The bronze gong of the Great Council Hall struck twelve slow, resonant chimes as noon arrived.
Kaelen Vance stepped across the polished granite threshold, holding a delicate porcelain teacup in his left hand. Beside him walked Sera Thorne with her iron-tipped spear balanced on her shoulder. Barnaby Holt, having hurried back up the hill after the morning warehouse bust, followed with his polished ladle at his belt.
As the twelfth chime faded, Kaelen’s internal tally ticked over its four-day threshold.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 96h 00m] [Active Multiplier: 97x READY!] [Status: Mortal Pulse Rank 6 (Clean)] [Vessel Capacity: 240h (Stage 1 Cap)]
Sandalwood incense smoke curled toward the carved ceiling beams while Kaelen savored the ninety-seven-fold weight coiled in his dantian. Four solid days of uninterrupted rest, and I have not lifted a single finger.
In the center of the vast hall, two sample crates hauled straight from the pried-open doors of Warehouse Bay Four sat dumped on the granite flags.
Baron Derrick Vance stood over them in full ceremonial armor, his heavy broadsword drawn and resting point-down against the stone. The patriarch looked like an erupting volcano, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.
To show the assembled hall what the morning inspection had uncovered, Derrick stepped forward and brought his heavy broadsword down across the nearest crate.
The sharp steel edge scraped across a large gray stone, peeling away a thick curl of gray paint.
Beneath the chipped lacquer lay ordinary brown silt and smooth river gravel.
Derrick kicked the crate over with his armored boot. Fifty painted river boulders tumbled out, clattering across the polished granite floor like oversized marbles.
On the floor beside the rubble knelt Garrick Vance.
The second brother was drenched in cold sweat, his blue silk robes torn and ruined by mud, his hands bound behind his back with coarse hemp rope. His eyes were red and watering from the flash-powder, and his entire body trembled like a dry autumn leaf.
Along the second row of the gallery stood Cassian Vance, his arms crossed over his chest. The first brother wore his finest martial tunic, his brow furrowed in disgust as he glared at his kneeling sibling.
Around the raised dais sat the three senior clan elders, their white beards bristling with cold fury.
Second Brother worked so hard all night hauling river boulders and painting them by hand, Kaelen observed in his inner thoughts. If he put half that effort into napping, his meridians would not look like dried beef.
Madam Evelyn Vance stepped forward from behind the eastern pillar, her jade earrings trembling against her pale neck.
“Patriarch, you must not judge in haste!” Evelyn pleaded, casting a venomous glare at Barnaby Holt. “Garrick was clearly deceived by corrupt warehouse clerks! He was merely trying to secure the vaults before the audit!”
Barnaby Holt stumped forward before she could finish, his heavy boots thudding against the stone.
Thump!
Barnaby slammed his polished wooden ladle down onto the council table.
***
“Deceived by clerks, First Madam?” Barnaby bellowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted rafters. “Then perhaps you can explain these!”
With his good hand, Barnaby tossed a thick bundle of documents across the polished table.
The papers spread out before Derrick Vance and the three elders: the West Market account books, iron-ore smuggling receipts, the falsified warehouse manifest, and a copy of the mortgaged shed deed.
“For three months straight, Garrick Vance withheld the whole of the Third Herb Shed’s allowance!” Barnaby roared, pointing his ladle at Garrick’s nose. “Sixty silver taels stolen from our heating coal and repair timber! While young lady Mina suffered from the cold, this dog gambled away her firewood in town!”
Mina Vance stood quietly by the side door of the hall, her hands folded neatly in her sleeves, watching the elders with calm, clear eyes.
“And worse!” Barnaby continued, his single eye blazing with righteous anger. “Garrick smuggled two hundred ingots of refined Vance iron ore straight into the hands of Hound-Lord Briggs!”
Elder Sterling snatched up the charcoal rubbings, his bushy white eyebrows knitting tight as he brought the parchment to his spectacles.
“Foundry marks from Mine Number Three,” Sterling rasped, tapping the paper against the table. “Lot seven hundred seventy-four through lot seven hundred eighty-five. These crates were reported lost in a mountain landslide three weeks ago!”
