Douglas did not swing his club.
The iron head hovered near his shoulder, trembling with microscopic spasms. His knuckles turned white against the stained leather wrap. A bead of greasy sweat slid down the scar on his left cheek, dropping onto the splintered threshold.
“Mortal Pulse Rank 4,” Douglas rasped. His voice lacked any trace of its former bluster. “How?”
Kaelen didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at the enforcer.
Above his brow, the silver runes flickered with a quiet countdown:
[The Fallow Slate: Stage 1 — Mortal Tally] [Burst Window: 48 Minutes Remaining] [Multiplier Active: 101x]
Forty-eight minutes left of peak acceleration.
I have forty-eight minutes before the tally resets to zero, Kaelen thought. Spending that on Douglas would be a tragic waste of good arithmetic.
Kaelen turned toward the low shelf beside the drying rack. A thin pamphlet bound with hemp string rested beneath a layer of dried dandelion fluff.
It was the Crushing-Boulder Fist, the standard Tier 1 martial manual issued to every twelve-year-old child in the Vance outer sect. Kaelen had used it as a coaster for his teapot for two years.
He picked it up, shaking off the dust.
Douglas watched him with narrow, wary eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Reviewing fundamentals,” Kaelen said mildly. “They say a solid foundation brings inner peace.”
He sat on the corner of the workbench, opened the pamphlet, and began to read.
[Comprehension Engaged: 101x Acceleration]
The crude woodblock illustrations of punching figures leaped into motion inside his mind.
In normal time, mastering the Crushing-Boulder Fist required endless repetition. A disciple spent months punching wooden posts to harden their knuckles. Entry took ten baseline hours, Proficient took fifty, and Small Success took one hundred and fifty.
To reach Great Success took four hundred hours of labor.
Kaelen turned a page every sixty seconds.
One minute. One hundred and one hours of muscle memory.
His shoulder tendons subtly loosened, realigning with mathematical precision.
Two minutes. Two hundred and two hours.
The Qi in his four clear meridians began to rotate clockwise, coiling like a compressed steel spring at the center of his chest.
Three minutes. Three hundred and three hours.
The vibration traveled down his right arm, settling into the knuckles of his index and middle fingers. The crude motions in the manual refined themselves, shedding wasteful flourishes until only raw, concussive force remained.
Four minutes. Four hundred and four hours.
[Martial Comprehension Complete: Crushing-Boulder Fist] [Mastery: Great Success (400 Hours equivalent)] [Strike Force Output: 250%]
Kaelen closed the booklet and tossed it back onto the shelf.
Total physical time elapsed: four minutes.
“Four minutes,” Barnaby whispered from his salt barrel. The old man was clutching his hair with his one good hand. “He just learned an entire martial art while sitting on a table.”
Mina stepped closer to Kaelen, peering at his hands. “Did you finish the pictures, Brother?”
“Good pictures,” Kaelen said. “Very educational.”
Before Barnaby could faint, a crisp, rhythmic sound echoed across the outer courtyard.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
It was the sharp clatter of ivory beads on a polished rosewood frame.
A young man strolled through the broken gate, holding a brass abacus. He wore a plum silk robe with silver thread embroidery.
Garrick Vance.
The second son of the Vance Clan walked with an easy swagger, flicking the beads. Behind him trailed four outer guards armed with rattan shields and iron pikes.
“Douglas,” Garrick called out in a smooth, oily drawl. “Why are you dawdling in the dirt? Has our third brother signed the eviction papers yet?”
Douglas stepped backward out of the doorway, his scarred neck red. “Young Master Garrick. There is... a complication.”
“A complication?” Garrick stopped five paces from the broken porch, his lips curving into a patronizing smirk. He didn’t look at Douglas. His eyes locked onto the dark shed interior.
“Kaelen,” Garrick said, raising his voice so the servants in the distant gardens could hear. “The quarterly accounting for the Third Herb Shed has concluded. You have defaulted on your spirit-grass quotas for three consecutive cycles.”
Garrick clicked two beads upward on his abacus.
“Twenty silver taels per month in wasted clan subsidies,” Garrick continued cheerfully. “That makes sixty silver taels. You owe the clan treasury sixty silver taels in punitive fines.”
Kaelen stepped through the ruined doorway, holding his cracked clay teacup in his left hand. The tea was still steaming gently.
“Sixty silver,” Kaelen said, his voice flat. “That’s an interesting figure, Second Brother.”
“It is an official figure,” Garrick countered, tilting his head with arrogant condescension. “And since this shed does not contain six coppers, let alone sixty silver, the punishment pavilion will confiscate the property. As for you...”
Garrick’s gaze drifted over Kaelen’s relaxed posture, his lips sneering.
“A crippled branch must be pruned before it rots the tree,” Garrick said coldly. “Douglas, break his kneecaps. Drag him to the punishment hall.”
