Ever since Barnaby dumped the four pepper-blinded thugs on the main hall steps at dawn, the Third Herb Shed had been far too noisy for proper rest.
Leaving the clan stewards to squabble over the prisoners, Kaelen Vance had carried a bare bamboo pole down to the mountain weir. Meanwhile, Deacon Vane’s runners were busy tracing the blood-stamped mortgage note pulled from Scar-Nose’s boot.
Now, with the hemp line drifting in the clear pool below his knees, the slate marked his sixty-fourth hour of unbroken peace.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 64h 00m] [Active Multiplier: 65x READY!] [Status: Mortal Pulse Rank 6 (Clean)] [Vessel Capacity: 240h (Stage 1 Cap)]
A red-finned trout darted past the empty thread in the shallows. Banked all the way to sixty-five times just by watching clouds and escaping estate gossip, Kaelen reflected with quiet satisfaction.
On the gravel bank three paces away, Sera Thorne leaned on her spear. She looked down at the end of Kaelen’s fishing line, where the bare thread twitched in the current.
“You have been sitting on that boulder since sunrise,” Sera said, her voice dry as flint. “There is no hook on that line. There is not even a worm.”
“A hook creates expectations,” Kaelen replied without opening his eyes. “If a fish bites, I have to haul on the rod. Hauling strains the shoulder meridians and raises my heart rate.”
“Then why hold the pole at all?”
“Holding a pole makes me look like an eccentric fisherman,” Kaelen said. “If people see me lying empty-handed on a rock, they think I am lazy and try to assign me chores. If I hold a bamboo stick, they leave me alone.”
A man who works hard gets rewarded with more work. A man who holds a stick gets left in peace to multiply his Qi sixty-five fold.
Sera pulled out her small pigskin notebook and flipped open the brass clasp.
“Your brother Garrick has been frequenting the Silver-Dice Den for three years,” Sera noted, tapping her pencil against the page. “He started with dog fights and progressed to high-stakes spirit-tile tables. When his allowance ran dry, he borrowed against clan credit.”
Kaelen pulled out the blood-sealed duplicate of the promissory note found in the cutthroat’s boot. He flattened the parchment against his knee alongside Deacon Vane’s merchant reports.
“Garrick owes thirty-five Low-Grade Spirit Stones,” Kaelen murmured, reading the ledger marks. “He borrowed from three different loan sharks in the Black-Crow Ghost Market: Iron-Scale Hook, Blind Master Qian, and Madam Sable.”
“All three answer to Hound-Lord Briggs,” Sera said, her eyes narrowing. “If Garrick fails to pay before the Barony Tournament, Briggs seizes the Herb Shed deed. That gives the Iron-Hound gang legal right to plant an armed guard post right inside the clan perimeter.”
“A very tidy trap,” Kaelen remarked. “Garrick thought he could burn our drying barn, claim the stock was destroyed by bandits, and use the insurance payout from Father to clear his debt.”
“And now his thugs are rotting in town watch cells,” Sera said. “What is your move? We cannot fight Briggs’s enforcers in open court.”
“Why would I fight them with swords?” Kaelen asked, turning his head slightly. “Violence is noisy, expensive, and ruins your sleep. Financial leverage is much cleaner.”
***
A branch snapped on the path above the creek.
Deacon Vane hurried down the gravel slope, wearing the greasy smock of an itinerant charcoal burner. A woven basket of charred pine knots rested on his back.
“Young Master Kaelen,” Vane whispered, dropping to one knee beside the boulder. “The news from the main hall is glorious. Garrick spent the morning screaming at his servants, trying to scrub the skunk sludge off the manor steps!”
“Let him scrub,” Kaelen said. “It builds character. Now tell me about the three creditors.”
Deacon Vane’s eyes darted around the quiet willow grove.
“Iron-Scale Hook holds twelve spirit stones of Garrick’s debt,” Vane whispered. “Blind Master Qian holds fifteen, and Madam Sable holds eight. All three are terrified that Derrick Vance will discover the debt and execute Garrick before they get paid.”
“Loan sharks hate bad debt,” Kaelen said, setting his bamboo pole against the rock. “Especially when the debtor is a useless second son whose father despises weakness.”
He reached into his inner pocket and drew out a small vial of pale green jade.
