Fourteen quiet hours of sleep and morning tea carried the Third Herb Shed into the following afternoon, when long orchard shadows stretched across the gravel yard.
Kaelen Vance sat on the timber porch, using a scrap of clean linen to polish a small cedar box.
Inside the box, nestled on raw white cotton, lay three Cloud-Veined Supreme Pulse-Opening Pills. Each pearl-sized sphere gleamed with a soft silver glow.
Barnaby Holt stood in front of the porch, wearing a patched wool cloak that concealed his missing arm. Beside him, Sera Thorne adjusted an oilcloth wrap around the shaft of her spear.
Mina stepped out of the storeroom carrying a steaming clay kettle. She poured three bowls of barley tea, her hands steady but her face filled with concern.
“Brother, Deacon Vane is known as a ruthless broker,” Mina whispered, setting a bowl beside Kaelen. “The market folk say he swindles rogue hunters out of their spirit pelts.”
“Then it’s a good thing we aren’t selling pelts,” Kaelen said, taking a sip of the warm barley tea. “Pelts rot. Pure medicine commands its own terms.”
Kaelen held the cedar box out toward Barnaby.
“Take these three,” Kaelen said. “Deliver them directly to Deacon Vane at the Black-Crow Ghost Market.”
Barnaby took the box with his left hand, his weathered fingers trembling slightly.
“You really want me to peddle these to Weasel Vane?” Barnaby asked. “The man is a vulture. He buys stolen ore from Briggs and sells watered-down blood tonic to miners. Why not present them to Derrick?”
Kaelen leaned back against the porch railing, looking at his old mentor with a tired expression.
“If Derrick sees these pills, he will seize the shed before sunset,” Kaelen said calmly. “He will assume you stole the clan’s private reserves. Then Uncle Garrick will audit our compost piles and find an excuse to fine us twenty spirit stones.”
Barnaby grimaced. “Aye. That sounds like Garrick.”
“Therefore, the Vance name must not touch these goods,” Kaelen instructed. “If anyone asks who refined them, tell them the truth of the mountains. They belong to Master Ash.”
Barnaby blinked his single eye. “Master Ash?”
“A reclusive grandmaster who lives in the secluded crags,” Kaelen explained smoothly. “He despises noise, refuses to meet outsiders, and only uses the lazy, useless third son of the Vance house as an errand boy to fetch his bitter-grass.”
An imaginary master is the safest shield in the province, Kaelen thought with deep satisfaction. He eats no rice, occupies no bed, and never demands half the profit. If anyone wishes to challenge his authority, they can spend thirty years searching the snowy peaks.
“And what if Vane tries to shortchange us?” Sera asked, her hand resting firmly on her wrapped spear.
“Show him a single shaving on an appraisal plate,” Kaelen replied. “Let the medicine speak for itself. Demand spirit stones. Accept no paper vouchers.”
Kaelen looked at Sera, noticing the calm confidence in her stance. Her newly unlocked sixth pulse gate radiated smooth, balanced power.
“Remember the golden rule of commerce,” Kaelen added, taking another sip of barley tea. “The man who speaks the fewest words usually leaves with the fullest coin pouch.”
Old Barnaby looks nervous enough to drop the box, Kaelen thought, amused by the old man’s twitching beard. Fortunately, Sera is Rank 6 now. If anyone tries to rob them, her spear will convince them to reconsider their career choices.
Kaelen rested his head back against the cedar post and closed his eyes.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Abstinence: 72 Hours, 00 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 73x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 73 Hours (74x Ready)]
Seventy-two hours of clean rest, Kaelen thought as the evening breeze cooled his skin. Seventy-three times baseline interest. Going down to the market involves stairs, garlic smoke, and noisy haggling. Delegating labor is the foundation of true cultivation.
“Go,” Kaelen muttered, pulling his straw hat down. “I have critical convalescing to complete before supper.”
Barnaby tucked the cedar box into his tunic. With a sharp nod to Sera, the one-armed alchemist turned and led the way down the southern mountain path.
The sun sank below the granite peaks, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and charcoal gray.
Barnaby and Sera walked through the lower quarry district. They slipped past the abandoned slag heaps and entered a narrow fissure between two limestone cliffs.
At the bottom of the cleft stood a heavy iron door guarded by two sentries with hooded cloaks.
