After another full day and night of sleeping through the quarterfinal washouts, Kaelen tucked a plump goose-down pillow under his arm and strolled out of the staging tunnel onto the arena sand.
The sixth morning sun crept over the stone walls of the Ashford amphitheater, cutting through the autumn chill.
Spectators packed the wooden benches, shouting bets and rattling mugs of spiced wine.
Behind Kaelen, Old Barnaby hurried through the staging tunnel, swinging an oak ladle.
“Put that feather sack down, you shameless boy!” Barnaby hissed. “You’re in the semifinals of the Barony Tournament! Torin of the Black-Pine Timber Guild broke through to Mortal Pulse Rank 7 last spring! His clubs will split your skull!”
“The benches have splinters, Old Barnaby,” Kaelen said mildly. “A sensible man protects his back.”
Mina trotted alongside them, clutching dried plums.
“Brother,” Mina whispered. “He’s been cracking river rocks all morning. Are you sure you don’t want to warm up?”
Kaelen patted his little sister on the head.
“Running burns calories, Mina,” Kaelen said. “Calories cost rice, and rice costs copper. Resting is free.”
Besides, my Fallow Slate has been ticking undisturbed for six full days, Kaelen thought.
He glanced inward, checking the pale slate floating in his sea of consciousness.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 144h 00m] [Active Multiplier: 145x READY!] [Stage 1 Vessel Cap: 240h 00m]
One hundred and forty-four hours.
That was a hundred and forty-five times the baseline yield waiting for his next breakthrough.
If I throw a punch right now, all six days of pure abstinence vanish before the Day 8 finals, Kaelen thought. I’m not cashing out until I hit a hundred and eighty hours. Wasting my streak on some lumberjack’s knuckles is out of the question.
The tournament master stepped onto the central stone ring, raising a yellow banner.
“First semifinal match!” the referee bellowed. “Kaelen Vance of the Vance Martial House versus Torin of the Black-Pine Timber Guild!”
A roar went up from the northern stands as lumber merchants waved green banners.
Torin bounded into the ring, landing with a heavy thud.
He had broad shoulders, forearms wrapped in oiled leather, and polished oak training clubs at his belt.
“Come forward, Third Young Master!” Torin called out, his voice booming. “Show the barony what you can do!”
Before walking onstage with his pillow, Kaelen cast a lazy glance toward the merchant gallery and tapped his collarbone once to cue Deacon Vane.
He climbed the steps with dragging feet, his goose-down pillow nestled against his ribs. When he stepped across the chalk line, the crowd went silent.
“Is that a pillow?” someone yelled from the third row.
“Did Vance House run out of sabres?” another spectator shouted, drawing loud laughter.
In the VIP gallery, Baron Derrick Vance sat beside Madam Evelyn.
The baron’s face darkened to the shade of a bruised plum.
“What in heaven’s name is that useless boy doing?” Derrick muttered, his knuckles white.
Madam Evelyn covered her mouth with a painted silk fan.
“He knows his limits, husband,” Evelyn said softly. “The third son merely wishes to lie down comfortably before Torin snaps his ribs.”
Inside the ring, Torin drew his oak clubs with a mocking grin.
“Are you surrendering, Vance?” Torin asked, swinging one club with a clean whistle. “Or do you want me to tuck you in?”
“I prefer silence when I nap,” Kaelen said, setting his pillow down on the sand near the corner post.
Just as the referee raised his yellow flag to start the match, Deacon Vane rose from the front row of the merchant gallery.
Deacon Vane is wearing that ridiculous plum hat again, Kaelen thought. At least the man knows how to conduct business on cue without making me stand up.
The chief appraiser of the Black-Crow Ghost Market snapped his brass fan shut.
“Hold the gong!” Deacon Vane called out, his voice resonant with Qi.
The referee paused, his hand hovering over the yellow banner.
“Deacon Vane? This is a sanctioned match. Spectators may not interfere.”
“I do not speak as a spectator, Master Referee,” Deacon Vane said with an elegant bow. “I speak as the sole agent of Master Ash.”
A sharp murmur rippled through the stands.
Every cultivator in Ashford straightened at the mention of Master Ash.
Over the last week, the mysterious alchemist had shaken the county by producing zero-poison Cloud-Veined Supreme Pills.
In the southern stands, Guild Master Vond, head of the Black-Pine Timber Guild, stiffened.
“What does Master Ash have to do with my boy’s match?” Guild Master Vond demanded, rising from his bench.
Deacon Vane smiled, resting his hands on the carved railing.
“Master Ash holds great respect for the Timber Guild,” Deacon Vane said smoothly. “However, Master Ash is currently waiting for his courier, Third Young Master Kaelen, to deliver vital roots before the midday heat ruins them.”
Torin blinked, lowering his clubs an inch.