He removed the wax seal and tilted the mouth forward.
Six emerald pills rolled into his palm. Each pill was completely spherical, its translucent surface marked with swirling white cloud patterns that gleamed with pure, untainted spiritual light.
Deacon Vane sucked in a sharp, ragged breath. His knees hit the gravel bank with a wet crunch.
“Cloud-Veined Supreme Pulse-Opening Pills,” Vane stammered, his hands shaking violently as he looked at the medicine. “Zero Pill-Poison! Six of them!”
“Take these to the Black-Crow Ghost Market,” Kaelen commanded in a calm, flat tone. “Do not offer them for silver. Trade them exclusively to Iron-Scale Hook, Qian, and Madam Sable.”
Vane blinked, his voice trembling. “Trade them for what, Young Master?”
“For every promissory note, debt ledger, and forged voucher bearing Garrick Vance’s blood thumbprint,” Kaelen said. “Every single scrap of paper where my dear second brother pledged his soul to Briggs.”
Cultivators bleed and die for a chance to break through pulse bottlenecks before a tournament. A Supreme Pill with zero Pill-Poison is worth its weight in gold. Those loan sharks will sell Garrick’s skin twice over to get one.
“The tournament qualifiers are barely a week away,” Vane noted, rubbing his chin greedily. “Every elder and clan merchant in the valley is begging for breakthrough medicine. A single Supreme Pulse-Opening Pill will easily fetch eight spirit stones on the private tables!”
“Six pills are worth forty-eight spirit stones,” Kaelen said. “Garrick only owes thirty-five. Value the lot at forty-seven to make them feel generous, and demand the twelve stones in difference.”
Deacon Vane caught the jade vial with reverent hands.
“Master Ash’s will shall be done,” Vane gasped, bowing until his forehead touched the stones before scurrying up the bank like a frightened rabbit.
***
Deep inside the underground vaults of the Black-Crow Ghost Market, lanterns burned with oily red flames.
Behind a curtain of woven iron beads sat three figures around a low stone table.
Iron-Scale Hook, a gaunt man with a jagged steel claw replacing his left hand, tapped his metal claws against a stack of parchment. Across from him sat Blind Master Qian, his milky eyes staring at nothing, while Madam Sable puffed on a long ivory opium pipe.
“Garrick Vance is a dead man walking,” Iron-Scale Hook rasped. “His cutthroats were dumped on Derrick’s porch this morning. If the patriarch investigates the Third Herb Shed, our debt notes become useless scraps.”
“Thirty-five Low-Grade Spirit Stones,” Blind Master Qian sighed. “Hound-Lord Briggs will skin us if we lose that capital.”
“We should have seized his carriage horses yesterday,” Madam Sable muttered, tapping the bowl of her pipe against an iron brazier.
The iron bead curtain parted with a harsh metallic rattle.
Deacon Vane stepped into the chamber, wearing a hooded cloak of dark velvet. He did not bow. He did not smile. He walked with the slow, arrogant stride of a courier representing supreme power.
“Who granted you entry, Weasel?” Madam Sable snapped, exhaling a plume of violet smoke.
“Master Ash sends his regards,” Vane said smoothly.
He pulled the jade vial from his cloak, popped the stopper, and poured the six emerald pearls onto the black velvet table runner.
The heavy, perfumed stench of opium smoke vanished in an instant, replaced by the crisp, cool aroma of pure morning dew.
The three loan sharks froze.
Iron-Scale Hook’s metal claw hovered an inch above the table. Blind Master Qian leaned forward, his nostrils flaring wide as he inhaled the pristine medicine.
“Cloud-Veined Supreme,” Qian whispered, his voice trembling with sheer disbelief. “Zero Pill-Poison. Pulse-Opening rank.”
“Master Ash requires Garrick Vance’s debt scrolls,” Vane declared, folding his hands inside his wide sleeves. “All thirty-five stones of debt. The Herb Shed mortgage, the smelter vouchers, and the gambling chits.”
He tapped the table with one bony finger.
“The six Supreme Pills are valued at forty-seven Low-Grade Spirit Stones. Hand over the papers and twelve spirit stones in difference, or I take these to the Golden Pavilion.”
Iron-Scale Hook did not hesitate for a heartbeat. His steel claw slammed onto his iron lockbox, popping the heavy brass latch.
