Less than two hours after descending from the quiet porch of the Third Herb Shed, Deacon Vane slipped through the back alleys of Ashford before the midnight bells finished ringing.
The appraiser moved like a sleek shadow, his black silk robes tucked into his leather sash.
In his sleeve, he carried twenty sealed invitations freshly penned on crimson paper.
He ducked into the Golden Carp Tea-House, where three wealthy caravan masters sat nursing cups of spiced rice wine.
“Three days,” Deacon Vane whispered, leaning across their wooden table with a dramatic flourish of his ivory fan. “Master Ash is preparing his furnace. A grand lot of thirty zero-poison Supreme Pills will be presented on the Black-Crow auction block.”
The lead merchant choked on his wine, sputtering into his sleeve.
“Thirty?” the merchant wheezed, his eyes bulging. “Not three? Thirty complete, poison-free pills?”
“Thirty,” Deacon Vane purred smoothly. “Every single pill certified zero percent Pill-Poison. But as you know, Master Ash does not tolerate clients who patronize the yamen’s taxed trash.”
Within thirty-six hours, rumors of the auction lot had crossed the county borders.
Merchants from Red-River, martial clans from High-Pass, and wealthy rogue cultivators from Iron-Ridge flooded the town.
They brought wagonloads of silver and locked chests of spirit stones.
Every inn along the central avenue hung out full-house signs by noon.
At the yamen’s official medicine stalls, stacks of the Magistrate’s cheap, poisoned pills sat completely abandoned.
By the time the slate in Kaelen’s mind reached one hundred and fourteen hours, Ashford was bursting with nervous gold.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 114h 00m] [Active Multiplier: 115x]
The mountain air was brisk and biting as midnight settled over the Third Herb Shed.
Kaelen lay quietly in his hammock, listening to the gentle rustle of dry leaves along the fence.
Seven muffled thuds sounded from the outer courtyard.
Light, deliberate footsteps advanced across the gravel, stopping five paces from the porch steps.
Kaelen opened his eyes beneath his straw hat.
He swung his legs over the edge of the mesh, rising without a whisper of sound.
He picked up a small tallow lantern from the wooden crate, adjusting the wick to a dim glow.
Standing on the porch planks, he held the lantern aloft.
Seven elderly men stood in the dark gravel courtyard, their cloaks drawn tightly against the mountain wind.
Each man radiated the formidable, disciplined pressure of a late Mortal Pulse master.
They were senior elders representing prominent martial sects from the three neighboring territories.
Elder Song of the Iron-Gale Sect, Elder Mu of the Cloud-Sword Pavilion, and five others from renowned regional houses.
At the front of the group, Elder Song stepped forward, bowing with solemn dignity.
“Young Master Vance,” Elder Song whispered, his gravelly voice remarkably quiet. “Forgive the midnight intrusion upon your sacred residence.”
Kaelen leaned against the cedar post, holding the lantern at waist height.
“It is three hours past my bedtime,” Kaelen murmured mildly. “Unless this shed is on fire, you are trespassing.”
Elder Song glanced at the rustic drying racks and the mud-caked turnip patch.
To an ordinary observer, it looked like a peasant farm.
To Elder Song, every crooked fence post looked like a deliberate, profound geomantic array designed to hide an ancient sovereign.
“We know Master Ash resides in seclusion behind these walls,” Elder Song whispered reverently. “We have traveled two hundred miles over the northern ridge.”
Elder Song reached beneath his gray woolen mantle, producing a heavy embroidered pouch.
He untied the silk cord, tilting the opening toward the lantern light.
Ten pale blue stones gleamed within the velvet, humming with cool, pure spiritual power.
“Ten Low-Grade Spirit Stones,” Elder Song said, his voice trembling with eager tension. “As a private reservation fee. I only ask for a guaranteed seat in the front row of Master Ash’s auction.”
The other six elders stepped forward in unison, each holding an identical embroidered pouch.
“Ten stones from Cloud-Sword Pavilion!” Elder Mu whispered urgently.