Barnaby flashed the black Iron-Hound raiding medallion looted from Lieutenant Vorn. The sentry on the left narrowed his eyes, inspecting the notched teeth of the hound emblem.
“Vorn’s personal marker,” the sentry grunted, nudging his companion. “Pass through.”
The guards pulled the heavy iron bolts aside without another question.
Beyond the door lay the Black-Crow Ghost Market.
A vast underground cavern opened up beneath the mountain. Hundreds of paper lanterns hung from iron chains overhead, casting eerie red and green reflections across damp stone walls.
The cavern buzzed with a low, menacing hum. Masked merchants hawked stolen spirit herbs, unrefined iron ore, and forbidden blood talismans. Rogue cultivators in leather armor leaned against timber stalls, eyeing every passerby with cold appraisal.
Sera walked half a pace behind Barnaby. Her silver eyes were steady and vigilant. Since breaking through to Mortal Pulse Rank 6, her steps were completely silent, and her senses tracked every blade within twenty yards.
“Keep your hand on the box,” Sera whispered, her gaze sweeping across three knife-scars on a nearby pillar. “Two scouts from the Iron-Hound gang are watching from the tea awning.”
“Let them watch,” Barnaby muttered under his breath. “They don’t know what’s inside this cedar box.”
They crossed a creaking wooden bridge over an oily underground canal.
At the center of the market stood the Grand Appraisal Pavilion. It was a three-story timber pagoda surrounded by tall bamboo palisades and iron lanterns.
Barnaby pushed through the heavy felt curtains of the front parlor.
Inside, the air smelled of burning sandalwood and expensive pipe tobacco. Behind a long counter made of polished darkwood sat a thin, sharp-featured man with slicked-back oily hair.
He wore fine robes of emerald brocade and a pair of round tortoiseshell spectacles perched upon a hooked nose.
Deacon Vane. The chief appraiser of the Black-Crow Ghost Market.
Vane was currently weighing a handful of tarnished copper coins from a nervous peasant hunter. He waved his hand dismissively, tossing two iron bits across the counter before looking up.
When Vane’s eyes landed on Barnaby, his thin lips pulled back into a mocking sneer.
“Well, well,” Deacon Vane drawled, leaning his elbows on the velvet counter pad. “Barnaby Holt. The one-armed failure of the Vance family’s junk pile. What brings you into my pavilion? Did you sweep up enough dried beetle shells to buy a bowl of sour rice wine?”
Two private guards stationed by the side pillars chuckled in amusement.
Barnaby felt his temper flare, but he remembered Kaelen’s warning to keep his mouth shut and let the medicine do the talking.
Barnaby stepped up to the sandalwood counter. He reached into his tunic with his left hand, pulled out the simple cedar box, and set it flat on the green velvet cloth.
With a flick of his thumb, Barnaby lifted the brass latch and swung the lid open.
The mocking smirk on Deacon Vane’s face instantly vanished.
Inside the cedar box, three silver-white pills rested against clean cotton. Their surfaces were covered in delicate, swirling frost patterns that seemed to move beneath the ambient lantern light.
A crisp, sweet aroma of mountain pine and pure spirit essence drifted out of the box, completely erasing the smell of tobacco and damp stone.
Deacon Vane’s spectacles slid down the bridge of his nose.
“What... what is this?” Vane whispered, his voice losing its mocking drawl entirely.
The appraiser reached out with trembling fingers. He pulled a pair of silver-tipped tweezers from a felt roll, along with a spirit-stone test plate engraved with silver measuring runes.
Using the tweezers, Vane carefully lifted the smallest pill. He scraped a tiny shaving from the outer shell and dropped the silver dust onto the spirit-stone plate.
He channeled a thin strand of Qi into the stone.
The appraisal plate flared with brilliant, unclouded azure light.
The light burned pure and steady. There was no foul black smoke. There was no crackling sputter of toxic ash.
A row of silver spirit runes along the edge of the plate ignited one by one, glowing with blinding clarity.
Deacon Vane gasped, clutching the edges of the counter.
“Zero percent Pill-Poison,” Vane stammered, his spectacles falling into his lap. “Absolute purity. One hundred percent medicinal extraction.”
He pulled a small crystal vial containing clear spirit vinegar from a drawer. He dropped another tiny speck of dust into the acid to test for mineral filler.
