Chapter 431 — Floor Three

CHAPTER 431

Floor Three

“No,” Keeper Bian said.

He was a stooped old man with a cane, a lantern and a hoarse, irritable voice. He stood at the top of the second flight of the Sword Pagoda, in front of a plain black door, holding the register at arm's length in disbelief.

“It's the register,” Shi Feng said.

“It's wrong!” Keeper Bian declared, shaking the book. “Floor one, forty circles, cleared in a week. Floor two, twelve tablets, cleared in six days. Ember Rain Sword, Major Success to Perfection in eight days. Eight! This is ink from somebody's imagination.”

“Eight days,” Keeper Ou said from the stairs, with the pride of a man who'd been shouting it for months.

“I don't believe you either!” Keeper Bian snapped.

“Keeper Yan signed the second floor,” Shi Feng said. “Elder Tian Luo countersigned. Sect Master Li wrote the leave on the back.”

He held out a cabbage invoice. It was creased, and it smelled faintly of cabbage. On the back, in a shaky hand, it said: Let the boy in. He'll pay. — L.C.

Keeper Bian read it three times. Then he read the register again, then the invoice again. He looked at Shi Feng's bandaged right arm and the grey Sword on his back.

“The third floor is for Nascent Soul,” Keeper Bian said. “I have eaten more salt than you have eaten rice, boy. The door reads the soul. You are a Golden Core boy with a core not half full.”

“Then the door will refuse me,” Shi Feng said.

“It will, and I'll write ‘refused’ in the book, and the book will be right for once,” Keeper Bian said.

He pushed the black door.

It opened.

The door swung inward without a sound. It had accepted him, despite Keeper Bian's warning. Keeper Bian stared at it. A cold smell of river stone and wet iron drifted out.

“It reads fullness,” Keeper Bian said weakly. “Not realm. I knew that about floor two. But floor three...” He stopped, unable to explain it. “It's an old door. It might be confused.”

“Or it's a good door,” Shi Feng said.

He went in.

The third floor was a long room with no walls, only columns, and between the columns stood one hundred and eight stone tablets, each carved with a flowing line. At the thirty-first tablet he stopped.

SEVERING RIVER SWORD. NASCENT SOUL-GRADE.

The carving ran down the tablet like water. At its end hung the single sentence of instruction: Cut what has no edge.

He studied it for an hour. Then he drew the Sword and cut at a thread of mist falling from the ceiling, and the mist parted. For a breath, the two halves hung in the air and did not close. Then they came together again.

At the foot of the stairs, Keeper Bian dropped his lantern.

“That was Entry,” Keeper Bian whispered. “That was Entry. On the first day.”

“It's a so-so cut,” Shi Feng said.

“So-so?” Keeper Bian asked.

“It didn't stay open long,” Shi Feng said.

“Boy,” Keeper Bian said, “the last man to reach Entry on this tablet took forty-one years. He's dead. I attended.”

“I'll try to last longer,” Shi Feng said.

Gongsun Ce was waiting at the Pagoda door with a very small piece of paper.

He wore his grey robe looking reluctant to approach. One of his puppets stood beside him holding a pen, ready to witness the payment.

“I understand there was a bet,” Gongsun Ce said stiffly.

“Ten days,” Shi Feng said. “She would throw me out.”

“She did not throw you out,” Gongsun Ce said.

“No,” Shi Feng said.

“You were there a month,” Gongsun Ce complained, unfolding the paper. “At the end of which you were escorted to the border by the lady herself. The Valley is a small place. Three people have already told me, none of whom I asked.” He cleared his throat. “I pay the stake, in the usual currency.”

He held out the paper. Shi Feng read it.

“It's the same size as last time,” Shi Feng said.

“Small characters fit on small paper,” Gongsun Ce replied stiffly. “You can still read it.”

“Does it say what the currency is?” Shi Feng asked.

“It says, ‘paid,’” Gongsun Ce said. “This does not count.”

“It counts,” Shi Feng said, and put the paper in his sleeve.

That evening in hut nine, Sima Lan unwound the old bandage from his arm and held it to the lamp.

“Hold still,” Sima Lan said.

“I'm still,” Shi Feng said.

“You're leaning. You've been leaning for an hour,” Sima Lan scolded, dipping the cloth into the salve jar. Her fingers were brisk and cold. “You burned an arm to the elbow holding a gate, and you went straight to the Pagoda and stood in front of a tablet for six hours. I counted the hours. It's in the book.”

“It was a good tablet,” Shi Feng said.

“A tablet that could wait until your arm heals,” Sima Lan replied sharply. “Haste won't let you eat hot tofu.”

She began to wrap. The cloth went round his forearm in neat, tight turns.

The hut was quiet. The lamp ticked. Outside, somewhere, Old Soot was complaining about the stove.

“Sima Lan,” Shi Feng said.

“Yes?” Sima Lan asked.

“It's cold in here,” Shi Feng said. “Will you warm my bed?”

Her hands stopped.

For about three breaths, nothing happened. The bandage hung from her fingers. Sima Lan blushed from her neck to her cheeks, too embarrassed to answer him. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

She stood up.

She put the salve jar down and walked stiffly to the door, determined to leave before he said anything else. She was still holding the roll of bandage. It had torn at his wrist, and she hadn't noticed.

The door closed.

Shi Feng looked at his half-wrapped arm.

“Junior Brother,” Lin Langtian said from the roof, quite kindly. “She took the bandage.”

“I noticed,” Shi Feng said.