Kaelen tossed the bloody promissory note into the glowing brazier, watching the crimson seal curl into white ash.
The jagged signature of Derrick Vance blackened and vanished in three seconds of quiet heat. A faint smell of scorched wax and old copper lingered in the shed, then drifted away through the felt-lined draft flue.
Beside him, Deacon Vane let out a soft sigh, adjusting his crystal spectacles. “You don’t seem surprised that he tried to buy the pills, Young Master.”
“My father is a creature of simple habits,” Kaelen said, poking the dying embers with a pine twig. “He gambled away the clan mines, poisoned his own sons, and traded Mina’s marrow to bandits. A man like that doesn’t repent; he merely crawls toward the nearest source of free medicine.”
Derrick Vance was an authoritarian bore when he had thirty guards, Kaelen thought, stifling a yawn. Now he is a beggar signing blood debts for outlaw sects. If he comes knocking on our gate, I will simply bill him twenty spirit stones for trespassing.
He pushed open the shed door and stepped out into the cool morning air.
The courtyard of Stone-Willow Lane was peaceful. Dawn light filtered through the weeping willow, painting golden patterns across the damp flagstones.
Barnaby Holt was already sitting on the wooden veranda, sipping hot ginger tea with his single hand. His shoulder moved with fluid, painless ease, the angry flare in his chest scar thoroughly soothed by the residual mist of last night’s Supreme Spirit-Marrow brew.
Mina was tending the small clay stove in the corner, humming happily as she roasted five fat sweet potatoes in the warm ash.
The sweet fragrance of roasted sugar and charred potato skin drifted through the garden.
Kaelen pulled his pine stool onto the covered porch, sank into the wooden seat, and kicked off his slippers. Mina immediately handed him a split sweet potato wrapped in clean brown paper.
The orange flesh was soft as custard, steaming hot and dripping with caramelized syrup.
Kaelen took a blissful bite, letting the warm sweetness melt on his tongue.
This is the true pinnacle of the Dao, Kaelen thought with deep satisfaction. Good tea, warm carbohydrates, and not a single elder yelling in my ear.
His tranquility lasted approximately four minutes.
Down the stone alleyway, the soft clatter of hurried iron-shod boots echoed against the brick walls.
Three elderly men in luxurious brocade robes turned the corner into Stone-Willow Lane, pointing excitedly at the fresh hoofprints and dropped winter-clover wisps left by Deacon Vane’s gray carriage mule before dawn. Each wore the high velvet crown of a merchant clan patriarch, their fingers adorned with glittering jade storage rings.
They followed the mule tracks straight to the heavy oak gate, their eyes locking onto the weathered “Do Not Disturb” pine plank Kaelen had nailed across the wood:
Unscheduled Noise: Twenty Stones Per Breath. Loud Knockers Will Be Ignored.
The three old men exchanged terrified, awed glances.
“Brother Guan, Deacon Vane’s carriage mule stopped right at this threshold, and look at those brushstrokes,” the leftmost elder whispered, his breath catching. “So casual, so arrogant! Only an ancient hermit grandmaster like Master Ash would dare bill people twenty spirit stones just for breathing loudly!”
“The rumors from the Black-Crow vault are true,” Elder Iron-Guan hissed back, smoothing his fox-fur collar. “Master Ash has taken residence in this very alley. We must tread lightly.”
The three patriarchs cautiously pushed the wooden gate open. The iron hinges swung with an oiled, silent glide.
They stepped onto the flagstones, their posture stiff as iron pillars, expecting to see a terrifying grandmaster surrounded by dancing heavenly flames.
Instead, they saw an eighteen-year-old youth sitting on a milk stool in a faded gray bathrobe, chewing lazily on a roasted sweet potato.
Beside the boy’s bare feet lay an empty wicker basket, a pair of worn straw slippers, and a dog-eared romance pamphlet.
The three Iron Bone Peak elders froze in bewilderment.
“Young friend,” Elder Iron-Guan began, clasping his hands in a respectful salute. “We seek the dwelling of Senior Master Ash, the creator of the Tier 2 Supreme Spirit-Marrow Pills. Is the honorable Grandmaster at home?”
Kaelen swallowed his mouthful of sweet potato and wiped his sticky fingers on a napkin.
He looked at the three trembling patriarchs with heavy, half-closed eyes.
