Sera Thorne shifted her stance and leveled her cloth-wrapped ash shaft, but a sharp crack shattered the pavilion air before the first thug could take another step.
A heavy brass gavel struck the darkwood counter with the force of a thunderbolt.
“Insolent dogs!” Deacon Vane shrieked, his face turning an angry mottled red. “You dare draw weapons inside the Grand Appraisal Pavilion?”
The appraiser slammed his hand onto a hidden brass plate beneath the counter edge.
CLANG.
Four sets of heavy iron bars dropped from the wooden ceiling beams with deafening speed. They plunged into pre-cut grooves in the stone floor, forming an impenetrable cage around the four enforcers.
Spikes of cold pig-iron snapped upward from the floorboards, while four pavilion guards stepped up and leveled iron spears through the bars at the thugs’ throats.
The lead thug stumbled backward, his spiked iron cudgel clattering against the metal bars. A shower of blue defensive runes flared along the iron, sending a jolt of numbing Qi through his forearms.
“Deacon Vane!” the brute roared, rattling the bars in fury. “Hound-Lord Briggs ordered this check! Those three pills were stolen from our territory!”
“Stolen?” Vane spat, marching out from behind his counter. His emerald brocade robes billowed with righteous indignation. “You blind, ignorant mongrel! You are threatening the accredited envoys of the venerable Master Ash!”
The four thugs traded uncertain glances through the bars.
“Master Ash?” the lead brute grunted, nursing his shocked wrists. “Who the hell is Master Ash?”
“A supreme alchemical grandmaster!” Vane yelled, his voice cracking with theatrical fury. “A hermit who can refine zero-poison Supreme medicine with his bare hands! If Briggs offends such an immortal, the Black-Crow Ghost Market will seal his smuggling tunnels by nightfall!”
Sera watched the defensive array with a scout’s critical eye. The runes were crude Tier 2 earth-wardings, but their lethality was real enough to crush bones.
Vane drew a slender iron dagger from his sleeve. He reached through the bars and sliced the leather coin pouch from the lead thug’s belt.
He opened the purse, counted out five glittering blue crystals, and tucked them into his own sleeve.
“A five-spirit-stone fine for disturbing the market peace,” Vane declared coldly. “Consider yourselves fortunate I do not drop the ceiling deadweights on your empty skulls. Now shut your mouths until the morning bailiff arrives.”
He turned back toward Barnaby and Sera, his furious snarl instantly transforming into an obsequious, oily smile.
“Honored representatives of Master Ash,” Vane purred, bowing with both hands pressed together. “Please forgive this unpleasant disturbance. The quarry vermin have no manners. I cannot allow such valued guests to walk the dark roads alone.”
Barnaby raised his gray eyebrow. “You plan to walk us home, Weasel?”
“Personally!” Vane insisted, adjusting his round tortoiseshell spectacles. “My private carriage waits at the northern tunnel exit. Four armored escorts. We shall convey you directly to the Vance estate boundary without a single pebble in your path.”
Thirty minutes later, a heavy iron-reinforced carriage rolled out from the mountain cleft into the cool night air.
The carriage was pulled by four stout draft horses. Six mercenary guards with heavy crossbows flanked the wheels, their iron-shod boots clattering over the rocky river road.
Barnaby sat against the cushioned velvet bench inside, clutching his leather pouch of nine spirit stones. The cold facets pressed through the rough cowhide, radiating an intoxicating hum of wealth.
“Nine spirit stones,” Barnaby whispered, shaking his head. “Fifty years I have worked the soil, and I have never held more than forty silver pieces at once. Now we have nine stones in a bag, and Weasel Vane is playing our carriage driver.”
“He is not driving for us,” Sera said, her gray eyes watchful through the carriage shutter. “He is driving for Master Ash. Fear of a high-tier master is the only law the ghost market respects.”
“Aye,” Barnaby chuckled softly. “And Kaelen cooked that master up out of thin air while pouring tea.”
The carriage climbed the winding dirt trail toward the southern orchards of the Vance estate.
Dawn was just breaking over the eastern peaks. Pale amber light spilled across the terraced fields, warming the dew on the cabbage leaves.
The heavy carriage came to a halt outside the gate of the Third Herb Shed.
Deacon Vane hopped down from the carriage box, smoothing his emerald robes with frantic hands. He hurried through the garden gate, eager to inspect the residence of Master Ash’s chosen representative.
