The oak door of Cell 114 shut with a thud. Pei Jing set both bolts and reset his little warning bells. He sifted a strip of hearth ash across the inside of the threshold. Anyone who came through would leave a mark.
The air stayed warm and dry. The rear flue drew a steady draft. Far above, the Star-Suppressing Array hummed like a bell struck under water.
Pei Jing sat at the stone table. He unwrapped the Black Mountain Whetstone and took the cleaver out of its canvas. Three drops of water went onto the hollow.
The steel made a low scrape. He drew it from heel to tip, letting his shoulders relax. His pulse settled at sixteen. He thought about the force under the blade until he stopped hearing the people in the market and stopped seeing Pang’s face on the pavilion steps.
Forty strokes on one side. He turned the cleaver. Forty on the other. Gray grit gathered on the stone. He wiped the edge with oiled linen and set the wrapped blade beside the table.
Then he took out three sheets of good yellow paper he’d bought with his bench supplies. Mountain mulberry, bleached in spring water and stiffened with glue. Apprentices paid extra for it because the fibers held an even line.