Derrick turned his fiery gaze toward his kneeling son.
“Is this true?” Derrick growled, his voice vibrating with the terrifying spiritual pressure of Mortal Pulse Rank 9.
The heavy air in the chamber grew oppressive, forcing the junior disciples in the gallery to lower their heads.
Garrick pressed his forehead against the cold granite, weeping hysterically as tears washed tracks through the soot on his cheeks.
“Father, have mercy!” Garrick wailed, his voice cracking into high-pitched sobs. “The iron mines were failing their quotas! Briggs threatened to raid the western farms if we did not supply him! I did it to protect the clan!”
Never interrupt an opponent while he is digging his own grave, Kaelen thought, taking a calm sip of his warm jasmine tea. If you stand back and stay quiet, gravity does all the heavy lifting.
“Protect the clan?” Derrick roared, the granite floor cracking beneath his boot. “You sold our high-grade ore to common highwaymen to pay for your gambling debts at the Silver-Dice Den!”
“He has no proof of gambling!” Evelyn interjected desperately, stepping between Derrick and her son. “These papers only show shipping discrepancies! You cannot condemn your own flesh and blood on the word of a one-armed shed keeper!”
Cassian Vance took half a step backward, subtly distancing himself from his mother.
“Mother, if Garrick broke clan law, he must answer for it,” Cassian said coldly, his voice devoid of sympathy. “The Vance House cannot enter the Barony Tournament with a traitor in our ranks.”
Garrick looked up at his older brother, his eyes widening in pure horror at the betrayal.
The heavy iron doors at the rear of the hall groaned open.
***
Deacon Vane strode down the central carpet, flanked by two armed guards wearing the gray hooded tunics of the Black-Crow Ghost Market.
The appraiser wore formal dark robes adorned with golden scales. In his arms, he carried an iron-banded chest.
“Greetings to Baron Derrick and the honorable Council of Elders,” Vane announced, bowing with impeccable court etiquette. “I come as the personal envoy of Master Ash.”
At the mention of Master Ash, all three elders straightened in their carved chairs.
Even Derrick lowered his broadsword, his expression growing wary and guarded. The name of Master Ash had spread across the valley like wildfire—a mysterious master alchemist capable of refining pills with zero Pill-Poison.
“What business does Master Ash have with the Vance Clan Council?” Derrick demanded.
“A matter of outstanding commercial obligations,” Vane said smoothly.
He opened the iron chest, drawing out a stack of parchment scrolls sealed with scarlet wax and fresh thumbprints.
“Over the past six months, Second Young Master Garrick Vance contracted thirty-five Low-Grade Spirit Stones of debt across the market dens,” Vane stated, his voice ringing through the silent hall. “All thirty-five stones of debt were legally purchased and consolidated by Master Ash.”
Vane unfurled the largest scroll, holding it high for the elders to inspect.
“This document is a formal mortgage deed,” Vane continued. “Garrick Vance pledged the ancestral land, timber rights, and buildings of the Third Herb Shed as collateral. The notes fell due at dawn today.”
Elder Sterling gasped, clutching his chest. “He mortgaged ancestral clan land to outside creditors?”
“Master Ash has called in the debt,” Vane said, his tone chilling the room. “Thirty-five Low-Grade Spirit Stones, payable immediately. If the clan defaults, Master Ash will seize the land parcel and auction it to the highest bidder before sunset.”
Derrick’s knuckles turned white on his sword hilt. He knew the laws of the Barony. Blood-sealed debt scrolls recognized by the Ghost Market could not be broken without inviting total financial ruin and clan war.
“Liquidate Garrick’s estate!” Derrick commanded, his voice trembling with contained rage. “Every carriage, every horse, every piece of jade in his private quarters. Seize his courtyard vault immediately!”
Four senior enforcers rushed out of the hall to execute the order.
Within twenty minutes, the enforcers returned carrying two heavy iron strongboxes.
They dumped the contents onto the council table: forty Low-Grade Spirit Stones, sixty silver taels, and a pile of decorative jade pendants.
