Chapter 26: The Second Visit

The four disciples arrived with swords drawn.

Ti Mo was eating lunch.

He sat on a flat rock in the courtyard, a bowl of rice in his hands, chopsticks moving with the steady rhythm of a man who had decided that food was more important than anything else happening in the world. Bai Zhi sat beside him, also eating. Wei Lin stood near the temple entrance, watching the four white-robed figures walk up the hill.

"They have swords," Wei Lin said.

"Swords are common," Ti Mo said. "Most people who cannot think carry swords instead."

"They are drawn."

"Then they are rude. Drawing a sword at a meal is the height of bad manners."

The four disciples stopped at the courtyard edge. They were older than the investigators. Harder. Their eyes had the flat shine of men who had been taught that violence was a form of communication.

"Ti Mo," the leader said. "You will come with us."

Ti Mo chewed. He swallowed. He looked at the leader.

"I am eating," Ti Mo said.

"Your meal can wait."

"No. It cannot. Rice waits for no one. It grows cold. Cold rice is an insult to the farmer who grew it. I will not insult farmers. They work harder than you do."

The leader's jaw tightened. "We are armed."

"I can see that. Your swords are very shiny. They reflect the sun. That is their primary function, as far as I can tell. They certainly do not reflect wisdom."

"You will submit to the Iron Bone Sect's authority."

"I do not recognize your authority. I do not recognize any authority. Authority is a fiction that people tell each other to avoid thinking. I prefer thinking. It requires less equipment."

The leader stepped forward. His sword was a standard Iron Bone blade. Straight. Double-edged. Designed for thrusting more than cutting. Efficient. Boring.

"Our master demands your presence."

"Your master is not here. Demands made in absence are suggestions. I do not take suggestions from absent people."

"You insult the Iron Bone Sect."

"I insult everyone. It is not personal. Your sect simply happens to be present. If another sect were here, I would insult them too. I am an equal opportunity insulter."

The second disciple moved to flank Ti Mo. The third and fourth spread out, creating a semicircle of steel and threat.

Bai Zhi set down her bowl. She did not stand. She simply watched, her hand near the broken iron ruler she had claimed from Xuan's belongings.

"Draw your weapon," the leader said.

"I have no weapon."

"Your brush."

"My brush is not a weapon. It is a tool. Tools become weapons only in the hands of people who cannot imagine other solutions."

"Draw it."

"No."

The leader attacked.

Not a killing blow. A wounding blow. A slice across the shoulder designed to hurt, to intimidate, to demonstrate superiority. He was fast. His sword moved in a clean arc, the product of years of disciplined practice.

Ti Mo did not move.

He simply looked at the sword.

The sword stopped.

Not gradually. Instantly. The blade halted in midair, six inches from Ti Mo's shoulder, as if it had struck an invisible wall. The leader strained. He pushed. The sword did not move.

"What..." the leader gasped.

"Your sword has encountered a disagreement," Ti Mo said. He had not looked up from his rice. "It wants to reach me. The air does not want to let it. They are negotiating."

"Release it!"

"I am not holding it. The air is holding it. I merely asked the air a question. The air answered."

Ti Mo set down his bowl. He wiped his mouth. He stood.

He was taller than the leader. Not by much. But enough. He looked at the four disciples with the expression of a man who had just noticed ants at a picnic.

"You interrupted my lunch," Ti Mo said. "That was your first mistake. You drew weapons in a place of peace. That was your second. You threatened people who have done you no harm. That was your third. Three mistakes is sufficient. I do not allow fourth mistakes."

He drew a circle in the air.

Not with his brush. With his finger. The tip of his index finger, wet with rice water, tracing a line in the space between himself and the disciples.

The circle completed.

The swords became heavy.

Not the disciples. Just the swords. The blades suddenly weighed more than the men holding them. The leader's sword dragged his arm down. He tried to release it, but his fingers would not open. The sword held him, gripping his palm with a gravity that had nothing to do with magnetism.

"Your swords have decided to rest," Ti Mo said. "They are tired. They have been carried too far by men who do not appreciate their weight. Let them rest."

The disciples dropped to their knees. Not from reverence. From the simple physics of objects too heavy to lift. Their swords struck the ground. The blades sank into the dirt, pulled by a force that made the earth seem hungry for metal.

"I will take these," Ti Mo said.

He walked to the leader. He pried the sword from the man's hand. The fingers opened easily for Ti Mo, though they had refused to open for their owner.

"Mediocre steel," Ti Mo said, examining the blade. "The tang is too short. The balance is forward. It is a thrusting sword designed by people who have never thrust anything."

He walked to the second disciple. Took his sword. "Better. But the edge is uneven. You have been sharpening it incorrectly. The angle is wrong."

The third sword. "Acceptable craftsmanship. Ruined by poor maintenance. Rust at the hilt. Clean your weapons."

