The evening breeze carried the scent of crushed star-grass through the porch timbers.
Kaelen Vance adjusted his straw pillow. His meridians were cool and quiet.
Inside his dantian, the slate gleamed with fresh stone.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Abstinence: 0 Hours, 05 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 1x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 1 Hour (2x Ready)]
Five minutes of rest was already banked. Kaelen pulled his blanket up to his chin and slept.
While the Third Herb Shed rested, Ashford erupted.
The courier from the Black-Crow Ghost Market had not been discreet. By midnight, whispers drifted through every tea house and courtyard in the lower district.
Deacon Vane had let three words slip over warm wine: Cloud-Veined Supreme.
Those words spread like wildfire. Standard pills left twenty-five percent Pill-Poison. Cheap Crack-Grade pills left fifty percent.
Nobody in Ashford had ever seen a pill with zero poison. Now fifteen sat in Deacon Vane’s vault for the midnight auction.
Clan elders emptied lockboxes. Every family entering the Barony Tournament wanted them.
Eleven hours and fifty-five more minutes passed in peace.
Kaelen woke to the smell of roasted barley tea and sat up on his lounger.
A golden prompt floated before his eyes.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Abstinence: 12 Hours, 00 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 13x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 13 Hours (14x Ready)]
Twelve hours of solid sleep had pushed his multiplier to thirteen times.
Twelve hours without anyone shouting at me, Kaelen thought, reaching for his tea bowl. A truly productive morning.
Mina sat on the porch steps, shelling dried pumpkin seeds. Barnaby Holt stood near the iron wash-pot, skimming bark scum with his wooden ladle.
Sera Thorne leaned against the corner post, wrapping linen around her spear shaft.
Kaelen pulled The Bandit King’s Secret Bride: Book 2 from beneath his blanket, eager to read.
BANG.
The heavy cedar gate rattled on its iron hinges.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
“Open the gate!” a booming voice shouted from the lane. “Unlatch this wood immediately!”
Barnaby jumped, splashing bark water over his boots. “Who kicks our gate at breakfast?”
Sera’s hand dropped to her dagger, her gray eyes narrowing toward the fence.
Kaelen kept his finger on page fourteen of his romance book and took a slow breath.
Twelve hours and ten minutes, Kaelen thought, feeling deeply offended. Thirteen times multiplier, and someone is hammering on my timber like a drunken woodpecker.
“Barnaby,” Kaelen said in an unhurried voice. “Leave the latch alone.”
“Young Master, they sound like wealthy folk,” Barnaby whispered, peeking through a knot in the wall.
“Bailiffs kick with their toes,” Kaelen replied. “These men kick with flat heels. That means their feet hurt and their purses are heavy.”
Kaelen tucked Book 2 under his left arm and strolled down the steps toward the gate.
Outside, the shouting grew louder. “We tracked the herb cart! The alchemist is inside!”
Kaelen lifted the heavy wooden bar and pulled the gate inward.
Two middle-aged men in silk robes stood in the lane, flanked by two guards with brass staves.
The rounder man was Merchant Corvan, head of the North-Road Timber Guild. Beside him stood Merchant Renwick, who controlled three grain warehouses.
Both men breathed with ragged wheezes, their skin gray around the temples from years of black Pill-Poison.
Corvan was stuck at Mortal Pulse Rank 4, while Renwick had been trapped at Mortal Pulse Rank 5 for eight years.
Corvan glared at Kaelen’s faded coat and cheap romance pamphlet.
“Where is the master?” Corvan demanded. “Boy, tell Master Ash that Merchant Corvan and Merchant Renwick have arrived.”
Renwick jingled a velvet pouch. “We brought three hundred silver taels. We want a private batch of those Supreme Pulse-Opening Pills before tonight’s auction.”
Kaelen looked at them for three seconds.
Then he reached out and pushed the heavy cedar gate shut.
SLAM.
The iron bolt dropped into the socket with a loud thud.
Outside, Corvan sputtered in shock. “Did that boy just slam the door in our faces?”
Renwick pounded on the timber. “Open up! We are guild directors!”
Barnaby grabbed his hair with his good hand. “Young Master! Why lock them out?”
“Too loud,” Kaelen said, walking toward the well. “Loud people agitate the air, and agitated air ruins digestion.”
Kaelen picked up a chipped wooden bucket from beside the well. He strolled back to the gate and slid open the small eye-level inspection hatch.
Corvan’s red face appeared on the other side.
“Quiet,” Kaelen said before the merchant could roar.
Corvan choked on his words.
“You are standing outside the retreat of Master Ash,” Kaelen said calmly. “The master is resting his divine sense after refining thirty heaven-grade pills. Every shout vibrates through the roof beams, disturbs his spleen meridian, and causes pill-fire deviation.”
Renwick leaned in, eyes wide. “Master Ash is resting?”
“He was,” Kaelen said. “Until two woodpeckers in silk coats began hammering on his cedar.”