“Thirty-five spirit stones to Master Ash to clear the debt in full,” Derrick barked, shoving the stones toward Deacon Vane.
Vane gathered the thirty-five stones, bowed deeply, and handed over the canceled mortgage deed and blood-sealed scrolls.
Derrick turned his cold eyes toward the remaining five spirit stones and sixty silver taels.
“The sixty silver taels are restored to the Third Herb Shed for their overdue allowance,” Derrick decreed. “The remaining five spirit stones are awarded to Third Son Kaelen as compensation for the shed’s distress!”
***
Barnaby Holt swept the sixty silver taels into his pouch, grinning ear to ear.
Kaelen stepped forward, accepted the five Low-Grade Spirit Stones from Elder Sterling, and slid them into his wide sleeve with an effortless nod.
Thirty-five stones collected through Vane for Master Ash, plus five stones in court, and sixty silver taels that pair with forty from my coin box for one more stone. Forty-one Low-Grade Spirit Stones added to the hoard.
He tallied his private reserve: one hundred and eighteen Low-Grade Spirit Stones, fifty silver taels, and thirty-two copper bits, safely accounted for. The ten silver paid into the shed’s supplies box and its petty expenses were a separate operating account.
In the center of the hall, Derrick Vance pointed his broadsword directly at Garrick’s throat.
“Garrick Vance!” Derrick proclaimed in a voice like rolling thunder. “For treason against the clan, embezzlement of public funds, and selling ancestral soil to mountain bandits, you are stripped of your standing as a Vance son! Your name is removed from the ancestral register!”
Garrick screamed, clutching at Derrick’s boots. “Father! No! Please!”
“You are sentenced to ten years of penal labor in the Sunken Mines,” Derrick finished without a flicker of mercy. “Take him away!”
Four armored clan guards grabbed Garrick by his hair and arms, dragging him across the granite floor. His fingernails clawed uselessly at the stones, leaving faint scratches before the heavy bronze doors slammed shut behind him.
Madam Evelyn stood rigid as ice, her fingernails digging into her palms until droplets of blood dripped onto her emerald gown.
She stepped close to Kaelen as the crowd began to disperse.
“Do not celebrate too early, cripple,” Evelyn whispered, her voice laced with venomous hatred. “The Barony Tournament begins in six days. Cassian will crush you in the arena, and no one will be able to save your little sister.”
Kaelen merely offered her a polite, sleepy bow and took another sip of his tea.
He strolled out of the council hall into the bright afternoon sunlight.
A soft chime sounded in his mind as he reached the gravel path leading back to the Third Herb Shed.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 100h 00m] [Active Multiplier: 101x READY!] [Status: Mortal Pulse Rank 6 (Clean)] [Vessel Capacity: 240h (Stage 1 Cap)]
One hundred hours, Kaelen thought with deep satisfaction, feeling the steady, thrumming warmth fill his meridians. One hundred hours of doing nothing, and I just bankrupted my second brother and doubled my wealth.
***
Four miles away, in the smoke-choked quarry camp of the Iron-Hound Clan, Hound-Lord Briggs sat upon a throne of rusted iron ore.
Gelt, his scarred quartermaster, knelt in the dust before him, his head bowed low.
“The pipeline is broken, Lord Briggs,” Gelt reported in a trembling voice. “Garrick was caught red-handed with painted rocks. My scouts just watched the clan guards drag him in chains toward the Sunken Mine carts, and Master Ash called in all the debt notes.”
Briggs stared at the empty ore carts lined up in the quarry yard.
His massive, calloused hand tightened around his iron drinking flagon. The thick metal buckled, twisting into a crushed ball of iron as ale splashed across his scarred boots.
A savage, rabid grin spread across Briggs’s bearded face, his yellow teeth bared in the torchlight.
“Tell the boys to sharpen their cleavers,” Hound-Lord Briggs growled, his voice rumbling like an avalanche. “If the Vance clan will not sell us their iron, we will butcher their merchant caravan on the high pass—and burn Master Ash’s auction house to ash.”