Kaelen Vance turned the coarse parchment page of the slaughterhouse ledger, the dry ink rustling softly beneath his thumb.
He lifted his steaming cup of red-bean tea with his left hand, taking a slow, fragrant sip.
The warm, nutty brew calmed his throat.
Barnaby Holt padded forward silently, placing a small lacquered dish of toasted almond biscuits and sliced dried figs beside the ledger.
Kaelen took a crisp biscuit, chewing thoughtfully as he turned another page.
Deep within his dantian, the nine golden rings of his core continued their slow, lazy rotation.
The celestial machinery of the True Fallow State hummed along without a single stutter.
Reading butcher accounts isn’t cultivating, Kaelen thought with quiet satisfaction. As long as I don’t ponder the Dao or chant sutras, the system counts this as resting.
