The courtyard crowd grew — strange folk of every trade all craning upward, for the first timber building had become a riddled, ruined wreck. At last the Timber Hall Master of the top story was knocked down and the building caved in with a roar.
Qin Mu, Green Dragon coiled about his body, sent the tumbling timbers flying and walked toward the second building. Boom, boom, boom — it shuddered without cease, as though some great beast battered the walls within; figures kept bursting through and being hurled out. His pace quickened — he was steadily absorbing battle experience, honing his sense of combat, now driving a sword with qi, now fists and feet, now knife, hammer, spear, felling the hall master who guarded each chamber. With a rumble the second building collapsed. Then he walked toward the third.
As night fell, the stone basins atop the pillars of the Heavenly Demon village were filled with oil and set alight; within, the village blazed bright as day, while beyond all was black, as if light were swallowed the instant it met the dark. Two worlds, inside and without.
By firelight more than three hundred hall masters stood in the courtyard, heads raised toward the last building. The demon village had raised nine timber buildings, each holding forty hall masters guarding forty chambers; and now Qin Mu had fought to the ninth, soon to reach its summit.
"Has the young master rested at all this day and night?" the Brothel Hall Master murmured. "He went in at dawn and has fought ever since."
The Wind-Riding Hall Master nodded. "His qi and strength seem boundless. But those at the top of the ninth floor are no easy meat."
The four at the summit were the pillars of the three hundred and sixty hall masters — the Green Dragon, the Vermilion Bird, the Black Tortoise, and the White Tiger. Because these four halls answered to the four spirit beasts, their masters were the finest talents; they were the highest martial might of the three hundred and sixty, existing for battle alone. Through the cult's history most Elder-Protectors rose from them, even a few cult masters. Years ago the cult master Li Tianxing had died miserably on his wedding night and the Cult Master's Wife had vanished with the scripture; the four hall masters had been raised as heirs to the next mastery, personally tutored by the cult's Ancestor.
Qin Mu now entered the White Tiger Hall Master's chamber. White Tiger qi was famed for its sharpness — nothing it could not hew through. Though she sealed her other divine treasuries and opened only the Spirit Womb Divine Treasury, she was still an enemy of a sort he had never met. She refined qi into threads, forging it into unbreakable qi threads — her qi threads were themselves her swords. They were nearly invisible; once Qin Mu stepped in, her ten fingers strung thread upon thread across every corner, so he could scarce move an inch. Her body, however, moved like a demon of the Great Ruins, roving the room at will, qi-swords shooting from her fingertips like nails, like soft swords of any length pressing cruel murder on him.
It was a bitter battle. Qin Mu sheared the near-invisible threads with his butcher knife, but each was unyieldingly tough, and she strung more between one breath and the next. Wounded again and again, he could bring neither Old Ma's boxing nor the Cripple's kicks to bear, and the knife-work was pressed to the ground. In the end he thrust once — though the wooden blade was split in two by her qi threads, it still pierced her breast, pinning her to the wall. Then the wall burst apart, and the White Tiger Hall Master flew out of the building.
Qin Mu severed the threads, fetched the room's salves, and dressed his wounds. He sat, steadied his breathing, and slowly ate. When some strength returned, he whittled planks into wooden swords, slung them on his back, and rose.
Of three hundred and sixty chambers he had fought through three hundred and fifty-seven; three alone remained. His strength and will were at the limit; his head rang and buzzed as if a thousand voices babbled within. He was no longer fighting on will but mechanically, on instinct. One conviction alone burned in him: he could not let these people take Grandma Si, who had raised him. His parents gave him life, but Grandma Si saved it and raised him with all her care; she was his mother, his dearest kin.
In the next chamber the Green Dragon Hall Master frowned. "Young master, your state is not as it should be. Rest a while first..." Before he finished, Qin Mu thrust once; the wooden blade came to his breast like lightning and sent him flying. His blank face turned; he trudged on. Boom — the next wall burst; the Black Tortoise Hall Master raised his shield to stop the sword, but could not stop the frightful force within, and was hurled away. He dragged on to the next room. "Young master, I can wait..." Boom — a thrust, and the Vermilion Bird Hall Master flew back.
"Is it over?" Qin Mu blinked. Then his limbs gave way, his legs buckled, and he toppled to the ground. He heard the hen-dragon of the Village of Broken Elders crow cackling — the cry it gave after laying an egg. Far too tired, he sank into deep sleep; his spirit womb drew fiercely at the golden light of his Spirit Womb Divine Treasury, then fell silent too.
He slept long, waking in a daze to glimpses of the Village Chief and the Herbalist, their voices remote: "Nothing serious — he is simply too tired..." He woke several times — now Grandma Si, now the boy Ancestor, faces drifting about him — but lacked strength to speak, and slept again. When he woke at last, every muscle ached yet his spirits were high; his wounds had scarred and the scabs were flaking — the Herbalist, it seemed, had dressed them anew. He sat up: he was still in the chamber where he had felled the Vermilion Bird Hall Master, all around silent. "My spirit womb has fallen asleep again." He examined himself, found nothing amiss, and gritting his teeth against the ache, leaned on the railing and walked slowly down — every step splitting his muscles.
At the first floor he stepped out, looked up — and froze. The courtyard was crowded with people, most of them familiar: all three hundred and sixty hall masters were there. Beyond them stood strangers — hulking strongmen towering scores of zhang, white-haired elders, the stern Left and Right Envoy Protectors, the four Town-Guarding Heavenly Kings, the eight Inspector Envoys. They sat or stood in silent waiting. Seeing Qin Mu, one after another they rose, eyes fastened on him. The boy Ancestor stood at the gate; with him the Village Chief, the Herbalist, Old Ma — and Grandma Si, her gaze fixed on Qin Mu, her expression complicated.
Suddenly four old men bowed, voices ringing through the heavens: "The Holy Sect's four Town-Guarding Heavenly Kings salute the Junior Cult Master!" Qin Mu stood stunned, at a loss — then more voices in unison: "The Holy Sect's Left and Right Envoy Protectors salute the Junior Cult Master!" "The eight Inspector Envoys salute the Junior Cult Master!" "The twelve Elder-Protectors salute the Junior Cult Master!" Then a voice louder still — the three hundred and sixty hall masters roaring in unison, enough to deafen: "The Holy Sect's three hundred and sixty hall masters salute the Junior Cult Master!"
How could Qin Mu have seen such a scene? Panicked, he looked to the Village Chief, Grandma Si, the others for help — but they did not come, standing apart and watching. The cow-herding boy of the Village of Broken Elders steadied his spirit, and a poise settled over him; slowly raising his hands, he said unhurriedly: "Rise, all of you."
"We thank the Junior Cult Master!"