Chapter 3

The Sword Formula

Night at the rocky clearing was far quieter than at the foot of the hill, for the pine grove sifted out the wind, and only the moonlight that leaked between the needles lay thinly upon the broad flat rock, as though silver dust had been scattered over it. By day it was where his master stood. The center of the rock shone faintly smoother than the rest because feet treading the same spot for close to twenty years had worn down the grain of the stone, and Xiao Han stood in the corner below the rock, not yet having set foot on that smooth place.

In his former life he had never left this corner. Before dawn he would climb up ahead of his master to sweep the pine needles off the rock; when his master sheathed his sword he would offer a towel and tea; and the two hours or so in between he would spend standing motionless with the broom in his grip. A servant had no reason to mount his master's training ground, and so in close to thirty years the only times he had set foot upon the rock were when he swept the needles away.

Xiao Han took off his shoes and placed them neatly side by side at the foot of the rock. Then he climbed onto it barefoot. The stone held the night dew and was cold, and that cold crept up through the soles of his feet to his shins.

It was a place he was treading for the first time after forty-five years of life. It was not as wide as he had thought.

The First Form of the Heavenflow Sword Art bore the name Clouds Part, a Single Ray. It meant that the clouds split apart and a single shaft of light descends, and before unfolding that First Form, his master had always murmured the four lines of its sword formula under his breath.

Let the qi sink to the dantian, and let the intent go before the sword.
Let the step be as flowing water, and let the sword follow the will of heaven.

Xiao Han had heard those four lines every day for close to thirty years without missing one. He remembered how his master's voice had differed between his youth and his old age, and even the winter he had caught a chill and the formula had come out in a hoarse voice.

But he had never once tried to fathom their meaning with his body. The formula bade one sink one's energy into the dantian, yet there was no reason a servant's body should have any energy to sink.

Xiao Han set his two feet on the smooth place where his master used to stand. He spread them shoulder-width apart, bent his knees halfway, and held his back straight. It was his master's opening stance. It was the posture he had watched thousands of times from the corner of the clearing, so that the angle of the toes and even the depth to which the knees bent were plain as day before his eyes.

And yet his knees trembled. Before a single breath had passed, the insides of his thighs began to go numb, and by the second breath his calves were twitching as they pleased. His master would stand in this posture for a quarter of an hour before drawing his sword. Xiao Han could not get past ten breaths before he landed hard on his backside.

The rock received his backside coldly. Xiao Han sat where he was and gazed up at the moon for some time.

...And the master took this stance in the space of one breath.

It was laughable that he had thought he knew it all because he had watched for close to thirty years. He had known where his master's feet were placed; he had not known what kind of thighs it took to put the feet there and hold. His eyes were old, but his legs were fifteen, and those fifteen-year-old legs had never lifted anything but a broom and a water jar. Xiao Han braced himself on the rock and stood again, but even the palm he braced with was trembling with pins and needles.

The second time, he resolved to abandon the stance and imitate the sword formula first. When his master recited the first line, he drew a long breath and sent it deep down into his belly; at the second line he held that breath and closed his eyes. On reaching the third line he opened his closed eyes and stepped forward with one foot, and with the last word of the fourth line, his sword left its scabbard.

Xiao Han laid his empty hand at his waist. It was where the hilt of a sword should have been. It felt awkward that his palm touched nothing, but the only sword his hand had held in thirty-five years was one worn wooden sword, and so in any case he did not know the weight of a true blade.

He breathed in. Let the qi sink to the dantian.

He tried to send the breath down into his belly, but it stopped somewhere around his chest. When he tried to push it deeper, the pit of his stomach tightened with a dull ache. Xiao Han paid it no mind and held the breath. Let the intent go before the sword. He closed his eyes. The formula bade the intent go before the sword, but he could not even tell what intent he was meant to send ahead. He knew only that at this passage his master had closed his eyes and held his breath for a long time, and so he held his breath too.

He counted to ten. He counted to twenty. In his ears the sound of his blood coursing swelled like a drum.

Let the step be as flowing water. Opening his eyes, he stepped forward with one foot.

In that instant the sky tilted. The moon slid aslant and vanished among the pine boughs. Xiao Han toppled sideways without ever planting the foot he had put forth. There was a dull sound of his shoulder striking the edge of the rock. The thought that it hurt came only a long while afterward.

Lying there, he gasped for breath. The breath he had held burst out all at once, and his throat stung. Before his eyes white specks flitted about like gnats.

So the formula had not been telling him to hold his breath.

