The bronze summons gong boomed from the central keep at first light, shaking dried mint leaves from the rafters of the Third Herb Shed.
Kaelen Vance sat up on his wooden cot. He rubbed his eyes and listened to the rhythmic strikes rolling across the orchard ridge.
Eight hours of uninterrupted sleep had passed since the bandit raid.
The old wool cloak and veiled bamboo hat Sera had set out the night before still rested on the bench near the door. Any morning trip down to the Ghost Market was off the table now that the dawn gong had announced a mandatory lockdown.
Kaelen focused his vision on the morning air before him.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Abstinence: 8 Hours, 00 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 9x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 9 Hours (10x Ready)]
Eight clean hours, Kaelen thought. Nine times standard yield. If the clan keeps banging that brass dish, my morning tea will turn cold.
Barnaby Holt pushed through the door, carrying a clay bowl of steaming red-bean tea. His single eye held a tired grin.
“Patriarch Derrick wants every junior descendant in the Ancestral Blade Courtyard,” Barnaby grunted, setting the bowl down.
Mina peeked out from the side storeroom, a wool shawl around her shoulders.
“Brother, it’s the pre-tournament stele viewing,” Mina whispered. “Father makes all the bloodline youths sit before the sword slab. Latecomers are fined five silver taels.”
Kaelen picked up the bowl of red-bean tea. He blew across the dark surface.
“Fining family members for sleeping late seems contrary to good governance,” Kaelen said. “It strains the household budget.”
Sera Thorne stepped inside from the porch, wiping dew from her broken spear shaft.
“Cassian will be there,” Sera said. “The rumors say he took three bone-strengthening elixirs over two days. He wants to prove his blade intent.”
Kaelen froze with the tea bowl halfway to his mouth.
A sudden chill ran through his thoughts. It had nothing to do with Cassian’s temper or Derrick’s discipline.
It had everything to do with the Ancestral Blade Stele.
The stele was a twelve-foot slab of river granite. Three hundred years ago, the Vance founder had carved eighteen sword strokes into the rock using Frost-Pine Sword Intent.
Ordinary disciples stared at the slab for days, straining to catch a spark of comprehension.
For Kaelen, the situation was catastrophic.
With his Fallow Slate running, his comprehension potential was unhinged. If his gaze touched those carved grooves, his mind might decode the intent in three seconds flat.
Mental comprehension counted as active cultivation practice.
The moment he comprehended a single strand of sword intent, his True Fallow State would shatter. His eight-hour streak would wipe clean, resetting his multiplier back to a baseline one.
That ancient rock is an active biohazard, Kaelen thought, feeling genuine alarm. One careless glance and eight hours of accumulated interest vanish into thin air. I’d rather swallow swamp water.
“Barnaby,” Kaelen said, setting his bowl down.
“Aye?” Barnaby grunted.
“Fetch me the heavy black linen from the drying rack,” Kaelen said. “Fold it four times. Make sure no light passes through.”
Barnaby scratched his gray beard in confusion. “Did that bandit bruise your ribs?”
“My ribs are in pristine condition,” Kaelen replied smoothly. “My eyes, however, are in grave spiritual danger.”
Barnaby returned with a dense strip of midnight-black cloth.
Kaelen took the fabric, folded it into a thick band, and wrapped it securely around his head. He pulled the knot tight behind his skull, covering his eyes completely.
Total darkness greeted him. Not a single sliver of light penetrated the linen.
“Brother,” Mina asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Why are you wearing a blindfold to an ancestral viewing?”
“Precautionary medicine,” Kaelen said, reaching out to locate his folding wooden stool. “Granite reflects dangerous glare during early autumn. A wise cultivator protects his ocular meridians.”
Barnaby let out a barking laugh. “The boy is mad. Derrick will turn purple.”
“Let him turn purple,” Kaelen said, tucking the stool beneath his arm. “Purple is a dignified color for a patriarch.”
He picked up his tea bowl and walked toward the door. With his Rank 5 pulse gates open, his hearing was sharp enough to track every floorboard.
Sera fell into step beside him. “Do you need me to guide your steps, Master Kaelen?”
“Just point me toward the loudest shouting,” Kaelen said.
They climbed the stone path leading up from the valley. Other junior disciples were hurrying along the trail.
When Kaelen stepped through the arched gateway of the Ancestral Blade Courtyard, chatter died away.
Dozens of youths stood in neat rows on the flagstones. At the front towered the massive gray monolith of the Ancestral Blade Stele.
A faint metallic vibration hummed from the rock, carrying the ancient chill of the founder’s blade.
