Xu Qian slept in intervals. The bed was hard, but that he could ignore. The rhythm outside the door pulled him back to waking each time.
Footsteps passed in the corridor at regular spacing. Neither hurried nor lazy. The pace belonged to a place where people moved like scheduled tasks. Voices lowered when the steps came close. When they moved away, whispers tried to return and then failed.
The sect controlled the room by making everyone believe someone might be listening.
Xu Qian lay fully clothed, one hand on his sword's wrapped hilt, the other resting where the token sat beneath cloth. The injection the medic had given cooled the worst heat, but the poison remained. It moved in slow pulses. Each wave brought a dull ache in his shoulder and thin numbness creeping into his left fingers.
Time bought, nothing forgiven.
He rose before the corridor quieted. The water in the basin tasted faintly of metal. The basin itself bore scratches from years of use. Someone had tried to carve a name into the wood near the rim and had been stopped halfway through. Only two lines remained, shallow and unfinished.
Xu Qian dried his hands and listened.
In the courtyard outside, someone coughed, then spat. Another voice murmured an apology that sounded practiced. A door opened and shut. The institution woke quietly.
When the latch on his door clicked, he did not startle. He was already sitting.
A young attendant stood in the doorway, face blank in the way of someone trained not to react. "Come," he said.
Xu Qian stood and followed.
The corridor led to a wider hall that smelled of boiled herbs and damp stone. Other entrants moved in small groups, guided by attendants. Some wore travel dust. Some wore fresh robes that still looked too new. A few had bandages. One limped with a wrapped ankle, eyes down, jaw clenched as if anger could replace pain.
Xu Qian did not look too long at any of them.
They were taken to a long room with benches and a table at the front. Behind the table sat two clerks in gray, ink stones set beside ledgers. A third figure stood to the side, not writing, watching. His robe was plain, but his posture made the room feel narrower.
The attendant pointed to an empty bench. "Sit."
Xu Qian sat.
A moment later, the driver was led in.
Wang De's face was drawn and pale. He had slept poorly. His eyes flicked around the room, landing on the clerks, then the watcher, then the benches full of strangers. When he saw Xu Qian, relief flashed through him so quickly it looked like shame.
He sat two benches away, hands clenched around nothing.
The watcher spoke in an even voice. "You will answer questions. You will not speak unless addressed. You will not interrupt. If you lie, we will know. If you omit, we will know later."
He paused, letting the words settle. "That is enough."
The first clerk dipped his brush. "Xu Qian," he said.
"Yes," Xu Qian replied.
"Token verified," the clerk said, writing. "Temporary holding status. Injury noted. Escort seals collected. Two licensed escorts dead. One hired driver present."
The brush moved steadily. Ink did not hesitate.
"State the route you took," the clerk said.
Xu Qian gave it plainly. He did not embellish. He did not apologize for the fork. He stated the lesser-used branch, the waystation, the terrain. He did not say it was chosen for less toll. He did not need to. The sect would infer motives and assign blame if it suited them. Giving them a clean fact pattern was safer.
The second clerk looked up. "Time of attack."
"Late afternoon, third day," Xu Qian said.
"Location."
Xu Qian described the bend, the narrowed road, the stone and trees. He described the broken wheel and the first men stepping out. He described the spike from the treeline. He described the poison dart.
He did not describe fear.
The watcher's gaze stayed on his face as if waiting for a crack. Xu Qian kept his expression level. His shoulder throbbed. He breathed through it, pace unchanged.
The first clerk wrote. "Assailants."
"Five," Xu Qian said.
The brush paused for the first time. The clerk's eyes lifted. "Five bodies."
Xu Qian remained still. "Four bodies," he corrected, calmly. "One fled."
The room felt tighter.
Wang De made a small sound-a reflex, not a word.
The watcher's eyes slid toward him. Wang De shut his mouth.
The second clerk asked, "Why did you not pursue."
Xu Qian's answer came immediately. "Because I was poisoned. Because chasing into trees at dusk is how you die alone. Because my priority was reaching the sect alive."
The watcher's gaze sharpened, then eased. Recognition of a calculation, though not approval.
The first clerk wrote again. "Two escorts killed. How."
"Rear guard struck in the throat by a spike or bolt from concealment," Xu Qian said. "Front guard killed in close combat."
"Did you take anything from them."
"The escort seals," Xu Qian said.
"Why."
Xu Qian repeated his earlier answer. "To prevent misuse. To show proof."
The clerk's brush moved. "Proof can be forged," he said, eyes still on the page.
"Then it will fail," Xu Qian replied.
The watcher's mouth twitched slightly. Again not a smile. A reaction that could mean anything.
The second clerk turned his attention to Wang De. "Name."
Wang De swallowed. "W-Wang De," he said, stuttering once, as if the first syllable caught on his teeth.
The clerk wrote it down, expression unchanged.
"Confirm route," the clerk said.
Wang De repeated what Xu Qian had said, but less cleanly. He added the part about the fork being shorter and less toll before catching himself and going quiet.
The watcher's gaze lingered on him a fraction longer.
The clerks asked about the carriage, the wheel, the supplies, the bodies. Wang De answered where he could. When he hesitated, the second clerk simply waited. The quiet did not accuse. It made people accuse themselves.