“The master is in hermit seclusion,” Kaelen said in a bored drawl. “Down in the deep cellar, meditating on the ancient Void Dao. He won’t be coming out for three hundred years.”
The elders gasped in unison, taking half a step backward.
“Three hundred years?” Elder He stammered, clutching his jade pendant. “Then... then who are you, young hero?”
“I am just Master Ash’s lazy errand boy,” Kaelen replied smoothly. “I sweep the leaves, boil the water, and eat the sweet potatoes. It is very hard work.”
The Errand-Boy Extortion Racket never fails, Kaelen noted silently. In Ashford Town, playing my own servant saved me two hundred conversations. In a wealthy city like this, it is practically an invitation to print money.
Elder Iron-Guan stepped forward, bowing even deeper until his nose nearly brushed his knees. “Honorable Dao Boy! We are the heads of the Guan, He, and Yan merchant clans. We represent the three largest herbal syndicates in the prefecture.”
“Congratulations,” Kaelen said, taking another bite of his potato. “Business must be very noisy.”
“We come only to offer our humblest respects to Master Ash,” Elder Yan pleaded, stepping forward with trembling hands. “Our three clans suffer from ancestral bone-decay. We desperately require three more bottles of his supreme marrow medicine.”
Kaelen shook his head with an exaggerated sigh of dismay.
“You should leave immediately,” Kaelen warned in a solemn whisper. “Master Ash has a terrible temper. He is currently refining a nine-revolution furnace in his sea of consciousness. He despises three things above all else: weeds in his turnip patch, unpolished flagstones, and noise.”
The three elders stiffened, their faces turning pale.
“Noise?” Elder Iron-Guan echoed, his voice dropping to an anxious squeak.
“Noise,” Kaelen confirmed, pointing his sweet potato toward the courtyard garden. “If someone makes a noise louder than a falling sparrow while he is meditating, his cauldron backfires. When his cauldron backfires, he voids the entire city’s pill quota and curses their bloodlines with permanent constipation.”
A cold shudder ran through the three Iron Bone Peak veterans.
At their age, a curse of permanent constipation sounded far more terrifying than a thunder tribulation.
“What... what can we do to appease the Grandmaster’s peace?” Elder He asked frantically.
Kaelen looked toward the corner of the courtyard, where a small patch of winter turnips was overgrown with sprawling crabgrass and dandelions.
“The master told me to weed the turnip patch this morning,” Kaelen muttered, rubbing his lower back with a theatrical groan. “My lumbar vertebra is very fragile. Bending over for twenty minutes might ruin my sleep for three days. And if the turnips are choked by weeds, the master will surely explode.”
Before Kaelen could finish his sentence, Elder Iron-Guan tore off his embroidered silk outer robe.
“Dao Boy, do not strain your precious back!” Elder Iron-Guan declared, dropping straight to his knees in the dirt. “Weeds are the enemy of cultivation! Brother He, Brother Yan, to the turnip patch!”
The three wealthy patriarchs—men who controlled river fleets, iron warehouses, and thousands of mortal lives—fell upon the weed patch like starving wolves.
Their diamond-hard, Iron Bone Peak fingers plunged into the soil. With terrifying, martial precision, they plucked every dandelion root, thistle, and blade of crabgrass from the earth, shaking the loose soil free before stacking the debris into neat piles.
Barnaby Holt peeked around the corner of the woodshed, his single eye bulging so hard his eyebrows twitched. “Those are the three biggest merchants in the Upper Harbor... weeding our turnips.”
“They have excellent technique,” Sera Thorne murmured from the porch shadow, shaking her head in amusement at how brazenly Kaelen was using his own secret reputation to fleece the city’s elite. “Look at Elder Guan’s wrist snap. That’s a seventh-rank grasping art.”
Within five minutes, the turnip patch looked like an imperial garden, and the three patriarchs even used their embroidered silk cuffs to buff the unpolished courtyard flagstones until the granite shone like a mirror.
Elder Iron-Guan scrambled to his feet, dusting his knees with nervous haste. He pulled a heavy, velvet-lined coin pouch from his waistband and placed it gently on Kaelen’s tea table.
“A small token of respect for the Dao Boy’s hard labor,” Elder Iron-Guan whispered reverently. “Sixty Low-Grade Spirit Stones. Please ensure Master Ash receives our clan’s devotion.”