“A courier?” Torin muttered, looking at Kaelen.
“Indeed,” Deacon Vane said clearly. “Master Ash offers Guild Master Vond two Cloud-Veined Supreme Marrow-Warming Pills from his consignment jar at half price, if your son doesn’t delay his errand boy.”
The arena went still. Two zero-poison Supreme Pills at half price—worth forty Low-Grade Spirit Stones on the open market—would cure the cold-rot in Vond’s eldest brother’s meridians and secure the guild.
Guild Master Vond’s face flushed crimson.
“Father?” Torin asked with a confused frown. “I can knock this boy out in three breaths! We can talk about pills after I win!”
“You brainless donkey!” a roar shook the wooden railings.
Before Torin could raise his oak clubs, a blur of grey silk vaulted over the spectator wall.
Guild Master Vond landed in the ring, kicking up sand.
He crossed the distance, his heavy palm swinging like a broadaxe.
Smack.
The loud slap echoed off the stone walls.
Torin stumbled sideways, clutching his cheek with wide eyes.
“Father! Why did you strike me?”
“Shut your useless mouth!” Guild Master Vond shouted, his grey beard trembling. “Go home and chop firewood behind the lumber yard!”
The guild master turned toward the referee, bowing low.
“The Timber Guild forfeits!” Vond yelled, waving both arms. “My son has stomach cramps! Severe cramps! The match goes to Third Young Master Kaelen!”
The referee stood frozen, the yellow flag still clutched in his hand.
“Guild Master Vond, are you certain?”
“I said my son surrenders!” Vond barked, dragging Torin toward the stairs by his collar. “Third Young Master Kaelen is victorious! Come along, boy, before you ruin our family!”
Torin groaned in humiliation as his father shoved him out of the ring.
Kaelen watched them leave with a faint nod.
He knelt on the sand, folded his arms over his goose-down pillow, and rested his chin against the cool cloth.
“Master Referee,” Kaelen said in a polite drawl. “Will you call the result? The sand is quite comfortable, but the sun is getting warm.”
The referee swallowed hard and dropped his banner.
“Match concluded!” the referee shouted. “Victor by forfeit: Kaelen Vance!”
The amphitheater erupted into chaos.
Spectators shouted in disbelief, some laughing while others tore up their betting slips in disgust.
In the VIP gallery, Baron Derrick sat frozen in his chair, his jaw hanging open.
“He did not even take off his shoes,” Derrick whispered in shock.
Beside him, Madam Evelyn snapped her painted fan in half.
Her knuckles turned white as she glared down at Kaelen lying on his pillow.
Inside Kaelen’s mind, the white slate chimed with a clear tone.
[The Fallow Slate] [Activity: Absolute Inaction in Sanctioned Duel] [Fallow State Maintained: No Qi Expended] [Timer Continuing Unbroken...]
That went rather well, Kaelen thought, closing his eyes against the glare. No sweat, no torn robes, and Vane handles the consignment pills from the shed reserve jars without touching my pouch.
Down below, Old Barnaby dropped his oak ladle into the sand, staring at the empty ring.
Mina let out a small giggle, pressing her hands over her mouth.
“He won,” Mina whispered. “Uncle Barnaby, he really won without moving.”
“That shameless brat,” Barnaby muttered, rubbing his bald head. “He bribed his way into the finals using Master Ash’s name.”
Attendants cleared the sand for the second semifinal match.
Kaelen picked up his pillow and strolled over to the bench near the tunnel entrance, sitting down beside Sera Thorne.
Sera sat with her legs crossed, inspecting the tip of her ash-wood backup spear.
“You look pleased with yourself,” Sera said quietly. “Selling two of your secret pills just to avoid swinging a fist.”
“Efficiency, Sera,” Kaelen said, leaning back. “Why spend Qi when Vane can advance two pills from the shed’s consignment jar? Besides, he’ll still charge the Timber Guild a hefty appraisal fee. The man can’t help himself.”
“Your older brother isn’t going to take a bribe,” Sera said, looking toward the far tunnel.
From the northern tunnel, Cassian Vance strode onto the sand.
The first brother wore steel mail over dark red robes.
In his right hand, he carried a heavy iron broadsword with a jagged, blood-grooved edge.
Kaelen narrowed his eyes.
Something was deeply wrong with Cassian.
The first brother’s gait was jerky and stiff, his boots digging harsh ruts into the earth.
His skin was unnaturally pale, but his cheeks burned with violent crimson patches.
Dark purple veins bulged across Cassian’s neck and temples, pulsing like squirming worms under his skin.
His eyes were completely bloodshot, glowing with a deranged, feral light.
Crack-Grade Blood-Boil Pills, Kaelen realized instantly. No, worse than standard crack pills. The Qi around him smells like rotting copper and beast marrow.
