The empty ox-carts had barely rattled back down the valley trail before the hum of autumn cicadas reclaimed the yard.
Kaelen Vance remained stretched out in the shade of the pear trees, hands folded peacefully across his stomach while the woven hemp creaked beneath each slow breath.
Across the yard, a quiet rustle disturbed the dry grass along the garden fence.
A junior servant wearing the blue livery of Garrick’s accounting office crept behind the drying racks. The boy carried an iron stylus and a wooden tablet, counting the mountains of rough burlap piled high beneath the shed awning.
“Five whole wagons,” the servant muttered under his breath, scribbling furiously. “Second Young Master will reward me for this.”
On the porch steps, twelve-year-old Mina Vance sat with a basket of dried plums.
She noticed the spy immediately. Her delicate brows drew together in quiet annoyance.
Mina did not shout. She did not call for Barnaby or reach for a weapon. Instead, she channeled a slender wisp of cold Qi through her fingertips, guiding it across the damp flagstones.
The moisture on the stones turned white. A thin sheet of crystalline frost slid silently across the walkway, coating the pavers directly under the servant’s leather boots.
SNAP.
The frost bonded to the soles of the servant’s boots with the grip of an iron clamp.
The boy tried to take another stealthy step. His feet remained glued to the granite. His momentum carried his upper body forward, pitching him face-first into a pile of rotting cabbage leaves.
“Oof!” the spy squeaked, spitting dirt from his lips.
Mina popped a dried plum into her mouth, looking completely innocent. “The autumn frost is very slippery this year. You should walk more carefully.”
The servant struggled frantically, pulled his feet out of his frozen boots, and scrambled over the garden wall in his wool socks.
Barnaby Holt walked out onto the porch, clutching his wooden ladle as he watched the boy vanish into the orchard.
“Garrick’s rats,” Barnaby grunted, spitting onto the grass. “He knows five cartloads arrived. He will send bailiffs to demand taxes on our storage by tomorrow noon.”
Kaelen lifted one corner of his straw hat and smiled faintly.
“Let him demand taxes,” Kaelen said in a lazy drawl. “Taxing empty burlap sacks is a very frustrating administrative exercise.”
My sister has excellent defensive instincts, Kaelen thought, feeling proud of Mina’s quick thinking. Quiet, efficient, and avoids unnecessary laundry. A very commendable technique.
The afternoon shadows merged into dusk. Six full hours had drifted past since the herb wagons had arrived.
Inside Kaelen’s dantian, the invisible tally reached a momentous threshold.
A clear, golden chime resonated through his soul.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Abstinence: 96 Hours, 00 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 97x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 97 Hours (98x Ready)]
Ninety-six hours reached. Ninety-seven times burst multiplier ready for cash-out.
Kaelen swung his legs over the edge of the hammock and stood up. He stretched his arms, feeling the smooth flow of Rank 5 spirit energy through his open pulse gates.
Ninety-six hours of pure rest, Kaelen thought. Ninety-seven times acceleration. Time to earn my tea money.
He walked up the porch steps and looked at Barnaby and Sera.
“Bar the outer gate,” Kaelen instructed. “Sera, keep watch on the orchard path. Barnaby, help me haul six sacks of bruised star-grass and frost-pine bark into the kitchen.”
Barnaby’s single eye flared with excitement. “You’re refining tonight? The whole auction batch?”
“Deacon Vane’s courier arrives at twilight,” Kaelen said. “Delivering goods late creates unnecessary paperwork.”
Within ten minutes, six heavy sacks of bruised, oxidized herbs were dragged into the stone kitchen.
Kaelen locked the heavy cedar door from the inside.
In the center of the kitchen sat two wide iron braziers filled with glowing white spirit-charcoal. Over the braziers rested Kaelen’s favorite cooking vessel: a thick, thirty-pound cast-iron stew-pot with two pitted handles.
Barnaby had laid out several clean wooden bowls and two buckets of mountain spring water.
Kaelen stood before the hearth. He took a deep, steady breath and focused his intent on the golden panel floating before his eyes.
Cash out.