Douglas hesitated. “Young Master, he—”
“Did you go deaf?” Garrick snapped, his eyes flashing with irritation. “I gave an order! Break his knees!”
Douglas swallowed hard. The shame of being commanded in front of junior guards overcame his caution. Even if Kaelen had somehow reached Rank 4, an invalid could never match an experienced thug.
“Forgive me, Third Young Master,” Douglas growled, planting his boots wide.
Douglas channeled his Qi. The air around his arms grew heavy as his muscles swelled against his leather bracers. He raised the iron club with both hands, lunging forward with a brutal downward smash aimed straight at Kaelen’s right knee.
The wind shrieked as the iron bar cut the air.
Mina screamed, covering her eyes.
Barnaby lunged forward with his wooden ladle, despair in his voice. “Stop!”
Kaelen stepped off the low porch with his warm teacup balanced in his left hand.
Your form is dreadful, Kaelen thought. First Brother swings a sword like an idiot, but at least he keeps his shoulders square.
“Right shoulder hunched too high,” Kaelen said in a calm, conversational tone. “Left elbow dropped two inches, and your weight is leaning too far forward.”
Douglas’s eyes flared with rage at the lecture. The iron club descended with sickening speed.
Kaelen shifted his right foot back half an inch.
The iron club whistled past his knee, missing his trouser leg by the width of a fingernail. The crushing momentum pulled Douglas forward, exposing the brute’s left ribcage.
Kaelen’s right hand formed a loose fist.
[Crushing-Boulder Fist: Great Success] [Output: 250%]
He didn’t wind up. He didn’t shout a battle cry. He simply drove his fist forward in a short, four-inch punch.
THUD.
The sound was not a crack. It was the deep, hollow boom of a bronze temple bell striking a granite cliff.
A ripple of concussive force exploded through Douglas’s leather chest armor. The hardened cowhide disintegrated into flying scraps.
Douglas didn’t just stumble.
The six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound martial artist left the ground entirely. He flew backward across the courtyard like a stone fired from a siege catapult.
CRASH!
Douglas slammed straight through the five-foot-thick stone boundary wall of the herb yard.
A massive cloud of white limestone dust erupted into the air. Rocks, mortar, and broken roof tiles rained down upon the gravel path outside. Through the gaping hole in the wall, Douglas’s boots could be seen twitching weakly in the vegetable garden twenty yards away.
Silence fell over the courtyard.
Not a single person moved.
The four guards holding rattan shields froze mid-breath, their weapons trembling in their hands.
Garrick’s fingers remained glued to his rosewood abacus. His jaw hung slack, his eyes fixed on the massive breach in the stone masonry. The arrogant smirk on his face had dissolved into sheer, paralyzed terror.
Beside the doorway, Barnaby stood with his ladle raised in the air, completely frozen like an oil painting.
Kaelen lifted his teacup to his lips.
He took a slow, leisurely sip.
The amber surface of the willow-bark tea was perfectly smooth. Not a single drop had spilled over the rim.
“Good tea,” Kaelen murmured. “A bit earthy, but very grounding.”
He lowered the cup and turned his gaze toward Garrick.
Garrick flinched as if struck by a whip. He took an involuntary step backward, tripping over his silk hem and stumbling against one of his spearmen.
“You...” Garrick stammered, his voice climbing two octaves into a frightened squeak. “You... you were poisoned! Father said your meridians were dead!”
“They were,” Kaelen said, strolling across the flagstones. “Then I took a nap. Fresh air does wonders.”
Kaelen stopped three paces in front of Garrick.
Though Garrick stood at Mortal Pulse Rank 6, cold terror gripped his throat under Kaelen’s deadpan gaze. The image of Douglas flying through solid stone played behind his eyes on an endless loop.
“You mentioned sixty silver taels in fines,” Kaelen said softly.
Garrick swallowed hard. “I... the accounting was preliminary...”
“I see,” Kaelen said, pointing his thumb at the splintered door. “That door was seasoned pine, and Douglas kicked it to pieces. He also trampled two bushels of dried peppermint and knocked a hole through our courtyard wall.”
Kaelen held out his free hand. “I calculate the total damages at fifty silver taels.”
Garrick blinked. “Fifty... fifty silver?”
“Fifty silver taels,” Kaelen repeated, flexing his right knuckles with a soft pop. “Unless you want to test whether your ribs are thicker than that wall.”
Garrick’s face went chalk-white, and his abacus clattered onto the flagstones. He dug into his silk robes, pulled out an embroidered velvet pouch, and shoved it into Kaelen’s palm with shaking fingers.
“Take it!” Garrick gasped. “That’s fifty silver taels—every coin I brought!”
He whirled on his guards in panic. “Carry Douglas! Move, you fools!”