“Second semifinal match!” the referee announced. “Cassian Vance of the Vance Martial House versus Sera Thorne, independent cultivator!”
Sera stood up, resting the ash-wood spear across her shoulder.
“Be careful,” Kaelen said softly. “His meridians are overloaded with poison. He is not in his right mind.”
Sera glanced back, her lips curving in a faint smirk.
“I have scouted the northern barrens for three years, Young Master,” Sera replied. “A hopped-up noble brat will not catch me off guard.”
She vaulted onto the stone platform, planting her boots in an agile stance.
Cassian climbed the stairs, his breathing ragged and wet.
A trail of thick white vapor vented from his nostrils, smelling faintly of sulfur and scorched blood.
“Begin!” the referee shouted, slicing his flag downward.
Cassian did not salute.
He let out a guttural shriek and launched himself across the ring.
The iron broadsword slashed down with terrifying speed.
The air shrieked as Rank 8 Qi flared around the blade, dark and chaotic, churning with violent red sparks.
Crack.
The stone beneath Cassian’s boots shattered into gravel as he drove forward.
Sera twisted her hips, executing a clean evasive sweep that carried her three feet to the left.
The broadsword smashed into the stone where she had stood, gouging a two-foot trench in the masonry.
“Die!” Cassian roared, spinning with unnatural flexibility.
His sword whipped around in a horizontal arc, aiming straight for Sera’s throat.
Sera brought her ash-wood spear up in a defensive parry, angling the shaft to deflect the edge.
In ordinary sparring, a Rank 7 spearwoman could easily redirect a Rank 8 slash by yielding to the force.
But Cassian’s strength was not Rank 8.
The forbidden elixir coursing through his veins had pushed his raw physical output to the brink of Rank 9.
Snap.
The iron broadsword struck the ash wood with the force of a battering ram.
The tough wood splintered instantly, exploding into a shower of sharp shards.
The flat of the heavy blade slammed violently into Sera’s left shoulder.
Crunch.
The sound of bruising bone and tearing muscle was clear enough to reach the front rows.
Sera let out a sharp gasp of pain as she was thrown backward through the air.
Blood sprayed from her lips, speckling the grey sand like drops of winter ink.
Cassian lunged forward with a blood-crazed grin, raising the jagged broadsword with both hands to cleave her in two.
“Die, servant trash!” Cassian screamed, spit flying from his lips.
Sera gritted her teeth against the agony in her shoulder.
Mid-air, she tucked her knees, kicking out with both boots against the arena corner post.
The rebound pushed her backward, sailing cleanly over the white boundary line.
She crashed onto the soft sand outside the ring, rolling twice before coming to a halt on one knee.
“Boundary out!” the referee shouted immediately, leaping between the ring and the sand with his iron staff raised. “Contestant Sera Thorne is outside the boundary! Match over! Victor, Cassian Vance!”
Cassian slammed his broadsword against the corner post, gouging deep iron splinters from the wood.
His chest heaved violently as he glared down at Sera with wild, bloodshot eyes.
“Cowardly dog!” Cassian spat, dark red foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. “You ran away! If you stayed inside the ring, I would have chopped you into dog meat!”
Sera knelt in the sand, her left arm hanging limp and useless at her side.
Her face was chalk-white, cold sweat beading on her forehead as she clutched her shattered shoulder.
Kaelen was already moving.
He did not walk with his usual lazy saunter.
In two silent, gliding strides, he crossed the sand and dropped beside Sera, his practiced alchemist fingers checking her collarbone.
Scorched purple bruising spread beneath her tunic where Cassian’s violent strike had landed.
Sera looked up at him through clenched teeth, her breath trembling with pain.
“My backup spear broke,” Sera whispered, her fingers digging into the sand. “I couldn’t hold the line.”
Kaelen looked up at the stage.
Cassian stood on the stone edge, glaring down at them with a deranged, triumphant sneer.
The first brother tapped the flat of his bloody broadsword against his thigh, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Kaelen.
“Wait until the finals, little brother,” Cassian rasped, his voice vibrating with venom and madness. “Bring your pillow to the ring. You’ll need it to catch your teeth.”
Kaelen didn’t answer.
He slipped his right arm under Sera’s uninjured side, supporting her weight as the late afternoon shadows lengthened across the arena.
Deep within his dantian, the calm stillness that had governed Kaelen’s mind for six days hardened into cold iron.
Cassian Vance, Kaelen thought, his eyes flat and dark. You had eighteen hours a day to train, and you chose to chew poison to maim a girl with a wooden stick.
By the time they passed through the Third Herb Shed gate at dusk and hurried into the back room, the Fallow Slate ticked steadily upward inside his mind.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 156h 00m] [Active Multiplier: 157x READY!]
Keep celebrating through tomorrow’s rest day, First Brother, Kaelen thought coldly. In the finals, I’ll cash out every single second.