[The Fallow Slate] [Cash-Out Window Activated] [Duration: 60 Minutes] [Current Multiplier: 97x] [Five-Minute Baseline Equivalent: 485 Hours]
A wave of crystalline warmth flooded Kaelen’s veins.
His perception sharpened instantly. The flickering orange flames on the charcoal slowed to a gentle crawl. Every grain of ash, every heat ripple in the air, and every fiber of medicinal bark appeared with razor-sharp clarity.
Five minutes of effort inside this window was equivalent to four hundred and eighty-five hours of grueling labor.
Kaelen did not waste a single heartbeat.
He scooped two armfuls of bruised frost-pine bark and split star-grass, dumping them directly into the iron stew-pot.
He extended his hands over the rim, channeling his corrected Vance Frost-Pine Breath Manual.
Under the ninety-seven-times acceleration, his Qi roared through the iron vessel like an alchemical tempest. The bruised plant fibers did not burn. Instead, the oxidized oils separated instantly, dissolving into a shimmering, emerald-blue broth.
Extract the marrow, Kaelen thought, guiding the heat with micro-adjustments of his fingers. Burn away the vegetable fiber. Leave only the crystalline core.
A thick plume of white aromatic steam billowed toward the stone chimney.
Within ten minutes, the boiling broth collapsed inward. Ten perfect spheres formed in the center of the pot, swirling rapidly as they absorbed the ambient spirit heat.
Delicate, frost-white cloud veins bloomed across their silver surfaces.
Ten Cloud-Veined Supreme Pulse-Opening Pills. Absolute purity. Zero percent Pill-Poison.
Kaelen scooped them out with a wooden ladle, dumping them into a dry earthenware bowl.
He immediately poured another measure of spring water into the stew-pot and tossed in the second batch of bruised roots.
Working both braziers simultaneously, Kaelen balanced the airflow with his left hand while circulating medicinal Qi with his right. The heat in the small kitchen soared, turning the air shimmering and dry.
Ten minutes later, the second batch condensed into ten more gleaming silver spheres.
Twenty Supreme pills completed in twenty minutes.
Without pausing to catch his breath, Kaelen loaded the third batch. He adjusted the charcoal dampers, fanning both braziers to maximum heat.
The cast-iron stew-pot began to groan under the terrifying thermal stress. Faint hairline fractures flickered along the rim as the metal expanded.
Hold together for another three minutes, Kaelen urged the iron. You are a stew-pot, not a delicate porcelain cup. Show some spine.
The swirling emerald vortex compressed with a sharp hiss.
Ten more silver spheres materialized from the vapor, rolling smoothly against the blackened iron bottom.
Thirty Cloud-Veined Supreme Pulse-Opening Pills.
Kaelen lifted the pot from the coals and set it onto a stone slab. The heavy iron hissed furiously, glowing a dull cherry red in the dim kitchen.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve.
With the ten minutes spent banking charcoal, hauling spring water, and reloading the two braziers between batches, forty minutes of his burst window had elapsed. Thirty Supreme pills rested safely in the wooden bowls.
Kaelen glanced at his internal timer.
Twenty minutes remained on his burst window.
Twenty minutes of ninety-seven-times multiplier left, Kaelen thought, feeling the immense spiritual acceleration still humming through his meridians. Letting twenty minutes of premium interest expire without use is financial negligence.
His eyes swept across the kitchen shelf.
Next to Barnaby’s salt jar lay a weathered leather booklet with faded blue stitching: Iron-Willow Sabre.
It was the Vance clan’s Tier 1 foundational blade manual. Junior disciples typically spent three years swinging practice sabres in the mud just to reach Proficient mastery.
Kaelen picked up the booklet and flipped to the first diagram.
Under the ninety-seven-times focus of his burst window, each minute of reading equaled ninety-seven full hours of martial comprehension. His mind drank in the ink strokes, testing every wrist angle, footwork pivot, and weight transfer across hundreds of simulated hours.
One minute passed, clearing Entry and Proficient mastery in a single breath.
Two minutes passed. Small Success clicked into place as the blade path curved like a willow branch bending before a gale.
Five minutes passed—four hundred and eighty-five baseline hours of unbroken sabre insight.
CRACK.
A crisp chime sounded inside his mind.
