While the Sect Leader lived in a quaint home on an isolated rise overlooking the rest of the sect, the other elders lived in every nook and cranny imaginable. There were houses and buildings designed for the noble masters, to be sure. But the isolated compound in the mountains had not been designed to accommodate the entirety of their population, nor was it meant for such a long occupation.

  Pengfei had been told that in the beginning, the elders had lived in their own shared spaces. Not unlike the dormitories of the Jin disciples, though less crowded and more comfortable. But it seemed that over the decades, the elders had grown to prefer solitude over convention. They had spread out, looking for privacy, often taking up residence in the buildings where they spent their daylight hours.

  Chen Lei was known to live in the Medicine Hall. Chen Mo spent the winter nights in the Veneration Hall, an iron brazier warming a small corner of the large drafty room. No one knew where he bedded in the warmer months. It was even rumored that Chen Ji had one of the cliffside punishment cells to himself, though Pengfei doubted the truth of it.

  But it was a known fact that Chen Rulan resided in a small wing of the sect’s forge. Pengfei limped his way there now, sore and tight after a particularly grueling week. His friends were all around the sect compound, relaxing and amusing themselves on their half day of rest. But Pengfei was due at Elder Rulan’s abode, to make amends for the rudeness he had shown recently.

  --How many hours of punishment does it take to atone for not saying ‘goodbye’ properly?--

  It seemed a minor transgression. Pengfei had been embarrassed and saddened by the elder’s rejection of discipleship. Stormed off in embarrassment without showing the proper respect. A momentary lapse of judgement. Surely, the elder knew that.

  --So why is he doing this to me? Can’t he cut me some slack for a little breach of etiquette? Not that any grey-haired old man has ever cut me the least bit of slack…--

  He recalled his old life, in Sichuan. Scholars, priests, nobles, doctors, guardians, tutors. His life of privilege had brought him into contact with many august personages. Some had been kind, some cruel, but all had expected a certain level of decorum.

  Pengfei mumbled similar complaints to himself all along the short walk from the Dining Hall to the forge. But all that self-pity could not drown out the small kernel of guilt he held, for giving offense to the kind instructor. Unlike the ever-changing cast of characters from his youth, Pengfei was actually fond of the elder.

  Chen Rulan stood outside his forge, waiting.

  “Good afternoon, Elder. I apologize for my rudeness from before. I am here to accept whatever punishment you see fit.” Pengfei made the martial bow and looked to the earth humbly.

  “Hmmpf. Come along.”

  Whatever lay in store would not be found in the elder’s normal stomping grounds. Chen Rulan led them through the compound to a building Pengfei had never entered before. Beautiful, but simple, declining into disrepair. Like all the architecture of the sect. Stone walls and curving, tiled, eaves. It was similar to a temple, but there was none of that iconography to be seen on the outside.

  When the doors opened, Pengfei saw it was similarly stark on the inside. Empty, except for two lap desks in the middle of the expansive wooden floor, facing each other but separated by several paces. One covered in papers, the other bare.

  “Sit.” Rulan commanded, indicating the cluttered table.

  Pengfei scooted underneath the small desk, careful not to disturb the blank paper or inkbrush atop it.

  “You worked with Elder Weidao in the library, didn’t you? Saw him copy damaged texts into new ones?”

  “Yes, sir. Briefly.”

  “I have a similar task for you. How is your penmanship?”

  “Good. My… I had teachers before I came here, sir. They said it was classical. Legible and clean.”

  “We’ll see. This is a book from my personal collection.” Elder Rulan withdrew a text from his robes but did not yet hand it to Pengfei. “It was a gift, and it has great sentimental value to me. I will see it faithfully transcribed. After you finish each page, bring it to me for approval. We can bind the loose pages into a new book once you have finished.”

  The elder still did not pass over the volume. He seemed to hesitate, guarding it. Pengfei waited meekly, abashed by the man’s unusually curt speech. None of the usual warmth that he usually exuded, the occasional chuckles nor joke.

  Finally, the book was proffered and Pengfei accepted it with a slight bow. He set it carefully on the desk, keeping it well clear of the brush and ink, and went about preparing the first sheet of paper. He folded a margin to use for binding, arranged the page in front of him while Elder Rulan moved to sit at the other desk.