The four guards scrambled through the breached wall, hauled Douglas out of the cabbage patch, and fled down the mountain path.
Kaelen weighed the pouch in his palm.
Fifty silver taels, Kaelen thought. Add that to my four silver and thirty-two coppers, and we’re sitting on fifty-four silver and thirty-two coppers. Slacking off really is profitable business.
“We’ll buy fresh timber for the gate later, Old Barnaby,” Kaelen said.
Barnaby looked down at the silver coins, then at Kaelen, his voice barely a rasp. “Kaelen... what did you do?”
“Applied basic physics,” Kaelen said.
He turned toward Mina, who was still standing by the doorway, her eyes shining with relief.
Kaelen reached into his sleeve, pulling out the small ceramic ointment jar. He removed the cork, took out a single crimson, cloud-veined pill, and placed it in Mina’s small palm.
The pill gave off a soothing, gentle heat that immediately thawed the frost along her fingertips.
“Eat it,” Kaelen said softly.
“Brother... is this the Supreme Pill from before?” Mina asked in a tiny whisper.
“It’s candy,” Kaelen replied with a deadpan smile. “Tastes like spiced cherries. Swallow it whole.”
Mina put the pill in her mouth and swallowed.
A soft golden warmth rippled beneath her skin, replacing the lavender hue on her lips with a healthy flush.
The chronic chill in her marrow receded like water over hot sand. For the first time in two years, her breath didn’t frost in the air.
Mina gasped, touching her chest with both hands. “It’s... it’s warm. The ice is gone!”
“It will hold the decay at bay for three months,” Kaelen said, ruffling her hair. “Go rest inside.”
He had seven pills left in the jar.
He took out one more pill, wrapping it securely in a piece of oiled wax paper. He walked over to Barnaby.
“You still have that contact at the Black-Crow Ghost Market?” Kaelen asked quietly.
Barnaby swallowed, nodding slowly. “Old Jethro. He runs the night courier stall.”
“Take this to him,” Kaelen instructed. “Have him deliver it to the chief appraiser at the auction pavilion. Tell him the seller is named Master Ash. No other details.”
Barnaby’s one eye widened. “You want to sell a Cloud-Veined Supreme Pill on the black market? The Vance Clan elders will hunt the city for whoever made it!”
“Let them hunt,” Kaelen said. “They will look for an ancient grandmaster with a white beard. Nobody looks for a lazy third son napping in an herb shed.”
Kaelen dismissed the unused remainder of his hour rather than keep the burst open while arranging the courier. In his mind, the silver runes closed at his command:
[Burst Window Voluntarily Closed: Unused Time Forfeited] [The Fallow Slate Reset to Baseline: 0 Hours (1x)] [True Fallow State Re-Engaged]
A heavy wave of natural exhaustion settled into his muscles. The hyper-clarity faded, leaving the quiet, dusty shed feeling blissfully normal again.
Kaelen stretched his arms, letting out a long yawn.
“I’m exhausted,” Kaelen muttered, wandering back toward his three bales of hay. “Punching people is terrible for the digestion.”
***
Three miles away, deep beneath the labyrinthine stone cellars of Ashford Town, the Black-Crow Ghost Market hummed with shadow and coin.
In a private velvet-lined chamber, Deacon Vane adjusted his spectacles.
The chief appraiser was a thin man in heavy grey brocade. Before him on a black silk cushion rested a single crimson pill wrapped in crude wax paper.
Deacon Vane held a slender silver probe.
“A street courier dropped this off?” Vane asked skeptically, his voice smooth as oil. “From a seller calling himself Master Ash?”
“Yes, Deacon,” the masked assistant whispered. “He said it was a warming medicine.”
Vane chuckled, lowering the silver probe to touch the pill’s crimson surface.
“Probably watered-down sulfur with twenty percent slag,” Vane muttered.
The tip of the needle made contact.
PING.
A high, crystalline tone resonated through the velvet chamber, pure as a temple gong.
The silver probe didn’t tarnish. It flared with brilliant, unblemished amber light. Along the surface of the needle, seven tiny spirit-marks lit up simultaneously.
Deacon Vane froze.
His spectacles slipped down his nose, dangling by their silk cord.
“One hundred percent...” Vane whispered, his breath catching in his throat. “Cloud-Veined Supreme. Zero Pill-Poison. Zero residue.”
He stared at the tiny crimson pearl on the cushion as if it were a burning star.
“In all of Ashford... no, in the entire northern province, no one has refined a pill of this grade in fifty years.”
Vane snapped his ivory fan shut with a sharp crack, his eyes burning with frantic, predatory hunger.
“Lock the gates,” Deacon Vane hissed to the shadows in the corners of the room. “Summon every scout in the market. Find Master Ash before the Vance Clan realizes what walked out of their dirt.”