[Martial Skill Comprehended] [Iron-Willow Sabre (Tier 1)] [Mastery: Great Success (485 Hours)] [Strike Force Output: 250%]
Kaelen set the manual back on the shelf beside the salt jar.
He picked up a simple iron cleaver from the cutting board and flicked his wrist.
The heavy butcher blade whistled through the air, carving a silent, graceful arc that kissed the wood and left a fine notch.
The motion was effortless, fluid as flowing water and solid as cold pig-iron.
A very practical blade technique, Kaelen thought, setting the cleaver down. Good for chopping wood and trimming stubborn weeds.
With fifteen minutes still remaining on his burst window, Kaelen unlocked the kitchen door and swung it open.
Barnaby Holt and Sera Thorne stood on the other side, their eyes wide as they peered into the steam-filled room. The crisp fragrance of thirty freshly refined Supreme pills rushed out, washing over the porch like a wave of pure mountain pine.
Barnaby stumbled forward, his jaw dropping as he stared into the earthenware bowls.
“Thirty...” Barnaby stammered, his single eye bulging with disbelief. “Thirty Cloud-Veined Supreme pills in forty minutes. In a cracked iron soup pot.”
The old alchemist looked at Kaelen, his left hand shaking so hard he had to tuck his thumb into his belt.
“The Red-River Guild employs sixty grandmasters,” Barnaby whispered in awe. “Working day and night, their entire academy couldn’t refine thirty zero-poison pills in three months. And you cooked them before the tea water boiled.”
“The stew-pot holds heat well,” Kaelen said mildly, glancing at the cooling cast iron on the stone slab. “Though we may need a thicker pot before next week. The rim is starting to complain.”
Barnaby let out a choked laugh, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Complain? Boy, you channeled enough spirit heat through pig-iron to melt a blacksmith’s anvil, and you didn’t scorch a single herb leaf!”
Sera stepped into the doorway, her gray eyes gleaming with fierce respect as she noticed the clean, razor-straight notch left on the kitchen chopping block beside the iron cleaver.
“Master Kaelen,” Sera said, her gaze shifting from the cleaver back to the glowing silver spheres. “When the martial houses of Ashford see fifteen of these pills hit the block at once, blood will flow in the streets to buy them.”
“Then we’ll make sure the blood stays off our porch,” Kaelen said smoothly.
He pulled fifteen small ceramic vials from the cupboard. With quick, practiced motions, he sealed one Supreme Pulse-Opening Pill inside each ceramic vial with red wax. He tipped the remaining fifteen pills into a porcelain jar beside his thirteen existing Pulse-Opening Pills, leaving twenty-eight in reserve alongside four Marrow-Warming and eight Frost-Cleaving Supreme Pills.
He stepped out onto the porch and accepted a warm bowl of jasmine tea from Mina. He took one slow, unhurried sip to cool his throat just as the distant clatter of iron-shod hooves echoed up the orchard trail.
A black carriage bearing the twin-crow crest of the Black-Crow Ghost Market halted at the garden gate. A courier in gray leather livery leaped down from the footboard, holding up a brass authorization token.
“Envoys of Master Ash!” the courier called out, bowing low toward the porch. “Deacon Vane sent me to ask if the ten promised pills are ready for the high-roller auction!”
Kaelen strolled down the steps carrying a wooden tray lined with the fifteen wax-sealed ceramic vials and set it into the courier’s hands.
“Fifteen Cloud-Veined Supreme Pulse-Opening Pills,” Kaelen said in a lazy drawl. “Five extra because Master Ash liked the bruised star-grass. Tell Deacon Vane we expect spirited bidding.”
The courier stared down at the fifteen ceramic vials. His breath caught in his throat, and his hands trembled as he locked the tray into his iron-bound saddlebox.
“F-fifteen Supreme pills!” the courier stammered, vaulting back into the saddle. “Every patriarch in Ashford is going to lose his mind! The bidding war starts tonight!”
As the black carriage thundered back down the mountain road toward Ashford Town, Kaelen returned to his porch bench, and the final second of his sixty-minute window ticked away.
[The Fallow Slate] [Cash-Out Window Concluded] [Current Abstinence: 0 Hours, 00 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 1x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 1 Hour (2x Ready)]