Xu Qian listened closely.
Wang De showed fear, but created no contradiction.
When the questioning ended, the watcher spoke again. "You will remain available. Neither of you leaves the intake grounds."
Wang De's face tightened. "Sir," he started.
The watcher looked at him. Wang De's voice died.
"Dismissed," the watcher said.
Outside, the corridor felt colder.
Wang De stumbled alongside Xu Qian until they reached the courtyard. He leaned close as if closeness could make the words safer. "They'll let me go," he whispered.
"They will decide," Xu Qian said.
Wang De's breath hitched. "I told the truth."
"So did I," Xu Qian said.
That offered no reassurance. It was a statement of how little truth protected.
An attendant approached and pointed Wang De toward a different corridor. "You. This way."
Wang De looked at Xu Qian as if asking permission.
Xu Qian gave none.
Wang De was led away.
Xu Qian watched him go, then turned his gaze to the courtyard.
Entrants stood in small clusters, talking quietly. A few glanced at his shoulder binding and then looked away. One young man in a clean robe held himself too straight, eyes narrowed as if measuring everyone for threat. Another, older than the rest, sat alone on a stone step, staring at his hands as if they might betray him.
No one approached Xu Qian.
They had sensed the same thing the clerks had. Violence followed him-not heroic violence, but administrative violence. Dead escorts. A recorded ambush. Poison. Supervision.
No one wanted to be attached to that.
An attendant led Xu Qian to the clinic again, not for treatment, but for inspection. The medic from yesterday did not appear. A different one checked the binding, pressed the skin around the wound, and watched his fingers move.
"You will not train," the medic said.
"I wasn't planning to," Xu Qian replied.
The medic's eyes flicked up, cold. "You will not wander. You will not climb. You will not enter the inner yards. If you are found outside your assigned area, we will remove you."
Remove. The word carried a finality that needed no blood.
Xu Qian nodded once.
The medic held out a small slate. "Payment."
Xu Qian reached into his pouch and produced silver.
The medic took it as if it were sand-no reaction, no weighing, no sneer.
That was the lesson.
Silver bought treatment at the edge. It did not buy mercy. It did not buy standing. It did not buy access. It only kept the body from failing too soon.
Xu Qian watched the silver vanish into a box beneath the counter.
He understood the shape of the system more clearly now. There was a boundary. At the boundary, mortal currency could pass. Beyond it, something else ruled.
He did not ask about that. Asking early was a way to reveal hunger.
The attendant escorted him back to his room. On the way, they passed a window that looked into another courtyard. Xu Qian slowed just enough to see.
Men in gray robes moved through drills with swords held low, stepping in unison. Their blades were plain. Their control was precise-no flourish, no wasted motion. A man with a longer tablet watched them and corrected one student's stance with a tap of a wooden rod.
The student did not argue. He adjusted instantly.
Pride had no place here.
The attendant noticed Xu Qian's glance and shut the window panel, unprompted.
The message was clean.
Not for you.
Back in his room, Xu Qian sat and unwrapped his sword a fraction, checking the edge. The blade was still clean, but his hand shook when he held it too long. The poison's pulse returned as if angered by use.
He set the sword aside and closed his eyes.
He thought of his father's one question. Do you have everything you need.
He had believed the answer then.
Now he understood that the question had not been about supplies.
It had been about whether he could lose two men on a road and still walk forward. Whether he could be poisoned and still keep his mind clear. Whether he could arrive at a gate and accept that permission was not welcome.
He did not know if his father had meant it that way.
But the world did.
A knock came at his door.
Xu Qian opened it.
The young attendant stood there again, expression unchanged. "You will be moved," he said.
"Where."
The attendant blinked as if the question was unnecessary. "Intake dormitory. You will share space."
Xu Qian did not argue. He followed the attendant down the corridor to a larger room with three beds and a small table. One bed was empty. Two were occupied. A boy perhaps a year younger than Xu Qian sat on one bed, cleaning a dagger with obsessive care. His eyes lifted once, then returned to the blade. His hands were steady. On the other bed sat a broad-shouldered young man with a bandaged forearm. He held his arm carefully as if pain had taught him manners. When he saw Xu Qian, his gaze went to the shoulder binding and lingered.
Neither introduced themselves.
Xu Qian placed his pack on the empty bed and sat. He did not offer his name. He did not ask theirs. If the sect wanted them to know, it would tell them.
The attendant left.
For a long moment, the room held only the sound of the dagger being wiped and the faint breathing of injured bodies.
Then the broad-shouldered entrant spoke, voice low. "What did you do."
Xu Qian looked at him.
The question could mean many things. Kill. Survive. Arrive. Bring trouble.
Xu Qian answered the only safe version. "I arrived late," he said.
The dagger-cleaner's mouth twitched, almost a smile, and then vanished. The broad-shouldered one studied him for another heartbeat and then looked away.
Outside, the corridor filled with footsteps again.
The institution moved.
Xu Qian sat in a room not quite his, in a status not quite entry, with poison still in his blood and his name already written in ink.
He did not feel safer.
He felt contained.
And containment, he understood now, was not a gift.
It was a decision that could be reversed.