On the raised pavilion above the yard, Baron Derrick Vance stood with hands clasped behind his back, flanked by instructors.
In the front row of disciples stood Cassian Vance.
The eldest son was broad-shouldered and tall, dressed in high-collared blue silk. A polished broadsword hung at his hip. His aura radiated the heavy weight of Mortal Pulse Rank 8.
Yet beneath his arrogant posture, Cassian’s complexion looked gray. Faint violet shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes.
Cassian turned his head as Kaelen approached. When his gaze landed on the black blindfold, his lip curled into a sneer.
“What is this circus?” Cassian called out across the yard. “Third Brother, have you lost your mind along with your pride?”
Several disciples near the back chuckled.
Kaelen stopped six paces away. He kept his head tilted toward the garden wall.
“Good morning, First Brother,” Kaelen replied calmly. “I see your broadsword is very shiny today. Polishing steel is honest work.”
“Don’t play the fool,” Cassian snapped. “This is the sacred Ancestral Blade Stele. Why are you wearing a rag over your face like an executed criminal?”
“A simple medical necessity,” Kaelen said pleasantly. “The morning glare off granite reflects harsh Yang fire. It triggers acute ocular meridian migraines in delicate constitutions. My physician recommends strict sensory deprivation.”
“Ocular migraines?” Cassian snarled, his hand tightening on his sword pommel. “You insult the ancestor with your pathetic excuses!”
From the high pavilion, Baron Derrick cleared his throat like thunder.
“Silence in the yard!” Derrick commanded.
The disciples snapped to attention. Cassian stiffened, throwing a venomous glare at Kaelen before facing the front.
Derrick looked down at Kaelen, his thick brows knitting into a heavy scowl. But the auspicious hour for comprehension could not be delayed.
“The stele unseals for two hours,” Derrick declared. “Empty your minds. The Barony Tournament begins in three weeks. The Vance name will not be disgraced by weaklings. Begin!”
Instructors struck a bronze bell.
A wave of icy pressure rolled off the Ancestral Blade Stele as its protective ward dropped. The carved sword marks emitted a pale, frost-blue glow.
The courtyard fell dead silent.
Dozens of disciples sat cross-legged on the cold stone, their eyes fixed on the glowing grooves. Within minutes, the air filled with labored breathing.
Staring at the strokes felt like dragging an iron needle across the brain.
Cassian sat in the center of the front row, his legs crossed in a rigid lotus posture. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, fixed unblinkingly on the central carving. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping down his jaw. His teeth ground together with a dry, grating sound.
In the back row, near the shade of a flowering plum tree, Kaelen acted with complete calm.
He unfolded his wooden stool with a soft click. He sat down, leaned his back comfortably against the wall, and placed his clay bowl on his knee.
The black blindfold sealed his eyes in darkness. The frost-blue light washed over his shoulders, but not a single ray reached his retinas.
Crisis averted, Kaelen thought, taking a slow sip of sweet red-bean tea. The ancestor’s sword intent can scream all it wants. As long as I don’t see the pattern, my brain stays happily blank.
To make sure his mind did not accidentally wander into meditation, Kaelen began reciting the plot of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride from memory.
Book One, section four, Kaelen reminded himself silently. Lady Vivienne escapes the mountain fortress inside a laundry cart. The bandit captain searches the stables, unaware that his rival has disguised himself as a traveling vinegar merchant.
It was cheap mortal entertainment sold for two copper bits behind the grain market.
Yet to Kaelen, it was an impenetrable mental fortress.
Reciting cheap mortal romance produces zero Dao insight, Kaelen thought with deep satisfaction. It contains no martial truth, no elemental harmony, and no cosmic resonance. It is the most spiritually barren activity known to mankind. Perfect for shielding the dantian.
Half an hour passed.
Around him, other disciples suffered. A youth in the third row let out a gasp, clutching his temples as blood trickled from his nose. An instructor dragged the boy away.
Cassian’s breathing grew ragged. The dark veins on his neck bulged like twisted earthworms, his forced Qi circulation turning harsh and erratic.
“Focus...” Cassian muttered under his breath, knuckles turning white on his knees. “I must grasp the fourth stroke... Frost-Pine Cleave...”
Meanwhile, Kaelen leaned his head back against the brick wall and almost drifted off to sleep.
Master Corwin, an elderly instructor, paced slowly between the rows. When the old man reached the rear of the courtyard, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He stared at Kaelen.