  His station prepared, Pengfei turned over the yellowed and worn text, to begin his assigned task. The cover was slightly smudged, small nicks and tears along the edges. Inevitable consequences of the years.

  A title was written in faded ink across the top.

  ‘The Arhat Fist of Shaolin.’

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Pengfei’s eyes widened at the words. He opened the manual gingerly and leafed through the pages. An elegant script accompanied drawings of figures in various combative postures. He glanced over the top edge of the book to peer at the elder across from him and met Chen Rulan’s eyes. The man stared over the top of his own book.

  “Get to work.” he said gruffly, then went back to reading.

  Pengfei swallowed and set the manual down carefully, turning to the first page.

  He must necessarily read each character before it could be transcribed. He eagerly took in the words, the introduction to the most fundamental fist method of the most famous martial arts sect. One known particularly for their bare-handed techniques.

  The first sentence did not disappoint.

  ‘The Arhat Fist is the basis of all Shaolin’s martial arts. To know this, is to know all the seventy-two styles.’

  Pengfei was utterly engrossed. He riffled through the pages excitedly, examining the pictures and reading snippets when something caught his eye.

  --That looks strong! That block is… Do you kick from there?--

  He held the book open to a particular page, poured over the details until a cough from across the way broke him from his trance.

  --Right… focus.--

  He bowed a silent apology to the elder and, recalling his purpose, picked up a brush and set it to paper. He recreated the contents of the book’s introduction on a new page, a preamble detailing the mythical origins and importance of the Arhat Fist. The strokes were made with precision and an attempt at the same sophistication as the original.

  After several minutes, he set down his brush and stretched his hand, muscles aching from the forced exactitude. The words still resounded in his mind. Swirling images of monks in saffron robes, shaved heads tattooed with the seals of their order, performing the legendary techniques of Shaolin. The imagined movements were hazy.

  --Will I get a better picture of it if I read further? Can I learn this as I transcribe it?—

  Pengfei cast a questioning glance to the elder across from him, wondering at the man’s motives in giving him this assignment. But he pushed the manic thoughts to the side and surveyed his work. The result was a very good copy of the manual’s first page.

  --Maybe even an improvement on the original’s calligraphy, if I do say so myself.--

  Satisfied, he picked up the first sheet of paper and walked slowly to the elder. He knelt beside the man and held out the page for inspection.

  A brief glimpse. Chen Rulan took the page and crumpled it before throwing it over his shoulder.

  “Again.”

  “Ye… Yes, sir.”

  Pengfei shuffled back to his desk, completely unclear on what the problem with his work had been. But he made another attempt.

  Then a third. Each time, rejected by the elder, never with an explanation. Just the one word. ‘Again.’

  By the fourth time, Pengfei was confident that the fault did not lay in his work.

  --He’s doing this on purpose… busting my ass. But there’s nothing I can do about it.--

  Hours stretched. Copy after copy of the same few dozen characters. Soon, the words had lost the initial mystique as the monotony of it all set in. By the fifteenth transcription, Pengfei was writing solely by memory.

  ‘… a style of righteousness and empathy, robust in defending the self, shielding the weak, compassionate even when subduing demons with a single perfect blow…’

  The strokes were effortless. The mind wandered to the meaning of the passage as the hand moved by rote.

  “Enough for today.” Chen Rulan called, standing.

  Pengfei wrote the last few characters of the latest attempt, as the elder came to stand behind him, peering over his shoulder. The man reached down and took the paper, examining it critically, only to crumple it dismissively a second later. He held out his hand, and Pengfei placed the original manual in the man’s palm.

  “I thought you said you had good handwriting. At this rate, you’ll be at it for years…” the elder looked pensively at the disciple, then stated assuredly, “From now on, come here every night after your evening meal. And at midday, on the last day of each week. I’d like to have it finished before I die.”

  Chen Rulan turned and left the penitent, bowing, disciple but then looked back as he stood with one foot outside.

  “And Pengfei, when I received this gift,” he held up the manual, “I gave my word it would never become some plaything, bandied about by our disciples. If I hear you speaking a word of it to your friends, or find any sign you have done so, I’ll pull your tongue out. Now burn your failed attempts.”