Corvan swallowed hard. High-level alchemists were notoriously eccentric, capable of killing a man with medicinal powder if their meditation was broken.
“We apologize for the disturbance,” Renwick whispered. “We only seek five minutes of guidance. Our bottlenecks have troubled us for years.”
“Master Ash does not grant audiences to noisy strangers,” Kaelen said smoothly. “However, as the master’s senior errand boy, I manage his reserve schedule.”
Never do manual labor when desperate rich men are standing in front of you, Kaelen thought. A true cultivator cultivates leverage.
Corvan leaned closer. “What does the master require? Name the price!”
“The master cares about sincerity and quiet,” Kaelen replied. “First, the quiet fee. Five Low-Grade Spirit Stones each.”
Corvan gasped. “Five spirit stones each? Just to speak to an errand boy?”
“Ten spirit stones total,” Kaelen corrected. “Complain again, and it becomes seven each. Master Ash’s hearing is very sharp.”
Renwick’s jaw tightened. Five spirit stones was a massive fortune, but the Barony Tournament was four days away.
If Renwick could not clear his meridians and push his son past the first round, House Vance would revoke his warehouse lease.
“I will pay it,” Renwick whispered.
He pulled five glowing sky-blue crystals from his belt and dropped them through the hatch.
Clatter.
Corvan panicked. If Renwick broke through while Corvan remained crippled at Rank 4, the Timber Guild would be ruined.
“I pay as well!” Corvan hissed, dumping five matching azure stones into the bucket.
Ten Low-Grade Spirit Stones sat at the bottom of the bucket, humming with cool spirit energy.
“A reasonable deposit for the noise,” Kaelen said, pulling the bucket inside.
He unbolted the gate and swung it open.
Corvan and Renwick stepped forward, but Kaelen pointed toward the overgrown vegetable plot beside the drying shed. Dense crabgrass, thorny milkweed, and nettles choked the turnip rows.
“What is that?” Corvan asked, frowning.
“The master’s medicinal turnip garden,” Kaelen explained. “Master Ash requires absolute Dao sincerity before reviewing candidates for his reserve pills.”
“Sincerity?” Renwick blinked.
“You will weed the patch,” Kaelen said. “By hand. No Qi circulation. No spirit-sense probes. No iron trowels. Pull every weed from the root with your bare fingers. If a single turnip is bruised, your reservation is canceled.”
Corvan’s face turned purple. “I head the North-Road Timber Guild! You expect me to crawl in the mud like a scullery maid?”
“You don’t have to,” Kaelen said with a shrug. “Deacon Vane’s auction starts at midnight. You can bid against Baron Derrick and Hound-Lord Briggs. They brought fifty spirit stones each.”
Corvan choked. Bidding against Derrick Vance and Hound-Lord Briggs was financial suicide.
Renwick was already stripping off his forest-green overcoat, kicking off his fine boots, and rolling up his sleeves.
“Renwick!” Corvan hissed. “What are you doing?”
“I am showing Dao sincerity,” Renwick growled under his breath. “My third pulse gate has been sealed for eight years. If pulling turnips opens that gate, I will pull until my fingers bleed.”
Renwick marched into the mud, dropped onto both knees, and yanked a clump of thorny milkweed from the soil.
Corvan stared at his rival kneeling in the dirt. Then he remembered the agonizing burning in his chest every time he gathered Qi.
“Wait for me,” Corvan muttered, tossing his silk coat onto the fence.
He waddled into the turnip rows and began clawing crabgrass beside Renwick.
“Keep your backs straight,” Kaelen instructed. “Master Ash can sense poor posture from his bedroom.”
Both merchants stiffened their spines, pulling weeds with terrified precision.
Kaelen strolled back to the porch steps with the bucket of spirit stones.
Barnaby Holt stood frozen, his wooden ladle hanging limp in his hand. “Young Master... you made Merchant Corvan weed the turnips? The man who owns six lumber mills?”
“He has strong forearms,” Kaelen remarked. “A waste to let them go idle.”
Mina covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Sera Thorne leaned against the porch post, an admiring smirk touching her lips. “Ten spirit stones for yard work. Master Kaelen, your extortion rates are more brutal than the Iron-Hound Gang.”
“This is spiritual labor therapy,” Kaelen replied smoothly. “Physical exertion purges foul air from the pores.”
He sat in his wicker chair, placed the bucket beside his feet, and opened The Bandit King’s Secret Bride: Book 2.
Turning pages in the autumn shade while two millionaires pull weeds for five stones an hour, Kaelen thought, taking a sip of hot barley tea. This is the highest level of cultivation.
The morning drifted past in peaceful silence.
Half an hour in, Merchant Corvan paused to wipe sweat from his brow. His hands were coated in black loam, and his trousers were soaked with mud.
Yet as he flexed his dirty fingers, a strange expression crossed his face.
For three years, his knuckles had been stiff from Pill-Poison sediment. Whenever he gathered Qi, pain shot through his wrists.
