The iron deadbolts of Cave 74 clicked into their limestone sockets for the fortieth in a row midnight.
Inside the underground cell, the air was warm, thick with the rich, unctuous steam of simmering bone broth.
Over a clean hard coal fire bowl, an iron cooking pot bubbled in slow, thick, sticky ripples. In the broth floated split femurs from a swamp drake and spine bones from an armored marsh crocodile, their deep marrow cavities yielding packed fats and clear, golden spiritual connective tissue.
Pei Jing sat cross-legged upon his slate bed.
Before him on a square of clean white linen lay the full physical statement of his personal balance sheet:
Fifty-two uncut low-grade spirit stones, glowing with authentic, flawless northern cyan radiance. Over one hundred and forty loose spirit shards. Three small, functional spatial storage pouches sewn safely into the lining of his linen tunic. Seven intact magic charms. The cast hardwood market registration plaque bearing the numeral Nine-Two. And wrapped in sheepskin, his box-shaped Black Mountain Whetstone and his hard dark metal-iron cleaver.
He had arrived in Red Mist Valley forty days ago with fifteen stolen stones, a dull cleaver, and an empty belly. He stood at the very threshold of the mortal border.
