Armored boots clattered along the lower mountain road as midnight approached.
Through the gaps in the shed timbers, a ribbon of torchlight flickered between the dark pines as Baron Derrick Vance led an armed column from the main keep down toward the valley market.
Inside the quiet room of the Third Herb Shed, Kaelen Vance rolled onto his side.
A golden prompt floated in the darkness.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Abstinence: 24 Hours, 00 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 25x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 25 Hours (26x Ready)]
Twenty-four hours of unbroken rest. Twenty-five times multiplier banked in his dantian.
Twenty-four hours without swinging a blade or sweating in the dirt, Kaelen thought, pulling his blanket higher. Only anxious people lose sleep over auctions.
Beside the doorway, Barnaby Holt paced back and forth across the floorboards. The old alchemist wore a hooded black traveling cloak, clutching Deacon Vane’s bronze VIP token in his good hand.
Sera Thorne checked the iron latch of the back door. Her wrapped spear was strapped to her back, and a dark wool cowl hid her sharp features.
“Young Master,” Barnaby whispered, his voice trembling with nervous energy. “The midnight bell will ring in half an hour. The entire barony is gathering under the limestone caves.”
“Then you should go watch,” Kaelen murmured from his mattress. “Deacon Vane reserved a private curtained balcony on the third tier. Sit down, drink his free tea, and keep your mouths shut.”
“What if someone recognizes us?” Barnaby asked, rubbing his collar.
“Nobody looks at old men and quiet guards when a full lot of Supreme-Grade medicine hits the block,” Kaelen said. “Let Deacon do the talking. He earns his ten percent by sweating for us.”
Sera nodded curtly. “We will watch from the shadows and return before first light.”
She touched Barnaby’s shoulder, guiding the old alchemist out through the orchard path.
Kaelen closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
* * *
Three miles away, deep beneath the western hills of Ashford, the Black-Crow Ghost Market hummed with ferocious heat.
Hundreds of oil torches burned along the carved limestone walls of the subterranean amphitheater. Heavy smoke hung near the vaulted ceiling, scented with brimstone, roasted meats, and dried herbs.
Over two hundred cultivators crowded the stone benches. Every guild leader, merchant director, and clan elder in the region had secured a seat.
In the eastern private box sat Baron Derrick Vance.
The clan patriarch wore dark iron pauldrons over crimson velvet robes, his hand resting flat on the pommel of his broadsword. Beside him sat Cassian Vance, his eldest son.
Cassian’s face remained flushed, his eyes bloodshot and feverish. His fingers tapped the wooden banister with manic impatience.
Directly across the stone arena, in the western private box, sat Hound-Lord Briggs.
The scarred gang leader was wrapped in gray wolf pelts, exposing his hairy chest and iron-ringed collar. Four massive wolf-hounds lay chained at his feet, growling whenever a servant approached.
Briggs grinned across the pit, baring gold-capped teeth at Derrick Vance.
High on the third-tier mezzanine, tucked behind a dark silk screen, Barnaby and Sera took their seats in silence.
A bronze gong chimed from the center stage.
GONG.
The murmuring crowd went instantly quiet.
Deacon Vane stepped onto the raised wooden platform. He wore a high-collared coat of midnight silk embroidered with flying crows. His thin mustache was freshly waxed, and his sharp eyes gleamed with theatrical delight.
“Honored lords, patriarchs, and esteemed cultivators of Ashford,” Deacon Vane announced, bowing with practiced flair. “Tonight, the Black-Crow Market presents a miracle.”
Two masked attendants in gray robes carried a low table covered in black velvet.
Upon the velvet rested a carved rosewood box.
Deacon Vane unlatched the silver clasp and lifted the lid.
A soft, azure glow rose into the dim cavern air. The intoxicating scent of sweet morning pine and clean mountain snow washed across the front rows, making several elderly cultivators gasp in shock.
Fifteen round pills rested in velvet grooves.
Across each sky-blue surface, three slender white veins curled like drifting clouds.
“Cloud-Veined Supreme Pulse-Opening Pills,” Deacon Vane declared, his voice echoing off the stone arches. “Refined by the elusive grandmaster, Master Ash. Purity: one hundred percent. Pill-Poison: exactly zero.”
A storm of whispers erupted across the floor.
“Zero poison?” a gray-haired elder shouted from the third row. “Impossible! Even the grandmasters of the imperial capital leave three percent residue!”