His cheek against the rock, Xiao Han chewed over that fact. At that passage his master's breath must have grown still of its own accord. The energy that had settled in the dantian breathed in its place, so that no breath could be seen going in and out on the surface; to a servant's eyes, that had looked like holding one's breath.

Of the formula he had heard for close to thirty years, not a single word was wrong, but what those words pointed to, he had never once asked.

He could not tell how long he had lain there. When he raised himself, the moon already hung on the western ridge, and the ink of the eastern sky was thinning little by little. It was plainly past the fourth watch.

About to put on his shoes, Xiao Han stopped and looked down at the rock. Bare footprints were stamped in disorder across its dew-wet surface. All around the smooth place where his master stood, the traces of falling, rising, and falling again remained exactly as they were. Where he had landed on his backside, a round smudge of dirt had spread.

The hands that had swept this rock for close to thirty years moved of their own accord. He rolled back his sleeve and rubbed out the footprints on the rock one by one. His sleeve grew damp and was stained the color of earth. When he had wiped away the last mark, the rock had gone back to being the place of his master alone.

On the way down the hill his legs shook. Every ten steps his foot caught on a pine root, and each time he grabbed hold of the trunk of a pine beside him to catch his breath. The eastern sky was already turning from ash grey to pale indigo, and the mist that wrapped the hillside was flowing slowly down into the valley, covering the tiled roofs of Qin Manor one after another. In his former life he had gone up and down this path more than ten thousand times and never once been short of breath, but the fifteen-year-old legs did not yet know it.

It was about the time the cock crowed a second time when he reached the servants' quarters. Xiao Fu was asleep with his mouth open, having kicked off his quilt, and Xiao Han covered him with it again, then took off his wet outer garment and hung it out of sight behind the clothesline. Then he took up his broom and went out into the inner courtyard.

That morning's sweeping did not leave an even grain. His thighs shook, so that now and then the tip of the broom dug deep into the earth, and each time Xiao Han swept the place again. Sweeping a single courtyard took him twice as long as usual.

About the time of a meal after the sun rose, Qin Tianming came out of the inner hall. He was on his way up the hill behind the manor. Xiao Han stood his broom upright and bowed at the waist.

The master took a few steps toward the main gate, then stopped. And he looked down at the ground at Xiao Han's feet. The place he had swept twice was gouged a little deeper than elsewhere.

"Han'er."

"Yes, Master."

"Was the wind strong last night?"

"...I believe it was not so very strong, Master."

The master was silent for a moment. Xiao Han felt a single bead of cold sweat run down his spine. He tried to soothe himself that his master could hardly divine anything from one deep broom mark, but this was a man who would one day become the foremost sword under heaven.

"The Madam was worrying that Shuran has not been sleeping these past few nights."

"Yes, Master."

"She is a child who keeps pestering to come up to the clearing. I fear she will climb up alone at night. If you should see her heading toward the hill, tell me."

Xiao Han bent his already bowed back deeper still. All he could see below his bowed back was a single patch of earth, swept twice and gouged deep, and that patch looked unusually wide today.

"Yes, Master. I will keep an especially careful watch."

"Good."

Leaving only that, the master went out through the gate. Even after straightening his back, Xiao Han stood there for some time. Watching his master's figure disappear beyond the gate, he added one remark inwardly.

The one who climbs to the clearing every night, Master, is the very servant you have just bidden keep an especially careful watch.

Of course it was not a thing to be spoken aloud, so Xiao Han adjusted his grip on the broom and began to sweep again, evenly, starting from the deeply gouged place.

All that day, Xiao Han kneaded his legs whenever he had a moment between tasks. Each time he shouldered a water jar and went back and forth between the well and the kitchen, his thighs screamed, yet amid those screams he felt something, if anything, growing clearer.

The First Form his master unfolded on the rock was the very summit of what forty years had piled up in his body. Beneath it there must lie things Xiao Han had never once seen. What his master had done when he was Xiao Han's age, the servant did not know. In those days his master had been within his teacher's mountain gate, and Xiao Han had not even been born.

Yet one thing he did know. Whenever his master spoke of the training of his youth, he began with the same words. He had no head for wine, so that a single cup would set old stories flowing, and those old stories always began in the front courtyard of the mountain gate.

He had stood in horse stance for three years, he used to say. The sword came after that.

Xiao Han set down the water jar and wiped his wet hands on his apron. Three years. The days remaining until the fire were exactly as many.

That night, having climbed to the clearing, Xiao Han did not stand in his master's place. In the corner below the rock, the place where he had stood with his broom for close to thirty years, he spread his feet and bent his knees. Before ten breaths had passed his legs began to shake again, but here, even if he landed on his backside, he would not soil his master's place.

Xiao Han counted to ten.

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