Xu Qian learned quickly what the sect called an answer. Truth didn't enter into it. Neither did justice, and certainty was a luxury no one here bothered pretending to offer. An answer was a file closed because keeping it open cost more than it returned.
The morning after he was moved into the shared intake room, an attendant came for him before the corridor fully woke. The boy with the dagger didn't look up. The broad-shouldered entrant watched Xu Qian's shoulder binding with the careful attention of someone counting injuries like debt.
Xu Qian didn't speak to either of them. He followed the attendant down the hall.
They took him to what looked like a storage chamber converted into an office-two tables, three stools, a stack of ledgers with wax marks on their spines, and a shallow brazier that gave more smoke than heat. The clerks were there again. So was the watcher, standing in the same place he had stood yesterday, as if the room had been built around his habit.
A different man sat at the table's head.
He wore the same gray robe, but the cloth was cleaner and his tablet was longer, with a metal clasp. His face was neither young nor old-the kind of face that belonged to someone who had spent years saying no and still slept at night.
He didn't introduce himself.
"Xu Qian."
"Yes."
The man's gaze went to the shoulder, then to the escort seals pouch, then back to Xu Qian's eyes. "You will answer again. Repetition is how we find cracks."
Xu Qian nodded once.
The man gestured, and a clerk opened a thin packet of paper, inked with neat writing. "A patrol recovered four bodies," the clerk read. "Two are confirmed city-licensed escorts. The other two are unidentified men of mortal background. A fifth trail was noted moving east then south through the trees. No capture."
Xu Qian didn't react to the confirmation.
The man at the head of the table watched him anyway. "You stated five attackers. That matches."
The clerk continued. "A damaged carriage was found. Axle fractured. Wheel split. Signs of struggle consistent with stated account. No cultivation traces noted."
Xu Qian kept his face still. The wording mattered-no cultivation traces meant the sect could categorize the incident as mortal-scale, which would keep it low priority. Low priority wasn't protection, but it gave him room to breathe.
"Where is the driver."
The attendant stepped back to the door and opened it. Wang De was brought in by another attendant. He looked worse than yesterday-his face hollow with sleep debt, eyes darting once to Xu Qian before skittering away. He sat when told, hands clenched hard enough to whiten the knuckles.
"Name."
Wang De swallowed. "W-Wang De."
The man didn't acknowledge the stutter. He looked at the clerks. "Record. Again."
The questions repeated. Route. Fork. Timing. Wheel. First contact. The spike from concealment. The poison dart. The fleeing man. Xu Qian answered with the same precision as before-not because he was trying to be consistent, but because he wasn't inventing. When asked why he didn't pursue, he gave the same explanation without changing a word.
Wang De followed with the same answers, weaker and less clean, but not divergent. At one point he slipped and said, "I took the lesser road because it was shorter," and then clamped his mouth shut as if he had bitten his own tongue.
The man at the head of the table watched him, expression flat. "And the toll."
Wang De's eyes widened. He looked at the clerks as if they might save him. They wrote without looking up.
"The toll," the man repeated.
Wang De's throat worked. "Less. Less toll."
"So you chose reduced oversight."
Wang De's shoulders sagged. "I-"
"You chose reduced oversight," the man said again, and the second repetition made it judgment.
Xu Qian spoke before Wang De could spiral into pleading. "The choice was the driver's. I didn't order it."
The man's gaze shifted to Xu Qian. "Did you object."
"No."
"Why."
"Because a hired man who is questioned becomes a liability. Because a change of plan invites suspicion." Xu Qian paused, weighing whether to continue, then did. "Because the fork itself isn't an admission of guilt."
The man's eyes stayed on him for a long beat. Then he nodded once-not approval, but acceptance of the logic. "Correct. And now you understand why we ask the question anyway."
Xu Qian understood. Facts were never just facts. They were handles.
The man at the table picked up the escort seals pouch and opened it, counting without hurry. "These are confiscated. They will be returned through channels. You no longer possess them."
Xu Qian didn't argue.
The man closed the pouch and set it aside. "Your incident is recorded as external. The sect will not pursue beyond basic patrol action. If the remaining man is found on our land, he will be dealt with. If he is found beyond, he is beyond."
Beyond. The word made it clear how far sect responsibility extended.
Wang De's head snapped up. "But-"
The watcher shifted slightly. Wang De's voice died.
The man at the table looked at Wang De as if noticing him for the first time. "Driver. Your contract ended when your escorts died. Your choice of route contributed to reduced oversight. That will be recorded. You will leave sect-controlled roads today. You will not speak of what you saw. If you do, your mouth will create work for us." He leaned forward slightly. "We do not like work."
Wang De's face drained. "I won't," he whispered.
"You will sign."
A clerk slid a paper across the table.
Wang De stared at it as if it were a blade. His hand shook when he took the brush. The stroke of his name was uneven and wet, like something scraped out of him rather than written.
When he finished, the clerk took the paper and didn't look at it. The writing mattered only as proof of consent. Consent mattered only as liability control.
Wang De stood when told. He looked once at Xu Qian, eyes pleading for something-some word, some promise. Xu Qian gave him none. Wang De was led out.
