Drafting the municipal seizure ledgers kept the yamen clerks busy until midday, leaving the eastern ridge in peace through the night and morning.
By the following afternoon, sixty-eight hours of unbroken stillness had accumulated upon the Fallow Slate.
Kaelen Vance lay perfectly flat in his hemp hammock, basking in the cool shade of the cedar rafters.
The soft autumn air smelled of dried elderberry and damp moss.
A gentle breeze rocked the mesh beneath him, keeping a slow, rhythmic sway.
Behind his closed eyelids, the glowing white tablet marked the new hour with a clear chime.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 68h 00m] [Active Multiplier: 69x]
Sixty-nine times baseline cultivation rate.
Every breath pulled rich worldly Qi through his pores, filtering through his seven opened meridians without a hint of friction.
Kaelen kept his straw hat tilted over his eyes, his breathing so shallow that his chest barely rose.
Maintaining the True Fallow State requires absolute dedication to horizontal living, Kaelen thought. If I sit up, my pulse quickens. If my pulse quickens, the multiplier loses its pristine harmony.
He reached out with two fingers, nudging an earthen bowl of chilled plum tea closer to his hand.
He did not even lift his head to drink.
He simply dipped the bamboo straw between his lips and sipped.
Effort is the great poison of martial progress, he noted silently. The ancient sages had it all wrong. They climbed jagged peaks to sit on freezing stones when they could have rested in a hammock.
Heavy, arrogant footsteps thudded along the gravel path outside the courtyard fence.
Bronze tiger badges rattled against dark enforcer coats as the yamen raiding party marched up the slope.
Inspector Fang and Inspector Zhao strode through the outer gate with their four bailiffs, holding freshly stamped confiscation warrants and unleashing their full eighth-rank spiritual pressure across the yard.
Their gazes swept across the rustic sheds with open contempt.
At the entrance to the porch, a weathered plank of pine stood planted in the gravel.
Painted across the wood in bold black ink was a simple message:
Do Not Disturb. Breakthrough in Progress. Trespassers Risk Dantian Backfire.
Inspector Fang sneered, resting his heavy boot against the bottom of the sign.
“Breakthrough in progress?” Fang barked, his voice echoing off the drying racks. “A lazy third son sleeping in a hammock does not have breakthroughs! Pull down this pathetic fence!”
He raised his iron-capped boot to kick the sign into splinters.
“Halt your filthy foot!”
A furious roar erupted from the turnip patch beside the compost heap.
Inspector Fang froze, his boot hovering two inches above the pine wood.
Four figures rose from the moist black dirt of the vegetable beds.
They wore muddy hemp tunics with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows.
Each man carried a wooden gardening trowel in one hand and a bundle of freshly pulled weeds in the other.
Their gray beards were spattered with dirt, and their knees were caked in mud.
Despite their rustic labor, powerful auras of Mortal Pulse Rank 7 and Rank 8 rippled from their frames.
They were four of the most influential minor clan leaders in the Ashford valley.
Patriarch Ren of the Iron-River Clan, Patriarch Liu of the West-Mountain Hall, Patriarch Shen of the Cedar Guild, and Patriarch Zhou of the Stone-Bridge Sect.
All four were proud martial leaders who had spent the weeks since the auction desperately trying to secure an audience with Master Ash.
When Kaelen casually remarked last week that his turnip patch needed weeding before the frost, the four patriarchs volunteered immediately.
They had spent two days on their knees, sweating in the soil, solely to stay in the good graces of Master Ash’s personal assistant.
Now, two arrogant yamen lackeys were stomping into the courtyard, threatening to ruin their hard work.
Patriarch Ren marched forward, shaking a muddy turnip in Inspector Fang’s face.
“Do you have dung for eyes, Fang?” Ren bellowed, his Rank 8 Qi flaring with righteous wrath. “Can you not read the sign?”
Inspector Fang stumbled back half a step, blinking in utter disbelief.
“Patriarch Ren?” Fang stammered, his hand twitching on his cudgel. “Why are you covered in cabbage leaves?”
“These are turnips, you illiterate donkey!” Patriarch Liu shouted, brandishing a rusty hand trowel. “And we are performing sacred auxiliary cultivation for the young master!”
