A thatched roof was an insult to the trade.
Every northern storm shook straw, dust, and sparrow droppings into Austin’s tea. Beetles had eaten through the bent rafters. Their constant clicking sounded like a countdown to collapse. Replacing the roof wasn’t a luxury. It was basic sanitation.
Austin stood beside his stone oven, using iron tongs to search the ash bed.
The day before, he had thrown four fist-sized pieces of iron pyrite into the oven. He had only wanted a few heavy stones to hold heat and protect the floor.
Under the 11,500-degree star-fire, they had not stayed pyrite for long.
The sulfur burned away. The remaining metal changed into something much denser.
A solid ten-pound yellow brick now sat in the cool ash.
Austin lifted it with the tongs and dropped it into a tub of cold water.
HISSSSSS.
Steam boiled toward the roof. Austin reached into the water, pulled out the dripping bar, and bounced it in his palm.
Austin turned it over and scowled.
“Gold. Useless junk. You couldn’t frame a chicken coop with this stuff. A nail would mushroom into it like warm cheese, and an axe edge would fold on the first knot. All it does is take up bag space.”
He looked down the mountain trail.
“I need fifty seasoned pine planks, two boxes of framing nails, and four heavy hinges. If there’s a shop down there, I’m dumping this on the first merchant who buys metal.”
Near the porch, Li Xiaoyao finished sweeping map point fourteen-eight for the forty-seventh time.
After two days of steady meals and work near Austin’s hot oven, the boy looked healthier. The energy in the air had cleared his spirit veins. He had reached the Fourth Stage of Qi Gathering without noticing.
“Senior Chu, are you going to the market? I can carry the basket.”
Austin checked the boy’s status.
“A porter. Good. Early-game inventory is always a pain.” Austin tossed him the yellow brick. “Catch. Don’t drop it on your foot.”
Li Xiaoyao caught it against his ribs. His knees hit the ground, and the breath left his lungs.
The moment he touched the metal, warm Yang energy rushed up his arms and into his spirit veins.
He stared at the basket.
The brick was Nine-Yang Sun-Gold. Ancient sects had fought wars over shavings of it. A single sliver could be used to make the hilt of a legendary flying sword.
And his master had tossed it across the yard like a broken paving stone.
“T-to the market, Master!” Li Xiaoyao clutched the basket as if it held a live bomb.
***
The Outer Sect Market filled a muddy bend in the river between two limestone ridges. Outer disciples, rogue cultivators, and merchants crowded the stalls. They argued over dried roots, animal parts, paper talismans, chipped swords, and cloudy spirit stones.
“Fresh Blood-Ginseng! Three spirit stones a bundle!”
“Used flying sword! Chipped tip, but it flies straight!”
“Lynx-tendon bow! Guaranteed to pierce armor at sixty paces!”
Austin walked down the main street with his thumbs hooked in his belt. He studied the wooden stalls with growing disgust.
“Half-inch gaps in the joints. No braces. Green timber. The first freeze will split those beams. And not one rain gutter. A single storm turns this whole street into a mud pit.”
He stopped at the largest store. Its cedar sign read Qian Clan Lumber & Iron Works.
Steward Qian sat behind a polished pine counter. He was plump and sleek, dressed in fox-lined silk. The Middle Foundation Establishment merchant moved the beads on his abacus with one hand and sipped jasmine tea with the other.
“Well, well.” He barely glanced at Austin’s rags and muddy sandals. “A beggar from the back peaks. Do you need kindling or an axe handle? Speak quickly. My tea is getting cold.”
Austin put his palms on the counter.
“Fifty seasoned pine planks. Two-by-six, sixteen feet long, planed square. Two boxes of three-inch iron framing nails. Four heavy butt hinges with screws. Delivered to Sunset Peak before sundown.”
Steward Qian snorted.
“That order costs six low-grade spirit stones. An outer disciple gets two a month. You couldn’t pay for it if you sold both kidneys. Get out before I call the guards.”
Austin sighed. “Kid. Give me the yellow scrap.”
Li Xiaoyao lifted the brick from the basket with shaking hands.
Austin took it in one hand and dropped it on the counter.
THUD!
The wood groaned. The abacus jumped, and its beads clattered.
“I don’t have spirit stones,” Austin said. “Will this cover the lumber? If not, there are three more lumps in my kiln.”
Steward Qian leaned over and rapped the bar with his knuckles.
“You think common brass can buy refined sect—”
He stopped.
His tea bowl slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
The yellow metal drank in the sunlight and gave off a soft golden glow. Tiny arcs of violet fire moved along its edges. The heat from it began to char the counter.
The abacus caught fire.
Steward Qian grabbed the smoking wood to keep himself upright.
“N-NINE...” His voice climbed into a squeal. “NINE-YANG DIVINE SUN-GOLD!”
The entire market went silent.
Merchants dropped their scales. Disciples stopped in the middle of bargains. Every cultivator within earshot turned toward the counter.
“A FULL TEN POUNDS?” a passing swordmaster cried. “A piece the size of a fingernail can buy a spirit vein! Ten pounds could fund a great sect for five hundred years!”
Austin closed his eyes and counted to five. It was an old habit from dealing with clients who changed their minds on the day of a concrete pour.
“Here we go. Every shop has the same overacted cutscene.” He tapped his sandal in the dirt. “It’s scrap from a backyard kiln. Stop stalling.”
He leaned across the smoking counter.
“I want fifty planks, two boxes of nails, and four hinges on Sunset Peak before sunset. Keep the change. Do we have a deal, or am I going to your competitor?”
Steward Qian looked at the gold, then at Austin’s bored face.
“Deal. We have a deal. I will bring every plank up the mountain myself.”
While Austin checked the hinges and made Qian unwrap the nails, Xiaoyao waited beside the basket. Bai Chen stepped out from between two stalls. He had followed them from the ridge.
“Li Xiaoyao,” he said softly. “You look half starved.”
Xiaoyao’s stomach tightened at the smell of the meat bun in Bai Chen’s hand.
“Tell me what Chu Yuan found under that peak,” Bai Chen said. “One useful answer, and the bun is yours. Help me again, and I will make you a Bai retainer. You will eat meat every day and never haul grain for Steward Wang again.”
Yesterday, Xiaoyao would have accepted before Bai Chen finished. He looked at the food, then at Austin. Austin was arguing over a bent nail, not watching them. No one would know.
“He gives me a share of every meal,” Xiaoyao said. “He shows me how to work instead of beating me when I do it wrong. He says I’m useful.”
Bai Chen’s smile hardened. “He is using you.”
“Maybe.” Xiaoyao put the basket on his shoulder. “But I choose to stay with him.”
He walked back to Austin and left the meat bun in Bai Chen’s hand.