Elder He and Elder Yan immediately produced their own pouches, placing them beside the first with synchronized reverence.
“Sixty stones from the He Clan!”
“Sixty stones from the Yan Clan!”
Kaelen nudged the three pouches with the edge of his paper wrapper.
One hundred and eighty Low-Grade Spirit Stones. Combined with their previous auction earnings, their total liquid reserve climbed to an astonishing two thousand five hundred spirit stones.
“Your sincerity is acceptable,” Kaelen said, slipping the three pouches into his bathrobe pocket. “I will inform the master that three humble gardeners paid their respects. But the noise issue remains.”
“We will handle the noise personally!” Elder Iron-Guan vowed, his eyes blazing with ferocious determination.
“From this moment forward, Stone-Willow Lane is a sacred cultivation sanctuary,” Elder Iron-Guan added, puffing his chest. “We will post clan enforcers at both ends of the alley so not a stray cricket makes a sound for seventy-two hours!”
“Seventy-two hours of absolute silence?” Kaelen asked, his eyes lighting up with genuine warmth. “Truly, you gentlemen possess great wisdom.”
The three elders bowed three more times, backed out of the gate with feather-light steps, and latched the wood behind them without making a single click.
Within twenty minutes, twelve elite Iron Bone guards in gray silk cloaks sealed both entrances to Stone-Willow Lane. Carts were turned away, barking mongrels were fed sleeping sausages, and street hawkers were quietly bribed to take three days off.
A blanket of heavenly, unbroken silence fell over the entire district.
Free labor, one hundred and eighty spirit stones, and professional bodyguards to enforce my nap, Kaelen thought, sinking back into his rattan daybed under the willow tree. Sometimes, the universe truly rewards the righteous.
The sun climbed through the sky and sank toward the western hills.
Night enveloped the courtyard, silent and still. Another day dawned, warm and bright.
In Kaelen’s dantian, the three bronze channels of the Fallow Slate hummed with massive, harmonious power.
[The Fallow Slate: Stage 2 Tri-Track Accumulation] [Track 1 (Cultivation Vessel): 224h 00m / 720h (225x Multiplier)] [Track 2 (Martial Combat): 124h 00m / 720h (125x Multiplier)] [Track 3 (Alchemy & Comprehension): 24h 00m / 720h (25x Multiplier)] [Total Inactive Accumulation: 224 Hours Continuous]
Two hundred and twenty-four hours of unbroken cultivation.
His vessel was swollen with dense, emerald Qi, pulsing at two hundred and twenty-five times baseline growth. Every minute he slept drew massive currents of pure environmental energy into his ninth pulse gate, preparing the ground for his diamond-tempered Iron Bone breakthrough.
On the afternoon of the sixth day, the quiet was broken.
Down the northern entrance of Stone-Willow Lane, six burly thugs in red leather armor marched down the alleyway. They carried iron-banded clubs and brass gongs, led by Branch Master Orson’s private enforcer lieutenant.
“Where is that Ashford beggar?” the lieutenant shouted, banging his club against a brick wall with a loud, ringing smash. “Young Master Orson sent us to inspect your cauldron license! Open the gate or we tear down your roof!”
Kaelen did not even open his eyes. He merely shifted his wool blanket over his shoulder.
Before the thugs could take three more steps, the rooftops above erupted with terrifying martial fury.
Three shadowy figures descended like vengeful hawks, trailing dense bursts of Iron Bone Peak Qi.
Elder Iron-Guan, Elder He, and Elder Yan landed directly in front of the startled enforcers. Their faces were twisted in pure, murderous rage.
“Insolent dogs!” Elder Iron-Guan hissed in a venomous, furious whisper. “How dare you bang iron clubs near Master Ash’s turnips!”
CRACK. THUD. CRASH.
Three muffled, brutal impacts echoed down the stone alley.
In less than four seconds, five of Orson’s thugs were beaten completely unconscious, their weapons shattered and their mouths stuffed with gutter mud.
Elder Iron-Guan ground his heavy heel into the dazed lieutenant’s jaw, his voice vibrating with Iron Bone Peak pressure.
“Crawl back to Orson Junior,” Elder Iron-Guan hissed before knocking the last thug unconscious into the drainage ditch. “Tell him when you wake that if another guild enforcer raises his voice near Master Ash’s turnips, our three merchant clans will burn his testing hall to the ground.”