Inspector Zhao stepped forward, placing a hand on his partner’s shoulder while holding up a yellow scroll.
“Patriarchs, stand aside,” Zhao said, his voice hard. “We are here on official business from Magistrate Vane-Locke. The Third Herb Shed is operating an unlicensed alchemy workshop. We are seizing their tournament prize and auditing their books.”
“Audit my grandmother!” Patriarch Shen spat, tossing a handful of damp weeds onto Zhao’s polished boots. “You dare disturb Master Ash’s chosen rest?”
Sera Thorne walked out from the cellar entrance, her spare ash-wood spear resting across her shoulders.
Her dark eyes were cold, her posture effortless.
Beside her, Deacon Vane emerged from behind the drying racks, flicking open his ivory fan.
The appraiser produced a stack of red-sealed vellum scrolls from his wide sleeves, waving them before the inspectors’ noses.
“Official business?” Deacon Vane chuckled smoothly. “I hold provincial merchant charters signed by the Red-River Commercial Guild. The Third Herb Shed operates under the direct protection of the Black-Crow Ghost Market.”
Inspector Fang scowled, his grip tightening on his iron cudgel.
“A Black-Crow charter does not override the municipal tax authority of Magistrate Vane-Locke,” Fang growled. “The Magistrate enacted an emergency Bandit Suppression levy. We have orders to confiscate the tournament Star-Iron ore and all liquid spirit stones!”
Patriarch Zhou laughed coldly, stepping shoulder to shoulder with Patriarch Ren.
“Then let us talk about the Red-River Censorate,” Zhou said, his voice dropping into a dangerous purr.
Inspector Zhao flinched.
“The... Censorate?”
“Yes, you petty bureaucrat,” Patriarch Ren snarled, taking another heavy step forward. “My second nephew is a senior secretary in the provincial governor’s office. If one copper bit is stolen from this shed under the guise of an illegal tax, I will have a formal petition on the Censor’s desk by noon tomorrow.”
“A petition regarding Magistrate Vane-Locke’s sudden wealth,” Patriarch Liu added, crossing his muddy arms. “And his curious ties to the late Hound-Lord Briggs.”
Inspector Fang’s face drained of color.
The four patriarchs closed in, forming a tight circle around the two inspectors and their four bailiffs.
Four Rank 7 and Rank 8 patriarchs, backed by Sera Thorne’s lethal spear intent and Deacon Vane’s legal connections.
The four yamen bailiffs took a collective step backward, their knees knocking together.
Outnumbered, outmatched, and completely outmaneuvered, Inspector Fang realized that drawing his weapon would mean political and physical suicide.
“This... this is obstruction of municipal duty,” Fang muttered weakly, lowering his cudgel.
“This is private property,” Sera Thorne said, stepping forward.
She reached behind the doorframe and picked up a battered tin bucket.
Painted on the side of the metal was a neat tally labeled Overtime Grudge Ledger.
She thrust the bucket toward Inspector Fang’s chest.
“You stomped through the gate,” Sera said calmly. “You shouted within ten yards of the hammock. You threatened the sign.”
Inspector Fang blinked. “What is that bucket?”
“Noise and trespass fine,” Sera stated without blinking. “Ten Low-Grade Spirit Stones. Pay, or Patriarch Ren sends his carriage to the Censorate before sunset.”
Inspector Fang’s jaw worked silently.
Ten Low-Grade Spirit Stones was half a month’s salary for a yamen inspector.
He looked at Patriarch Ren’s furious scowl.
He looked at Sera’s gleaming spear tip.
He looked at the hammock where Kaelen lay motionless, still sipping tea through a bamboo straw.
They will kill us and bury us beneath the turnips, Fang realized with chilling certainty. And the Magistrate will claim he never sent us.
Grinding his molars until they ached, Inspector Fang reached into his coin pouch.
He pulled out five pale blue spirit stones and shoved them into the bucket.
He glared at Inspector Zhao, who hastily produced another five stones from his sash.
Clink. Clatter.
Ten Low-Grade Spirit Stones dropped into the bottom of the tin bucket, glowing softly against the metal.
“Now turn around,” Sera said, her voice like cracking ice. “And walk quietly. If your boots make a sound on the gravel, the fee doubles.”
