoon sun lay across the bamboo. Shi Feng was folding his token away when someone stepped out of the grove and blocked the path.

Gongsun Ce had his arms crossed. A puppet hung from his belt, its repaired elbow catching the light. He had clearly been waiting for some time.

“Three arts,” Gongsun Ce said. “I heard.”

“News travels fast,” Shi Feng said.

“He called for a mop in front of eleven people,” Gongsun Ce said, irritated. “Of course I heard. But the quarterly assessment’s coming, and the top scorer becomes a core disciple. I intend to win that place.”

“I assumed you did,” Shi Feng said.

“Then let's make it interesting.” Gongsun Ce uncrossed his arms. “I wager I'll be named core disciple before you reach peak Foundation Establishment. Payable in the usual currency.”

Shi Feng thought about it. Peak Foundation Establishment was one step from where he stood, and a step could be long or short. A rival who kept betting would keep him moving.

“Accepted,” Shi Feng said.

Gongsun Ce was surprised by the quick acceptance. He’d expected to have to provoke Shi Feng into a wager. With nothing left to say, he stalked through the bamboo. The repaired puppet bounced against his belt.

Zhu Liu came out of the doorway, very quietly.

“Senior Brother Shi,” Zhu Liu said. “What is the usual currency?”

“I don't know,” Shi Feng said. “I'll find out when I win.”