A rusty iron watering can swung from Kaelen’s fingers, dribbling lukewarm well water over a row of wilted turnips.
The morning air smelled of damp earth and rotting bamboo shoots. Twenty feet away, his hemp hammock swayed between two crooked cedar posts, calling to him like an old friend.
Three hundred and thirty-six hours, Kaelen thought, feeling the gentle hum of the Fallow Slate in his dantian. Another quiet morning, and my multiplier hits three hundred and thirty-seven. Life is finally looking reasonable.
Then three distinct thuds sounded beyond the low bamboo fence.
Kaelen didn’t turn around. He merely tilted the spout lower, soaking a stubborn patch of crabgrass.
Three old men in heavy silk cloaks stepped through the morning mist. Their steps were light, but the ground vibrated under their boots. Each man carried the heavy, suffocating pressure of the Jade Meridian Peak.
In the capital’s lower wards, any one of these men could command a thousand mercenaries. Yet their faces looked like dried parchment. Dark purple veins webbed their temples, pulsing with the sluggish rhythm of chronic pill poison.
Deacon Vane’s rumors in the Black-Crow Ghost Market had worked faster than expected. Vane had whispered in the right ears, dropping hints about an eccentric hermit who brewed miracle ash in the shadow of the academy.