The man at the table returned to Xu Qian as if the driver had been a minor detail. "You will remain under intake status. You are not accepted. You are not rejected. You are pending. Do you understand what pending means."
"It means you can discard me later."
The man's mouth twitched again, the hint of something that might have been humor in a different place. "It means we can decide later. Discarding is a kind of decision. Do not confuse the two."
Xu Qian nodded once.
The man reached into his sleeve and produced a thin strip of paper with a stamp, laying it on the table.
"Intake examination begins in three days. You will participate."
Xu Qian didn't let his relief show. Relief was always followed by cost. "Under my current condition."
"Under your current condition," the man confirmed. "If you cannot perform, that is information."
Xu Qian understood-the sect didn't care whether the information came from talent or injury. It cared that it was reliable.
"You will not receive special accommodation."
Xu Qian didn't ask for any. "Understood."
The man stood. The watcher moved first, opening the door as if the room obeyed him. The clerks kept writing.
As Xu Qian was escorted out, he caught a glimpse of the top ledger page. His name was there. Next to it were marks he couldn't read from that distance-not words, not narrative, not character. Just marks.
Outside, the corridor smelled of boiled herbs again. The attendant led him back to the clinic for inspection.
The medic who examined him this time was older than the last, with fingers stained faintly brown. He unwrapped the binding and pressed around the wound without apology.
The poison still lived in his shoulder. The injection had slowed it, but the heat wasn't gone. His grip remained unreliable in the left hand. The medic watched his fingers move, watched the slight lag, and made a mark on a slate.
"You will not worsen it."
Xu Qian nodded.
"You will sleep."
Xu Qian nodded.
"You will not fight."
Xu Qian didn't smile. "If I fight, I die. I already know."
The medic's eyes flicked up. Then he looked away, as if the line had been too close to the truth. "Good. Knowing is cheaper than learning."
He wrapped the shoulder again, tighter than comfort. When he finished, he handed Xu Qian a small packet of bitter powder. "Add to water. Not a cure. A support."
Xu Qian took it without asking what it was.
Back in the intake dorm, the boy with the dagger was gone. His bed was empty, blankets folded too neatly-which meant he had either passed a threshold or been removed. Both were plausible. The broad-shouldered entrant watched Xu Qian enter, then looked away as if refusing to be seen watching.
Xu Qian sat on his bed and listened to the corridor. The building held the sounds of dozens of other bodies doing the same thing-waiting, hoping, pretending not to hope.
Three days was a short time in the mortal world. Inside a sect, it was enough for a name to become familiar in the mouths of people who should not know it.
Xu Qian didn't waste the days.
He slept when he could. He ate when food was offered, watching hands and watching water. He dissolved the bitter powder into his cup and drank it slowly, letting the taste sit in his mouth like punishment. Every morning he moved his fingers-not to strengthen, but to measure how much control remained.
He watched more than he spoke.
In the courtyard, entrants drilled under attendants who didn't teach so much as enforce. Walking lines. Standing in silence. Carrying buckets. Being made to wait with arms held out until the arms shook. It wasn't training for strength. It was training for obedience.
From a window down the hall, Xu Qian could sometimes see deeper yards where real disciples moved. Their steps were quieter, their blades steadier. Their correction was immediate and without anger, as if the body were an instrument and mistakes were simply wrong notes.
Once, late on the second day, the broad-shouldered entrant spoke in a low voice. "Examination."
Xu Qian didn't answer.
The other man continued anyway, voice rough. "I heard there will be thousands."
Xu Qian's eyes remained on his own hand, flexing slowly. "Then most will fail."
The broad-shouldered man laughed once, without humor. "Most of us already have."
On the third day, just before dawn, the intake building woke faster than usual. Footsteps ran. Doors opened and shut. Attendants moved along the corridor and barked instructions with clipped voices.
"Outside. Line. No bags. No blades unless permitted."
Xu Qian wrapped his sword in cloth and left it on the bed. The order was clear-any attempt to carry it would be a test, not of strength but of compliance.
He tied the token under his robe and stepped into the corridor. The broad-shouldered entrant followed, pale with anticipation or fear. He didn't speak.
They joined a stream of bodies moving toward the yard.
Outside, the air was cold enough to bite. The sky was still dark, but lanterns had been set along the paths, turning faces into pale masks as people passed through their light.
Beyond the intake yard, the sect grounds seemed to expand. Paths that had been empty now carried lines of entrants from other holding buildings. Men and women moved shoulder to shoulder, the crowd thickening with every step, until the sound of it became a low roar of shifting cloth and nervous breath.
Not a thousand, but several.
Xu Qian felt the weight of it settle into his bones. This wasn't a test built for individuals-it was built for attrition.
At the edge of a wide open ground, attendants directed the mass into rough lines. A raised platform stood ahead, empty for now. Behind it, shadows moved along a higher wall where watchers could stand unseen.
Xu Qian stood among strangers and listened to the noise of them trying not to sound afraid. His shoulder burned under the binding. His left hand tingled and then went briefly numb, as if reminding him what he would be without control.
He kept his posture steady.
Around him, faces tilted upward toward the platform like people looking at weather they couldn't argue with. Xu Qian didn't look for comfort. He looked for structure, because whatever came next, the sect wouldn't call it fair.
It would call it selection.