He stopped in his tracks near the cabbage patch.
On the front porch of the dilapidated wooden shed, Kaelen Vance was slouched on a low bench.
He wore a faded cotton tunic with frayed cuffs. His broad straw hat was tilted crookedly over his forehead. Between his feet sat an old iron brazier filled with glowing charcoal embers.
Kaelen held a peeled willow twig in his right hand. With slow, rhythmic pokes, he was lazily turning two plump sweet potatoes over the dying coals.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Abstinence: 84 Hours, 00 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 85x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 85 Hours (86x Ready)]
Eighty-four hours, Kaelen thought, smelling the caramelizing sugar of the roasting tubers. Eighty-five times yield. Sweet potatoes roast best in dying embers. If you rush the flame, the skin chars while the center stays fibrous. Cultivation and tubers follow identical principles.
Barnaby and Sera walked up the porch steps, followed closely by Deacon Vane.
Vane stared at Kaelen with wide, bewildered eyes, taking in the sagging porch roof and the rusty tools with reverence. Only a true immortal’s envoy would sit in such rustic simplicity unburdened by worldly luxury.
“This is Kaelen, the third son,” Barnaby grunted, tossing the leather pouch of nine spirit stones onto Kaelen’s bench. “Master Ash’s errand boy.”
Deacon Vane immediately clasped his hands and dropped into a profound bow. His emerald robes brushed the dusty timber floorboards.
“Young Master Vance!” Vane cried out, his voice dripping with reverence. “A true dragon in seclusion! To serve as the trusted attendant to the great Master Ash... what extraordinary spiritual fortune!”
Kaelen blinked, keeping his willow twig firmly pressed against a sweet potato.
This man is bowing to a teenager poking tubers with a stick, Kaelen thought, highly amused by the broker’s panic. If I tell him Master Ash drinks muddy ditch water, he will probably bottle the river and sell it for five silver a cup.
“Good morning, Deacon Vane,” Kaelen said in an unhurried voice. “Mind the loose floorboard on your left. It squeaks when you step on it.”
Vane immediately skipped sideways, nodding with desperate eagerness.
“Of course, Young Master! A thousand pardons!” Vane reached into his embroidered silk sleeve and pulled out two dazzling azure crystals.
He held the two Low-Grade Spirit Stones out with both hands, presenting them like sacred relics.
“A modest token of my personal esteem,” Vane said, bowing again. “An errand-boy tip for Young Master’s diligence in delivering Master Ash’s divine creations! Please, accept it for your daily tea allowance!”
Kaelen took the two spirit stones, feeling their cool, condensed Qi tingle against his palm.
Two spirit stones. Two hundred silver taels just for sitting on a porch with a burnt stick.
Accepting free money requires very little physical exertion, Kaelen noted, sliding the blue crystals into his tunic. A very respectable tip.
“You are very generous, Deacon,” Kaelen said smoothly. “Running errands for Master Ash is grueling labor. The old man has an atrocious temper.”
Vane shivered, leaning in with hungry curiosity. “Is the venerable grandmaster currently present?”
“He is meditating in the secluded crags behind the eastern ridge,” Kaelen lied without batting an eyelid. “He has entered the Void-Heart state. His divine sense blankets the entire valley.”
Kaelen leaned forward, lowering his voice to a chilling whisper.
“Master Ash despises noise,” Kaelen warned. “If an outsider raises their voice within three miles, his stray sword-qi severs their eyebrows before they can blink. I strongly advise against exploring the woods.”
Vane touched his own eyebrows involuntarily, his complexion turning several shades paler.
“Understood! Crystal clear!” Vane stammered. “Not a whisper shall disturb the master’s solitude!”
“Good,” Kaelen said, weighing Barnaby’s pouch of nine spirit stones in his palm before tucking it into his tunic beside the two-stone tip. “Now, regarding tomorrow’s grand auction. Master Ash set a nine-stone minimum before Barnaby left, so your advance deposit is acceptable.”
Deacon Vane’s eyes lit up with wild hope. “He did? Does that mean...?”
“He has agreed to refine ten more Cloud-Veined Supreme Pulse-Opening Pills for your auction block,” Kaelen said.
Vane let out a squeak of pure ecstasy, nearly falling to his knees.