Now, after half an hour of physical labor without using Qi, the stiffness in his joints had lessened. The natural warmth of his muscles had circulated his blood cleanly.
“Renwick,” Corvan whispered. “Do your fingers feel lighter?”
Renwick curled his muddy palms into fists. The familiar burning ache along his forearm was noticeably dimmer.
“It is true,” Renwick whispered back, eyes wide with awe. “Master Ash’s methods are profound! By forcing us to work without Qi, our physical vessels are expelling outer impurities!”
“A Dao test,” Corvan murmured with deep reverence. “The master is cleansing our foundation before granting us the pill!”
“Work harder,” Renwick urged. “Do not leave a single root behind!”
The two merchants attacked the weed patch, tearing out wild grass as if searching for gold.
Kaelen looked up from his romance novel, watched them furiously scrubbing the garden beds, and shook his head gently.
People always find deep meaning in simple chores, Kaelen thought, turning to page thirty-two. I just wanted someone to clear the turnip rows so I didn’t have to hire a gardener.
By midday, four hours had passed.
The overgrown patch looked unrecognizable. Every weed and rock had been cleared away, leaving neat rows around twenty plump purple turnips.
Corvan and Renwick crawled out of the beds, covered in mud and gasping with exhaustion, but their eyes burned with frantic hope.
They bowed deeply before the porch.
“Young Master,” Corvan said in a trembling voice. “The garden is cleared. We have completed the master’s task without using spirit energy.”
Kaelen set his romance book on the table and checked his internal tally.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Abstinence: 16 Hours, 00 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 17x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 17 Hours (18x Ready)]
Sixteen hours reached, and the ten new stones brought his reserve to twenty-one Low-Grade Spirit Stones.
“Acceptable work,” Kaelen said, nodding at the neat soil.
He pulled two scraps of wrapping paper from his pocket, dipped a brush in ink, and scribbled two symbols.
“These are your reservation vouchers,” Kaelen said, tossing the slips down. “Present these to Deacon Vane at the Ghost Market three days after the tournament. Master Ash will prepare five bottles of marrow-cleansing tea for those who hold the voucher.”
Corvan and Renwick caught the paper slips like sacred relics, pressing them to their chests and bowing until their foreheads nearly touched the wood.
“Thank you, Young Master!” Renwick gasped. “Tell Master Ash the Renwick family will never forget this benevolence!”
“May the master’s Dao prosper for ten thousand years!” Corvan echoed.
They gathered their silk coats and scurried out the gate as fast as their tired legs could carry them.
Barnaby let out a bewildered sigh. “Ten spirit stones and clean turnips. Young Master, you are a demon.”
“I am an honest businessman,” Kaelen corrected, picking up his bucket. “Now put five of these stones in Mina’s frost cabinet, and save the rest for tea leaves.”
Across the estate, inside the grand martial pavilion of the Vance Manor, the air was thick with fury.
Baron Derrick Vance stood beside his carved ironwood desk, his heavy brow furrowed as he listened to a kneeling clan scout.
Beside the desk stood Cassian Vance, his face flushed crimson and purple veins pulsing along his neck from pill backlash.
Over the past four days, Cassian had swallowed three Crack-Grade pills to force his ninth pulse gate open. Instead, the fifty percent Pill-Poison had caked his meridians, leaving him feverish.
“Repeat that report,” Cassian snapped, gripping his broadsword. “What did the Black-Crow auction announce?”
The scout pressed his forehead to the carpet. “Deacon Vane announced a special midnight lot, First Young Master. Fifteen Cloud-Veined Supreme Pulse-Opening Pills. Purity one hundred percent. Zero Pill-Poison.”
Cassian’s breath hitched with manic hunger. “Fifteen Supreme pills! Father, do you hear this? Zero poison! If I take two of those pills, my ninth pulse gate will open instantly! I can reach Rank 9 before the Barony Tournament begins!”
Baron Derrick did not answer immediately. His heavy jaw clenched as he stared out the tall arched windows toward the town below.
“Master Ash,” Derrick murmured, his voice rumbling with dangerous gravity. “An alchemist who can produce fifteen zero-poison pills in Ashford without our permission. He is either an outsider crossing our borders, or a rogue cultivator hiding in our shadow.”
“Who cares where he comes from?” Cassian snarled, stepping forward with burning impatience. “The Iron-Hound Gang is already mobilizing! Briggs will take those pills if we hesitate!”
Derrick turned his cold gaze on his eldest son.
“Briggs will not touch them,” Derrick said, his tone icy and absolute. “Gather twelve elite guards from the inner hall. We head to the Ghost Market tonight.”
He reached for his iron broadsword against the weapon rack.
“We will buy every pill on the block with clan treasury funds,” Derrick said, strapping the scabbard to his belt. “And if this Master Ash refuses to pledge fealty to House Vance, we will drag him out of his cellar in iron chains.”