Old Hong

Blacksmith Old Hong sat in his shop. The forge had gone cold, the bellows were silent, and dust coated his tools. He had not touched a hammer in a year. To him, the cheerful clanging from the shops next door sounded like an odd noise that had slipped in from another world.

Looking back on most of his life, he saw that all his efforts had come to nothing. Those he cared about had passed on before him, the ideals he pursued were turning rotten, and even the trade he had painstakingly built had come to a halt while he still had strength left.

The first man came in, standing at the doorway with a torch in hand. He looked young, nervous and excited, his wary gaze darting about. He reminded Old Hong of another young man.

The second man came in and stood opposite Old Hong, his back burdened with both sides' expectations. He was calm, as though he had something to say.

More and more people filed in, lining up on either side of the second man to form a half-circle, like the many-fingered palm of a giant. It would take only the slightest squeeze to crush him to dust.

Old Hong knew all eleven of them. He knew some especially well. They had once been friends, all outraged by the state of things, and together they had founded the Tianshan Sect under difficult circumstances. Now he was an outsider, with no right even to speak in his own trial and defend himself.

The man in the middle was Du Jian. He had never been Old Hong's friend, and now he was the sect leader, with power in his hands.

Old Hong did not rise. He stayed seated in the broken-down chair and looked up. "Have you made