“Done!” Hook barked, his voice cracked with desperate greed. “Give me two pills, and you take the mortgage!”
Blind Master Qian reached into his embroidered robes, pulling out five blood-ink notes. “Take Qian’s share! Two pills for my ledger!”
Madam Sable scrambled to open her ebony chest, tossing piles of silver aside to drag out two leather folders. “I have the smelter vouchers! Take them! Take them all!”
Within ten minutes, the three creditors had signed over every scrap of Garrick’s debt, stacking twelve pristine Low-Grade Spirit Stones beside the blood-ink scrolls.
Vane gathered the scrolls and stones into his satchel with a cold, triumphant smirk.
“Master Ash is pleased with your compliance,” Vane purred, turning on his heel and vanishing through the bead curtain.
***
Twilight purple deepened into velvet night above the mountain ridges.
At the Third Herb Shed, Kaelen reclined in his rope hammock under the porch eaves. The evening wind rustled the pine needles, carrying the pleasant scent of woodsmoke and dried mint.
A soft chime rang in his mind.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 72h 00m] [Active Multiplier: 73x READY!] [Status: Mortal Pulse Rank 6 (Clean)] [Vessel Capacity: 240h (Stage 1 Cap)]
Seventy-three times, Kaelen thought, feeling the immense, coiled power resting effortlessly within his dantian. Three solid days of unbroken rest. Seventy-two hours stacked toward the ten-day vessel cap.
The garden gate swung open.
Deacon Vane hurried up the gravel path, his breath ragged but his chest puffed out with pride. He laid a heavy bundle wrapped in black silk onto the low table.
Beside the silk bundle, Vane stacked twelve shining Low-Grade Spirit Stones.
“It is done, Young Master,” Vane reported, his voice filled with reverence. “Every single blood-ink promissory note, every smelter voucher, and the original deed mortgage on the Third Herb Shed. You are now Garrick Vance’s sole creditor.”
Kaelen reached out and swept the twelve spirit stones into his lap.
Fifty-seven, plus eight from the thugs, plus twelve from the trade. That makes seventy-seven Low-Grade Spirit Stones.
He checked the inventory under his bed. Eighteen Pulse-Opening Supreme Pills remained in his main jade phial: twenty-four minus the six traded for the notes. Alongside eight Frost-Cleaving Supreme Pills in his secondary jar, his personal reserve held twenty-six in all.
Mina stepped onto the porch, carrying an iron candle lamp. She knelt beside the table and unrolled one of the seized account books.
“Brother, look at this,” Mina whispered, her small finger tracing a red column of ink. “Garrick was not just stealing ore. For the last three months, he diverted the winter coal allowance meant for our shed to pay his personal interest tabs!”
“He let a twelve-year-old girl freeze to cover his dice losses,” Sera said, her voice dropping into a deadly whisper as she gripped her spear.
Barnaby Holt shouldered open the kitchen door, carrying three steaming cups of roasted barley tea. The old man set the tray down and peered at the thick stack of debt scrolls.
“What are those yellow papers, lad?” Barnaby asked, scratching his beard with his wooden ladle.
“These are Garrick’s death warrants,” Kaelen said mildly, untying the black silk.
He picked up the top scroll, studying Garrick’s dark red thumbprint beside the smelter stamp.
“He owes me thirty-five spirit stones, payable upon demand,” Kaelen murmured, taking a sip of warm tea. “He also owes the clan vaults two hundred ingots of refined spirit-iron across thirty missing crates.”
Sera leaned against the porch post, looking down at the papers.
“The monthly Vance Clan Elder Council convenes tomorrow at noon,” Sera said. “Baron Derrick and the three senior elders will audit the quarterly accounts.”
Barnaby’s one eye flashed with sudden fire.
“That dog Garrick withheld our shed allowance for three months straight!” Barnaby growled, shaking his ladle. “He stole sixty silver taels meant for our firewood and repair timber!”
Kaelen set his teacup down with a faint clink.
“Barnaby,” Kaelen said softly.
“Yes, Young Master?”
“Go polish your wooden ladle,” Kaelen said, his lips curling into a slow, relaxed smile. “Tomorrow noon, we are going to the Elder Council hall. It is time to collect our three months of overdue allowance. With compound interest.”