The Third Young Master sat upright on his stool, a dark linen blindfold covering his upper face. While every other student was shivering and groaning in agony, Kaelen Vance looked as peaceful as a sleeping turtle in a sunny pond.
Not a single bead of sweat touched his brow. His breathing was slow and deep.
The old instructor’s breath caught in awe. The sword pressure struck straight at the mind, pushing even Rank 7 disciples to the verge of fainting, yet the third son sat in utter calm.
Corwin stepped closer, watching Kaelen take an unhurried sip of tea.
“He blinds himself to the outer form to perceive the formless blade,” Corwin murmured under his breath. “A blind-heart sword state...”
Corwin retreated quietly, casting a look of deep respect toward the youth on the stool.
Kaelen, unaware of the instructor’s wild thoughts, was debating whether Lady Vivienne should marry the bandit captain or the vinegar merchant.
The vinegar merchant has better job security, Kaelen reasoned. Fermented goods always sell well during wartime.
Time flowed like water through a brook.
Suddenly, a soft, familiar golden chime resonated in Kaelen’s mind.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Abstinence: 10 Hours, 00 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 11x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 11 Hours (12x Ready)]
Ten hours reached. Eleven times multiplier unlocked.
A deep sense of contentment warmed Kaelen’s chest. Two full hours of mandatory clan training had passed. Instead of ruining his slate, he had added two hundred percent to his interest rate.
A magnificent morning, Kaelen thought. Sitting on a stool drinking tea while getting paid in cultivation interest. If every clan assembly were like this, I might attend twice a week.
CLANG!
The bronze bell struck once more, echoing across the granite courtyard.
“Time is up!” Baron Derrick barked from the high pavilion. “The stele is sealed!”
The frost-blue glow faded from the rock face. The oppressive sword pressure vanished like smoke.
Instantly, half the disciples collapsed backward onto the flagstones, panting and rubbing their aching eyes.
Cassian staggered to his feet. His face was pale and slick with greasy sweat, but he lifted his chin with stubborn pride.
“Father!” Cassian called out, his voice raspy. “I comprehended the shadow of the fourth stroke! Within ten days, my Frost-Pine Cleave will break through to Small Success!”
Derrick smiled from the pavilion, nodding with approval. “Well done, Cassian. A true son of the Vance bloodline.”
Cassian turned around, eager to bask in the admiration of his peers.
His eyes fell straight on Kaelen.
Kaelen had already folded his wooden stool. He waited until he was completely turned away from the stele before loosening the knot.
With a smooth motion, Kaelen slipped the black linen from his face, blinking against the bright morning sunlight.
His eyes were clear, white, and well-rested. He looked like a man who had enjoyed an easy nap in an orchard hammock.
Cassian stared at him, his face twitching with rage.
“You...” Cassian hissed, stomping toward the back row. “You sat there the whole time! You didn’t even look at the stone!”
Kaelen adjusted the collar of his rough tunic.
“First Brother, looking at stones is very tiring,” Kaelen said mildly. “Granite has looked the same for three hundred years. It rarely changes its mind.”
“You worthless parasite!” Cassian snarled, his hand shaking on his sword hilt. “When the tournament qualifiers arrive, I will personally throw you off the ring!”
“I look forward to your enthusiasm,” Kaelen said. “Please schedule my match after lunch. Digestion requires calm.”
Without waiting for Cassian’s temper to explode, Kaelen turned and walked toward the courtyard exit.
Sera Thorne fell into step beside him as the crowd of junior disciples dispersed.
They passed through the outer gate and took the winding stone path leading down toward the southern herb terraces. The noise of the central keep faded behind them, replaced by the whisper of mountain pines.
Once they were well out of earshot of the main pavilion, Sera slowed her pace and moved closer to Kaelen’s shoulder.
“Master Kaelen,” Sera murmured, her voice barely louder than the breeze.
“Yes, Sera?”
“While everyone was staring at the monolith, I kept watch on the perimeter,” Sera said. Her eyes darted toward the tree line before continuing. “Cassian’s personal attendant, Goran, slipped away twenty minutes into the session.”
Kaelen raised an eyebrow. “Did he go fetch better tea?”
“No,” Sera said, her jaw tightening. “He carried a small iron spade behind the eastern training dummy, near the old drainage trench. He dug a hole and buried three clay jars.”
Kaelen slowed his steps. “What was inside them?”
“Black, foul-smelling pill slag,” Sera whispered, disgust coloring her voice. “The stench reached my nose from fifty paces away—burnt sulfur, scorched bone, and rotting toadskin. Whatever First Young Master is swallowing in secret, he’s terrified of the clan elders finding the dregs.”