“Ten from the Iron-Ridge Hall!” another elder added.
“Seventy Low-Grade Spirit Stones total,” Elder Song pleaded softly. “We do not ask for discounts on the medicine. We only ask that our seats be secured before the general merchants crowd the floor.”
Kaelen looked at the seven pouches.
Seventy Low-Grade Spirit Stones was a small fortune in the outer territories.
A clan elder would normally fight three blood feuds before parting with ten stones of pure currency.
Yet here they were, bowing in the dirt like eager apprentices.
Desperation is a wonderful commercial force, Kaelen thought, feeling deeply satisfied. They think Master Ash is an ancient hermit, and they are throwing wealth into my lap just to sit near the door.
Sera Thorne stepped silently from the shadows of the porch, holding her tin bucket.
Kaelen gestured toward the metal rim with his lantern.
“Drop them in,” Kaelen said.
The seven elders moved swiftly, tipping their pouches one by one.
Clink. Clank. Clatter.
Seventy Low-Grade Spirit Stones fell into the tin bucket, bringing the shed’s total reserve to two hundred and thirty stones.
Sera tucked the bucket behind her leg, her dark eyes glittering with quiet amusement.
“Your seats are noted,” Kaelen said, lowering his lantern slightly. “However, there is an obstacle.”
Elder Song’s face tightened with anxiety. “An obstacle?”
“Master Ash is currently in deep seclusion in the back chambers,” Kaelen said smoothly, inventing the lie with effortless calm. “He is savoring a rare pot of autumn tea and aligning his inner furnace for the thirty-pill batch.”
The seven elders nodded reverently, hanging on every word.
“A master’s concentration is fragile,” Kaelen continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Master Ash has extraordinarily sensitive spiritual hearing. If a single rooster crows or a loud noise echoes through the valley, the tea will sour. If the tea sours, his meridian focus will shatter.”
Elder Mu sucked in a sharp breath. “And the thirty supreme pills?”
“Ruined,” Kaelen said bluntly. “Dissolved into blackened ash.”
The seven elders looked at each other in sheer horror.
Thirty Cloud-Veined Supreme Pills represented their only chance to cleanse years of meridian poison and break through their lifelong bottlenecks.
The thought of an errant noise destroying the batch made their blood run cold.
“What must we do, Young Master?” Elder Song demanded in a desperate hiss. “Tell us!”
“Establish a perimeter,” Kaelen ordered. “I declare a 72-hour Absolute Silence Zone covering the western quarter of this manor.”
He pointed his lantern toward the distant stone walls of the Vance compound.
“No shouting,” Kaelen said. “No loud footsteps. No clashing of weapons. If anyone makes a sound within earshot of this shed, you silence them immediately.”
“It shall be done!” Elder Song vowed, his eyes flashing with lethal determination. “By our martial honor, not a mouse will squeak in this valley!”
The seven elders bowed together, vanishing into the night like swift mountain ghosts.
Kaelen blew out the lantern flame.
He climbed back into his hemp hammock, pulled his linen quilt up to his chin, and smiled into the darkness.
Free guards, seventy spirit stones in profit, and guaranteed silence for my nap, Kaelen thought happily. Sometimes the universe is surprisingly generous to those who refuse to work.
He closed his eyes and drifted into deep, peaceful slumber.
Dawn arrived with a soft gray mist creeping through the pine groves.
In the western courtyard of the main Vance manor, three hundred yards from the Herb Shed, a heavy wooden door creaked open.
First Brother Cassian Vance stepped onto the stone flags of his personal training yard.
His chest was tightly bound in medicinal linen, his cracked ribs held together by Derrick’s expensive bone-setting paste.
Cassian’s face was dark with humiliated fury.
A young servant hovered behind him, carrying a silver washbasin with trembling hands.
“Young Master Cassian,” the servant murmured timidly. “The physician said your ribs require another fortnight of complete rest before you lift iron.”