Deacon Vane smiled thinly. He raised his right hand, calling for calm.
“We anticipated your skepticism,” Vane said smoothly. “Therefore, Master Ash has permitted a live demonstration.”
Vane gestured toward the side stairs.
An elderly apothecary named Old Lu hobbled onto the stage. The old man’s right arm hung limp at his side, his wrist swollen purple and deformed from twenty-five years of cheap breakthrough pills.
“Old Lu swallowed twelve Crack-Grade pills in his youth,” Vane explained. “His wrist meridian has been caked in black Pill-Poison for a quarter of a century. He cannot hold a teacup, let alone circulate Qi.”
Vane produced a separate Supreme pill sample from a small vial. With a silver blade, he sliced off a tiny sliver, no larger than a grain of rice.
He dropped the crumb into a bowl of warm spring water, stirring it until the liquid turned milky blue.
“Drink half, Old Lu,” Vane instructed. “Rub the rest upon your wrist.”
The old apothecary drank the water with trembling hands. Then he smeared the remaining liquid across his swollen purple skin.
The cavern fell deathly quiet.
Within ten breaths, a sharp hissing sound drifted from Old Lu’s arm.
Tiny black beads of foul-smelling grease began bubbling out through the pores of his wrist. The black grit hit the floorboards, sizzling faintly before turning to ash.
The purplish swelling collapsed. The twisted skin tightened, smoothing out into healthy pale flesh.
Old Lu stared at his right hand. He slowly uncurled his fingers.
Crack. Snap.
The stiff joints popped with crisp, clean snaps.
Old Lu formed a tight fist and punched the air. A clear whistling sound cracked through the quiet hall.
“My arm...” Old Lu gasped, tears spilling down his wrinkled cheeks. “The poison is gone! My meridian is clear!”
The entire amphitheater went wild.
Cultivators leaped onto the stone benches, shouting and waving velvet purses. Clan elders shoved through their guards, screaming bids before the auctioneer could even open his mouth.
Up on the mezzanine, Barnaby Holt clutched the railing, his single eye wide with awe. “Ancestors above... a single sliver of one pill dissolved twenty-five years of filth in ten seconds.”
Sera leaned back in the shadows, her lips curved in a dangerous smile. “Watch the wolves start tearing each other apart.”
On the center stage, Deacon Vane raised his wooden gavel.
“The fifteen pills will be offered in three lots of five!” Vane proclaimed. “Lot One: five Cloud-Veined Supreme Pulse-Opening Pills! Bidding opens at five Low-Grade Spirit Stones!”
“Eight stones!” a merchant elder screamed from the front row.
“Ten stones!” another bellowed.
Baron Derrick Vance leaned over the railing of the eastern box, his deep voice cutting through the noise like an iron blade.
“Twelve Low-Grade Spirit Stones!” Derrick announced.
The floor quieted momentarily at the patriarch’s authority.
Across the arena, Hound-Lord Briggs threw his head back and laughed.
“Twelve stones for five pills?” Briggs mocked, leaning on his wolf-hounds. “You’re getting cheap in your old age, Derrick! Fifteen stones!”
Cassian gripped the railing beside his father, his eyes burning with frantic desperation. “Father! Don’t let Briggs take them! If I don’t open my ninth pulse gate tonight, I won’t survive the tournament!”
Derrick raised his hand, his expression cold as granite.
“Sixteen Low-Grade Spirit Stones!” Derrick called out.
“Seventeen!” Briggs sneered, baring his gold teeth.
Derrick Vance slammed his palm onto the stone balustrade. The granite cracked under his Mortal Pulse Rank 9 force.
“Eighteen Low-Grade Spirit Stones!” Derrick roared.
Silence dropped over the hall.
Eighteen spirit stones for five pills was an outrageous sum. It was enough to run an entire town garrison for three months.
Briggs stared across the pit at Derrick. A wicked grin spread across the bandit’s scarred face.
“Eighteen stones,” Briggs laughed, waving his hairy hand dismissively. “Take them, old dog. Let your sickly cub choke on his medicine.”
Deacon Vane’s wooden gavel struck the brass block.
CLACK.
“Sold!” Vane shouted. “Five Cloud-Veined Supreme Pulse-Opening Pills to House Vance for eighteen Low-Grade Spirit Stones!”
A clan steward from the Vance box hurried down to the stage, carrying a heavy iron chest to complete the transfer.
Cassian stared at the five glowing phials being handed to their guard, his breathing ragged with manic joy.