The fourth sword. "Garbage. This is a farm tool pretending to be a weapon. I am insulted that you brought it here."

Ti Mo gathered the four swords. He walked to the temple wall. He leaned them against the stone, arranging them in a neat row.

"You may retrieve these when you learn manners," Ti Mo said. "Or you may leave them. They make adequate tent pegs."

The leader stared at his hands. They were empty. They were shaking.

"What are you?" he whispered.

"I am a scribe. I told you this. You did not believe me. That is not my fault."

"No scribe can do what you just did."

"Then I am a special scribe. A scribe with good posture and excellent timing. The timing is natural. The posture took years."

The leader stood. His legs were unsteady. His pride was in pieces on the ground, mixed with the dirt and the rice grains Ti Mo had spilled.

"Our master will hear of this."

"I hope so. Tell him I said hello. Or do not. I do not care what you tell him. I do not care if you tell him anything. Your master is your concern. My lunch is mine."

The four disciples walked down the hill. They did not look back. They did not retrieve their swords.

Ti Mo returned to his rock. His rice was cold. He ate it anyway.

"They will return," Wei Lin said.

"Probably."

"With more people."

"Probably."

"Should we prepare?"

"I am preparing. I am eating. After eating, I will nap. After napping, I will draw circles. That is my preparation. It has served me well so far."

Bai Zhi picked up her bowl. She resumed eating. "Your circle was fast."

"It was not fast. It was early. I drew it before they arrived. I simply did not close it. I left it open, waiting. When I closed it, the effect activated. Preparation is not about speed. It is about patience."

"You knew they were coming."

"I knew someone would come. People who are refused always send more people. It is a law of nature. Like gravity. Like my need to nap after lunch."

Wei Lin looked at the swords against the wall. Four blades. Four failures. Four demonstrations of a power that should not exist.

"What happens when they bring fifty?" Wei Lin asked.

"Then I will draw a bigger circle."

"What if they bring a hundred?"

"Then I will draw two circles."

"What if they bring a cultivator? A real one. Core Formation. Nascent Soul."

Ti Mo looked at him. "Then I will draw a circle I have not yet invented. Invention is the advantage of the unprepared. The prepared can only use what they have. The unprepared must create. Creation is stronger than preparation."

Wei Lin was quiet. He sat on the ground. He looked at his hands. Ink-stained. Trembling slightly.

"I am afraid," Wei Lin said.

"Good. Fear is information. It tells you that something matters. If you were not afraid, I would wonder why you were here."

"Does fear ever stop you?"

"No. Fear is a passenger. It rides with me. It does not drive."

Ti Mo finished his rice. He set down the bowl. He looked at the swords against the wall.

"Take one," he said to Wei Lin.

"What?"

"Take a sword. Learn it. You may need it."

"I am not a swordsman."

"You are not a calligrapher either. But you are learning. A sword is just a brush made of metal. It draws lines that hurt instead of lines that heal. The principle is the same."

Wei Lin walked to the wall. He picked up the third sword. The one Ti Mo had called acceptable. It was heavier than he expected. The balance was different from a brush. More forward. More aggressive.

"It feels wrong," Wei Lin said.

"It feels different. Different is not wrong. Different is simply unfamiliar. You will adapt."

Bai Zhi stood. She walked to the wall. She picked up the second sword. The one with the uneven edge.

"What are you doing?" Ti Mo asked.

"Learning," Bai Zhi said.

"You are fourteen."

"I am old enough to know that swords are useful."

"Put it down."

"No."

Ti Mo looked at her. She looked back. The sword was almost as tall as she was. She held it with both hands, the point dragging in the dirt.

"You will hurt yourself," Ti Mo said.

"Probably. But I will learn."

Ti Mo sighed. It was his largest sigh of the day. A theatrical performance of respiratory resignation.

"Fine. Keep the sword. But practice with sticks first. I do not want you bleeding on my circles. Blood changes the properties."

"I will practice with sticks."

"And eat. You are too thin. A thin swordsman is a dead swordsman."

"I will eat."

"And stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you are grateful. I do not do gratitude. It makes me uncomfortable."

Bai Zhi almost smiled. She sheathed the sword. She walked back to her bowl.

Ti Mo lay down on his rock. He closed his eyes. The sun was warm. The rice was settling. The swords were silent.

Four disciples had come.

Four had left.

The next group would be larger. The next group would be angrier. The next group might include someone who could actually challenge him.

Ti Mo was not worried.

Worry required imagination. Imagination required energy.

He was too full for worry. Too warm for fear. Too lazy for preparation.

He would deal with the next group when they arrived.

Until then, he would nap.

Napping was a form of defiance. It said: your urgency is not my urgency. Your war is not my war. I will wake when I choose.

The sun moved across the sky. The swords waited against the wall. The temple breathed.

Ti Mo slept.