“Ten Supreme pills!” Vane gasped, clutching his chest. “The entire western province will descend upon my pavilion! Sect elders, merchant syndicates, noble house patriarchs! It will be the greatest auction in Ghost Market history!”
“There is one condition,” Kaelen added, pausing to blow an ash flake from his roasted tuber.
“Name it!” Vane promised instantly. “Gold, jewels, virgin silk, spirit beast meat! Whatever the grandmaster desires!”
“Master Ash does not want jewels,” Kaelen replied calmly. “He needs materials. Specifically, five cartloads of bruised Tier 1 herbs.”
Vane blinked his round eyes behind his spectacles. “Bruised herbs? The discard trimmings from the market warehouses?”
“Precisely,” Kaelen said. “Master Ash’s ancient refining technique relies on oxidized, crushed foliage. Fresh, crisp herbs possess too much volatile fire. Bruised leaves allow a softer, purer flame condensation.”
Kaelen glanced at Vane with an expression of supreme deadpan seriousness.
“If you bring him pristine herbs, he will throw them into the ravine,” Kaelen added. “Bring only bruised, damaged stock. And bring five full cartloads before the afternoon bell.”
Deacon Vane stood frozen in awe, his jaw hanging slack at the thought of an alchemist turning discarded plant trash into zero-poison Supreme medicine.
“It shall be done!” Vane shouted, clasping his hands frantically. “Five cartloads of bruised Tier 1 herbs, delivered before noon free of charge! And from this hour on, the Third Herb Shed is under my pavilion’s personal protection—my market runners will report every rumor in Ashford straight to your porch!”
“That’s satisfactory,” Kaelen said, lifting a roasted sweet potato from the coals and glancing briefly at the folded wool cloak and veiled hat sitting unused by the door.
No black cloak, no midnight alleys, and Vane’s entire spy network working for free, Kaelen mused. True commerce should never require putting on shoes.
“Now, please leave,” Kaelen added mildly. “The smoke from your carriage horses is bothering my breakfast.”
“At once, Young Master! A thousand blessings upon your tea!”
Deacon Vane bowed three times in rapid succession, turned on his heel, and sprinted down the garden path. He leaped into his carriage, shouting frantic orders to his driver, and the heavy coach thundered down the valley road.
Barnaby Holt stood on the porch, staring at the dust cloud left by the retreating carriage.
“He gave you two spirit stones,” Barnaby muttered, rubbing his bald crown. “Two spirit stones as a tip. And he is bringing five wagonloads of herbs for nothing.”
“Politeness pays handsome dividends,” Kaelen said, peeling the charred purple skin from his steaming potato. He broke it in half, offering one half to Mina, who had just stepped onto the porch.
Mina took the warm food with a bright, beaming smile.
“Brother, Uncle Garrick would choke on his abacus if he saw this,” Mina giggled softly.
“Let him choke,” Kaelen said, taking a bite of sweet, creamy potato. “Abacuses are difficult to digest.”
Four hours later, the rumble of heavy wooden wagon wheels echoed up the valley trail.
Five massive wooden carts, each drawn by a pair of heavy oxen, halted in front of the Third Herb Shed. Drivers under the command of Deacon Vane’s personal clerk began unloading towering sacks of bruised, wilted Tier 1 herbs.
Bags of crushed frost-pine bark, split star-grass, and dented iron-root were stacked neatly beneath the porch awning.
The fragrance of dried sap and earthy greenery filled the yard.
Kaelen watched from his rope hammock between the two pear trees, sipping a fresh cup of jasmine tea.
Inside his mind, the Fallow Slate hummed with deep, steady power.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Abstinence: 90 Hours, 00 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 91x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 91 Hours (92x Ready)]
Ninety hours reached. Ninety-one times multiplier active.
Ninety hours, Kaelen thought, listening to the workers heave the final burlap sack onto the timber deck. Only six hours left until the ninety-six-hour milestone.
Once his timer hit ninety-six hours, his burst multiplier would unlock ninety-seven times output.
Five cartloads of bruised herbs stacked under the eaves, and six hours left on the clock.
The moment that tally chimes ninety-six hours, Kaelen promised himself, tipping his straw hat over his eyes, I’m firing up the iron stew-pot. Tomorrow’s auction will have enough Supreme pills to bleed every clan treasury in Ashford dry.