“Now for Lot Two and Lot Three!” Deacon Vane announced, his eyes glittering. “Ten remaining pills, offered in two separate lots of five!”
Without Derrick Vance dominating the floor, the rest of the hall erupted into a frenzy.
Hound-Lord Briggs was not finished. He battered the rival merchants with heavy bids, determined to secure medicine for his top enforcers.
Briggs drove Lot Two up to twenty-two Low-Grade Spirit Stones, slamming his iron-ringed pouch onto the stage to claim five pills.
The final lot turned into a desperate brawl between the Timber Guild, the Grain Guild, and three allied apothecary families. Bids flew in half-stone increments until the coalition finally locked down the last five pills for twenty Low-Grade Spirit Stones.
Total proceeds for the fifteen pills reached sixty Low-Grade Spirit Stones.
On the mezzanine, Barnaby Holt’s hand trembled so hard he nearly dropped his VIP token onto the floorboards.
“Sixty... sixty spirit stones,” Barnaby stammered, his eye bulging. “Young Master cooked sixty spirit stones in an iron stew-pot while reading a romance pamphlet.”
Sera picked up the ladle and handed it back to the old man. “Let us return before the crowd leaves the tunnels. The master expects his delivery before dawn.”
* * *
The sky over the eastern hills was just turning gray when the garden gate clicked open.
Barnaby and Sera walked onto the porch of the Third Herb Shed. Behind them followed Deacon Vane, wrapped tightly in a traveler’s gray wool mantle.
The front door opened.
Kaelen Vance stepped out onto the porch, wearing his faded gray coat. He stretched his arms, letting out a long, contented yawn.
A golden prompt appeared in his vision.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Abstinence: 28 Hours, 00 Minutes] [Current State: True Fallow State] [Current Multiplier: 29x (Stage 1: Mortal Tally)] [Next Milestone: 29 Hours (30x Ready)]
Twenty-eight hours reached. Twenty-nine times multiplier banked.
“Good morning, Deacon,” Kaelen said in a lazy drawl. “Did the auction run smoothly?”
Deacon Vane dropped to one knee on the timber porch, bowing with profound respect. He pulled a black ironwood lockbox from beneath his cloak and set it gently at Kaelen’s feet.
“Young Master Kaelen,” Deacon Vane said in a low, reverent voice. “The auction exceeded every expectation. The fifteen pills fetched sixty Low-Grade Spirit Stones total.”
Vane unlocked the brass clasp, swinging the lid open.
Inside rested rows of glowing, sky-blue spirit crystals, humming with pure, cool spiritual power.
“As agreed, the Black-Crow Market retains a ten percent brokerage fee,” Vane explained. “Six spirit stones deducted. Fifty-four Low-Grade Spirit Stones remain inside this chest, delivered directly to Master Ash.”
Kaelen looked down at the fifty-four glowing stones.
Added to his existing twenty-one stones, his total owned stones had jumped to seventy-five: seventy unrestricted and five earmarked in Mina’s frost cabinet. Moving those five had not spent them.
Derrick Vance just spent eighteen spirit stones from the clan vault to buy five of my stew-pot pills, Kaelen thought, a faint smirk touching his lips. My father wants to put Master Ash in iron chains. Instead, he just funded Master Ash’s tea supply for the next ten years.
“Deacon Vane,” Kaelen said smoothly. “Your efficiency is commendable.”
“It is my honor to serve Master Ash,” Vane replied, his eyes gleaming.
Then the appraiser’s expression turned serious. He tapped the inner velvet lining of the lockbox lid and pulled out a folded intelligence slip sealed with black wax.
He held the slip up with both hands.
“A bonus gift from the Black-Crow intelligence network,” Vane whispered, leaning forward. “Your second brother, Garrick Vance, has been skimming more than herb funds.”
Kaelen took the wax slip and cracked the seal.
The ink was fresh.
Inside were exact dates, wagon numbers, and hidden locations detailing twenty tons of Vance iron ore smuggled directly to Hound-Lord Briggs.
At the bottom of the slip lay a single line:
Duplicate accounting ledgers stored in the floor safe behind the three-cranes screen in Garrick’s private counting room, West Market Warehouse Three.
Kaelen looked at the paper, then folded it neatly into his coat pocket.
“Very thoughtful of you, Deacon,” Kaelen said softly. “A brother who steals clan iron is a very messy bookkeeper.”