Inspector Fang and Inspector Zhao swallowed their pride, turned on their heels, and tiptoed down the gravel trail.
Their four bailiffs scurried behind them like scolded dogs, holding their scabbards to keep them from clinking.
They did not speak a single word until they reached the outer highway.
On the porch, Old Barnaby peered out from behind the door, clutching his garden shovel to his chest.
“They paid?” Barnaby whispered, his eyes wide with reverence. “Yamen inspectors paid a fine to our shed?”
Patriarch Ren brushed the turnip soil from his palms, bowing deeply toward the hammock.
“Young Master Kaelen,” Ren said respectfully. “The pests have been cleared. Should we finish weeding the southern rows?”
Kaelen pushed his straw hat up half an inch.
“You may weed the leeks as well, Patriarch Ren,” Kaelen said mildly. “Your form with the trowel is improving. The wrist action is very steady.”
Patriarch Ren beamed with pride as if he had just been praised by an immortal lord.
“Thank you, Young Master! Come, brothers, to the leek beds!”
The four clan leaders dropped back onto their knees, happily digging in the dirt.
Sera walked over to the hammock, setting the heavy tin bucket beside Kaelen’s crate.
“Ten Low-Grade Spirit Stones,” Sera reported, a rare spark of amusement in her eyes. “Our treasury is now one hundred and sixty stones.”
“Add them to the cellar lockbox,” Kaelen said, letting his hat slide back over his eyes. “Good work, Sera.”
Ten spirit stones for doing absolutely nothing except lying in a hammock while old men garden, Kaelen thought with deep satisfaction. This business model has tremendous potential.
The afternoon waned into purple dusk.
The four patriarchs finished their chores, bowed toward the sleeping boy, and quietly departed.
By the third hour of the evening, seventy-five hours had ticked past on the slate, pushing his multiplier to seventy-six times baseline speed.
Kaelen felt the deep, steady reservoir of power building in his core, swelling like a quiet mountain lake behind a high stone dam.
Deacon Vane returned to the porch, holding a warm pot of roasted barley tea.
“Young Master,” Deacon Vane whispered, pouring a cup for himself. “The tax inspectors returned to the yamen empty-handed. But Vane-Locke is not a man who gives up easily.”
“He will strike again,” Sera agreed, leaning against the railing. “He is an Iron Bone cultivator. His pride will not allow him to lose face to an herb shed.”
“Small batches of pills will not break him,” Kaelen said, his voice calm in the twilight. “If we release five or ten pills at a time, he will simply adapt his tariffs and bribe new merchants.”
Barnaby hovered by the window screen, clutching his torn romance page.
“Then what do we do, boy?” Barnaby asked. “We need to break his grip on Ashford completely!”
Kaelen looked inward, inspecting the quiet expanse of his sea of consciousness.
The Fallow Slate was chiming softly as the night deepened.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 78h 00m] [Active Multiplier: 79x]
Seventy-eight hours accumulated.
Seventy-nine times multiplier waiting in the dark.
Kaelen folded his hands across his stomach, a cool, ambitious plan forming in his thoughts.
Refining ten pills is a waste of a good streak, Kaelen decided. If I am going to break a corrupt magistrate, I should do it in a single afternoon.
He opened his eyes, looking up at the wooden rafters.
“We will not refine tomorrow,” Kaelen announced.
Barnaby gasped. “What? But the buyers are waiting!”
“Let them wait,” Kaelen said. “I am pushing this streak to one hundred and twenty hours.”
Deacon Vane’s breath caught in his throat. “One hundred and twenty hours? That is five full days of stillness!”
“One hundred and twenty-one times multiplier,” Kaelen murmured smoothly. “With that kind of focus, a single five-minute burst will produce thirty Cloud-Veined Supreme Pills in one firing.”
The porch fell completely silent.
Thirty supreme pills.
Such a monstrous batch would drain every loose spirit stone from the entire Ashford valley into their pockets.
It would suffocate Magistrate Vane-Locke’s cheap pill enterprise in a single stroke, leaving his warehouses choked with rotting poison.
Kaelen pulled his quilt up to his collar and closed his eyes.
“Tell the buyers that Master Ash demands absolute quiet until the fifth day,” Kaelen said softly. “And do not wake me.”