The tide knocked against the posts below the cliff cave. Pei Jing sat on his rush mat beside a lamp. He’d laid out a hundred and twenty-two pounds of star-iron, a hundred and eight pounds of crab marrow, three Cold-Marrow Pearls, and an ironwood chest holding the two hundred and forty-nine mid-grade stones he’d set aside for business at the atoll.
With that much marrow he could train hard in the cave for three months before he needed fresh supplies.
He picked up a small notebook instead. Its sharkskin cover was stained with oil, and the corners had worn round against his ribs. He turned the yellowed paper to page seven.
Great Yan Reform Year 252. Mist Peak. Blood Wolves on the Eagle-Beak road.
Scout Cheng Shan, Northern Ironpass Outriders. Two bearded hatchets, four pounds each. Hickory handles wrapped in deer sinew.
Found the wrecked caravan below the ridge. Four captives brought out of the keep. Cheng led them down with the recovered wagons.
Shared one jug of scorched-grain wine, half a dried mutton leg, and two ounces of salt. We promised that if we lived to eighty, the winner would buy the noodles.
Sixty-two years. A sect disciple could spend that long on a single sword manual. To most mortals, it was a whole life.
