Bai arrived at the yard gate with three sealed packages and a list of their sources. He waited while Yan finished his cart count, then opened the list on the gate rail.
“Three candidates,” he said. “All traced to returned guild stock. One is a weak qi tonic. One improves warmth and circulation. The third has a complete warning label, but I have not tried to identify the batch from memory.”
“Don’t identify it from memory,” Yan said. “Show me the record.”
Bai gave him the list and pointed to the first two numbers. Yan checked the package labels against the entries. The qi tonic came from a different batch than the weak tablet he had bought earlier and left sealed. The warming pellet was also a new batch, not the quarter dose from the tool shed or the one he had used to mend his coat cuff.
He compared the ingredients, seal marks, and return dates. Both packages were intact. The third had a readable warning and complete ingredients, but its batch was new to him and its source line named a storehouse he did not recognize.
“What do you know about this one?” Yan asked.
“I know the storehouse on the receipt. I haven’t confirmed that the clerk listed the correct return shelf.”
“Then hold it until you do.”
Bai looked at him. “You trust my word for the other two?”
“I trust the labels more when you can name where they came from. I trust you more because you say when you don’t know.”
“That’s an inconveniently fair way to do business.”
“It saves us from arguing later.”
Bai laughed and shook his head. “I’ll bring only traceable stock. You pay for the courier work whether or not you buy everything.”
“I will.”
They agreed on a price for the two packages. Yan checked the listed effects before he paid. One promised a small accumulation of qi and warned of dullness afterward. The other promised a warmer, steadier circulation, with a caution about uneven heat. He did not open either package. The third remained in Bai’s satchel, separated from the two purchases.
As Yan folded the receipt, its sharp edge nicked the pad of his thumb. He hissed and pulled his hand back. A bright bead of blood rose along the shallow cut. Bai offered a clean cloth from his satchel. Yan pressed it to his thumb and held it there while the sting faded. No warmth ran through his channels, and the cut stayed visible beneath the cloth. His cultivation had not made ordinary skin unbreakable. When the bleeding stopped, he wrapped the thumb with a narrow strip and returned the receipt to his notebook.
At the gate’s narrow writing board, Yan entered the batch numbers, sources, listed benefits, adverse effects, prices, and payment time into the reject map. Bai recorded the same figures in his courier book. When Yan wrote the price of the warming pellet, Bai corrected the number: Yan had read the copper mark as one unit higher.
“I owe you less?” Yan asked.
“You owe what we agreed. You don’t owe me a mistake.”
Yan crossed out the figure and wrote the correct one. Bai checked both entries and added his initials.
The tablets went into Yan’s locked tool chest, each in its own sleeve. He kept the untested qi tonic apart from the previously purchased weak tablet. The remaining pellet from the earlier warming test stayed folded in its own paper. The labels faced outward, and the batch numbers remained readable.
“You keep more records than the guild clerk,” Bai said.
“The clerk doesn’t swallow the pills.”
“He has better tea.”
“His tea doesn’t need a warning label.”
Bai grinned. He shouldered his satchel and glanced at the sorting bench. Yan had handled several modest cultivation benefits by now. His circulation stayed steady through the shift, and his energy lasted longer than it had before the first draught. None of that meant he could ignore a dropped load or take an unknown dose. He checked the cart wheel and lifted its handle with both hands, stopping when the axle caught on a stone.
“Need help?” Bai asked.
“I need the stone moved.”
Yan wedged a small board under the axle. Bai lifted the handle while Yan kicked the stone clear. The cart rolled free. The extra qi helped him hold his side steady, but it did not make the stuck wheel vanish or keep the cart from tipping if they rushed.
When the work bell sounded, Yan returned the board to the tool rack. His body felt ready for another hour, but the shift was over. He did not ask the System for a task or wait for another notice. There was none. He had chosen what to buy, which package to leave aside, and when to stop working.
Bai checked the third package and tucked it into the inside of his satchel. “I’ll take this to the storehouse clerk before I bring it again.”
“Bring the receipt too.”
“I have it.”
“Then bring both.”
“Anything else, careful customer?”
“No.” Yan closed the notebook. “That’s enough for today.”
Before Bai left, Yan stopped at the market stall and bought a hot bun for himself and a covered meal for Ning. The bun warmed his hands through the paper. Bai eyed the food parcel.
“You saving for the courtyard?”
“Yes,” Yan said. “But I’m allowed to eat well before I get there.”
Bai laughed. “That’s almost sensible.”
Yan paid the seller and checked the change before putting it away. The bun was hot, and the meal for Ning stayed sealed. He did not feel guilty for spending a few coins on food. He had worked for them and could decide where they went.
At the gate, Bai wrote the price agreement in his courier book once more. Yan copied the standing rate into the reject map. They both signed beneath the figures. If either forgot a fee, they could look at the matching entries instead of turning a good arrangement into a quarrel.
“Next time I bring a special offer,” Bai said, “I’ll bring the source record too.”
“Then I’ll look at it.”
“Not buy it?”
“Looking is free.”
“Not for me.”
Yan smiled and tucked the notebook away. Bai left for the market lane with a standing price agreement and three days of deliveries on his route. Their bargain had become easier because each knew what the other would ask.
Yan took the meal home. Ning was resting when he arrived, the cough tonic on the treatment shelf beside her appointment papers. He set down the food and took off his blue coat. The cuff held its straight repair. He would not need to mend it again tonight.
Zhao’s first-draught record remained in the testing office. The cup was sealed, the mixing card preserved, and the visible flake was no longer there. Yan had never told Zhao that the last mouthful had carried a dissolved trace down his throat. The first experiment was still waiting in someone else’s ledger, while Yan’s own notebook held the choices he had made since.