  Pengfei gulped unconsciously and nodded his silent assent.

  “Hahaha…” Chen Rulan barked out a few short laughs, the first hint of his usually cheerful personality.

  ******************************************************************************

  It seemed Chen Ji felt obligated to keep up his own maniacal punishment as well. The Discipline Hall’s project of replenishing the supplies in the cliffside cells continued. The disciples carried rations and equipment in overburdened hikes along the mountain path.

  Pengfei eventually had a turn descending the rock face to take in the supplies lowered by rope. The terror gripped him as tightly as it had the first time he made the climb. During his isolation there, months ago.

  To his credit, Chen Ji watched closely for any slip or fall. But caution and accumulating experience kept the disciples safe. They grew more surefooted with each lap on the cliff.

  After the water in the cells had been refreshed, they began to rotate the dry stores. Rope and bucket were cast aside. Now, the disciples carried the food stuffs in sacks slung across their backs, climbing down with fresh provisions, then climbing back up with the old grain balls and jerky.

  The old food would be fed to the dozen or so goats waiting for slaughter behind the Dining Hall. Or worse, Chen Ji would make the boys eat it while they were forced to work through lunch due to some slight infraction.

  When the group made too much progress, Elder Ji found creative ways to draw out the days. Their sacks were filled halfway with rocks. Then three quarters. They carried more weight and accomplished less of their task with each trip. One day, the elder decided the disciples should have their feet lashed together. Their toes could only perch on tiny crags to hold them in place. All the effort of moving on the rock had to be done with the upper body.

  “I… I can’t do it again…” Pengfei panted as he dragged himself over the top of the ledge, rolling over his side away from the drop. He held his hands up limply, muscles quivered in exhaustion from the tips of his fingers, down his forearms, and into the meat of his back.

  “Yes, yes. Good work child. You can all go back early today. You’ve been doing so well recently!” Chen Ji said. The scales of his emotions tipped toward the kind and pleasant today, though his disposition had not spared them from the climb. Elder Ji strolled merrily down the path, hands clasped behind his back.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Shutian whimpered on the ground.

  Xiaotong was in the same position, and for once, his outlook matched his friend’s. “It’s barbaric…”

  “It’s … it’s not my fault. It can’t be.” Pengfei slid the strap of his bag off his back, picking himself up slowly. His legs, which had done little in the past hour, were still tired from the run along the path, carrying the weight of all the rations. Come tomorrow, it would be a tossup which part of his body would be more sore.

  “It all started with you!” Shutian yelled, scrambling up and kicking dirt at Pengfei. “Your insult to Elder Rulan!”

  “No…it’s been more than a week already....hughh… there’s got to be something else.” he spoke, massaging a stitch in his side.

  “That bastard is crazy, what other reason does there need to be? Come on.”

  Xiaotong plodded forward and beckoned the rest of the disciples to do the same, following the way that Chen Ji had gone and ending further argument.

  “I’ll make it up to you guys.” Pengfei offered. “When we get to Hotan in the spring. I still have some money from when I left home. Whatever you want, my treat.”

  “Is that before or after the Tibetan monks beat us to death?”

  “Shit. I forgot about them.” Pengfei cursed, reminded of the odd encounter from his last visit to the desert city and dismissing it a moment later. “Whatever. I doubt they’ll still be there in the spring. Even if they are, they won’t run into us. And if they find us, there will be more of us.”

  Shutian and Xiaotong eyed him suspiciously, but Pengfei pushed ahead, choosing optimism. Perhaps negligence. He jogged along the trail and came to a spot of thick snow. He moved the qi through his meridians and used the added strength to hop towards a spot of dry earth. But the energy was wanting, the jump short. Pengfei landed and slipped on the dirty ice.

  The rest of the boys in the Discipline Hall pushed past, groaning or complaining in their own private conversations, ignoring their comrade soaking in the cold slurry of water and snow.

  “Can I get a hand?” Pengfei called out sarcastically to his peers. But even Shutian and Xiaotong were moving away. “Okay. That’s fine then. Don’t worry about me. Dicks.”