The liquid remained as clear as spring water. Not a single flake of sediment drifted to the bottom.
“A double-absorption resonance,” Vane muttered, his voice cracking with hysteria. “The spirit channels will absorb twice the standard essence without a speck of sediment! Even the Tier 3 grandmasters of the Red-River Guild cannot achieve zero poison on a Tier 1 recipe! Who refined these?”
Vane leaned across the counter, seizing Barnaby’s sleeve with desperate strength.
“Did Derrick Vance hire an imperial court alchemist? Did the Vance family discover an ancient sect vault? Tell me!”
Barnaby stood tall, puffing his chest out. He looked down at the frantic appraiser with cold, measured disdain.
“The Vance clan has nothing to do with this,” Barnaby said, reciting Kaelen’s words with absolute precision. “These pills are the work of Master Ash.”
“Master Ash?” Vane echoed, his brow furrowing as he searched his memory of famous alchemists. “I’ve never heard of a Master Ash in the western marches.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Barnaby snorted. “He’s a reclusive grandmaster who despises the noise of mortal politics. He lives in the high crags and communes only with the wind. He only deals through his trusted errand boy at the Third Herb Shed.”
Deacon Vane swallowed hard, his throat clicking as the color drained from his cheeks. Only an ancient hermit passing through the province could refine zero-poison Supreme medicine in a mountain cave without the guilds knowing.
Vane let go of Barnaby’s sleeve and smoothed down his brocade robes with frantic hands. His arrogant sneer was completely replaced by a groveling, servile smile.
“Elder Holt,” Vane purred, bowing his head until his nose nearly touched the sandalwood. “Forgive my earlier rudeness. The underworld air clouds the senses. Please, tell me what Master Ash requires.”
“Payment,” Barnaby said bluntly. “In spirit stones. None of your clipped silver or scrap copper.”
“Of course! Immediately!” Vane scurried to an iron safe behind the counter.
He unlocked three heavy brass tumblers and pulled out an embroidered silk pouch. He untied the drawstring and tipped nine translucent, azure crystals onto the velvet pad.
Each crystal pulsed with concentrated, pure spiritual energy.
Nine Low-Grade Spirit Stones. Nine hundred silver taels of liquid wealth.
“An advance deposit!” Vane said eagerly, pushing the stones toward Barnaby. “Three spirit stones per pill as a guaranteed minimum. But please... the Ghost Market holds its monthly high-roller auction tomorrow night. I beg you to grant me exclusive consignment rights for Master Ash’s future batches!”
Meanwhile, three miles away at the Third Herb Shed, Kaelen shifted on his wooden cot.
The autumn crickets chirped outside the open window. The faint fragrance of drying mint drifted through the room.
A soft chime resonated in his mind.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Abstinence: 78 Hours, 00 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 79x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 79 Hours (80x Ready)]
Seventy-eight hours, Kaelen thought with a quiet stretch of his legs. Seventy-nine times output waiting in my vessel. By the time Barnaby finishes counting coins, my cultivation interest will have compounded another six hours without me lifting a finger.
He pulled the rough wool blanket up to his chin and drifted back toward sleep.
Back in the appraisal pavilion, Barnaby scooped the nine cold, heavy spirit stones into his leather pouch. His heart hammered with fierce triumph as the weight settled against his hip.
“I will relay your request to the errand boy,” Barnaby said gruffly. “If Master Ash is pleased with the tea leaves, he may send another batch.”
Barnaby closed the cedar box, tucked it away, and turned toward the pavilion entrance. Sera fell into step beside him, her spear lowered and ready.
They reached the heavy ironwood double doors leading to the lantern-lit street.
SLAM.
The ironwood doors swung shut with a violent crash.
Four burly, scarred enforcers in greasy boiled leather armor stepped out from the shadows, blocking the exit. Across their broad chestplates hung the snarling iron-hound emblem of Hound-Lord Briggs.
The lead thug was a massive, scarred brute wielding a spiked iron cudgel. He spat a mouthful of yellow tobacco juice onto the floor, grinning with jagged teeth.
“Not so fast, one-armed beggar,” the brute growled, resting the heavy cudgel on his shoulder. “Hound-Lord Briggs owns this corridor. Now tell us where a cripple stole three Supreme pills, or leave your head on the counter.”