“Get out of my sight, useless dog!” Cassian snapped, shoving the servant aside.
The servant stumbled, scurrying back through the arched doorway in terror.
Cassian glared at the morning mist, his teeth grinding together.
Ever since his defeat on the arena sands, the clan servants had whispered behind his back.
His pride had been shredded into ribbons.
He walked to the heavy weapons rack and lifted a massive, double-edged iron broadsword with both hands.
The heavy steel blade gleamed in the cold morning light.
“I will shatter that third bastard’s bones,” Cassian muttered under his breath, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “I will swing this blade until my hands bleed!”
He took a wide horse stance, drawing in a massive breath to bellow his morning war cry.
“Eighteen Mountain Cleaving Strikes!” Cassian roared at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing across the courtyard walls. “First form! Sunder the—”
Whoosh.
Three shadows dropped from the high tiled roof like hunting hawks.
Before Cassian’s broadsword could reach the top of its arc, a heavy burlap hemp sack descended over his head.
“Mmph!”
The coarse fabric slammed down over Cassian’s nose and mouth, plunging him into pitch darkness.
A leather drawstring yanked tight around his neck, choking his shout into a pathetic squeak.
“Silence, you screaming donkey!” a voice hissed in his ear.
A heavy, calloused foot swept Cassian’s ankles out from under him.
Cassian crashed hard onto the gravel, his broadsword clattering against the stone.
Before he could push himself up, two powerful knees pinned his shoulders to the ground with the crushing force of late Mortal Pulse cultivators.
“My ribs!” Cassian tried to howl through the burlap. “I am Cassian Vance, First Son of—”
Thwack.
A firm open-handed slap struck the back of the burlap sack, rattling Cassian’s teeth.
“We do not care if you are the Emperor’s nephew!” Elder Song’s voice growled furiously through the cloth. “Master Ash is finishing his morning tea! Do you dare bellow like a slaughtered pig during the sacred quiet hours?”
Elder Mu grabbed the fallen broadsword from the gravel.
“Iron trash,” Mu muttered with disdain. “Making noise with cheap pig iron while heaven’s alchemy is underway.”
The third elder produced a thick length of braided hemp rope, swiftly tying Cassian’s wrists and ankles together behind his back.
Within ten breaths, the proud heir of the Vance clan was trussed up like a market pig, squirming helpless on the cold dirt.
“Leave him in the flowerbed,” Elder Song whispered. “If he squeals again, gag him with a turnip.”
The three elders vanished back over the wall, carrying Cassian’s broadsword as contraband.
Inside the sack, Cassian squirmed and groaned against the damp soil, unable to utter a single intelligible sound.
Down the hillside, on the porch of the Third Herb Shed, Kaelen shifted on his hammock.
He listened to the faint, distant thud of a body hitting a flowerbed, followed by profound, unbroken silence.
Beautiful, Kaelen thought peacefully, adjusting his straw hat. Not even a rooster.
The morning passed without a single interruption.
No clan stewards arrived with summons.
No noisy disciples marched past the outer fence.
The seven sect elders guarded the perimeter like invisible gargoyles, silencing stray dogs, shushing delivery wagons, and intercepting anyone who dared speak above a whisper.
Inside the shed’s back kitchen, Old Barnaby wiped sweat from his wrinkled brow.
Ten burlap sacks of dried spirit herbs stood stacked against the stone wall.
Every bundle had been cleaned, inspected, and sorted into wooden trays.
There was frost-grass, wild red-root, white cloud-bark, and crushed angelica.
Barnaby had spent eighteen hours prepping the raw ingredients, his single arm aching from the effort.
He leaned over the rustic iron cauldron sitting on the hearth, inspecting its battered surface with a doubtful frown.
“Ten full sacks of high-density herbs,” Barnaby muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “Thirty pills at once. Even an imperial bronze cauldron would crack under that kind of vapor pressure. How is an old stew-pot supposed to hold the fire?”
He wiped his hands on his hemp apron and walked to the kitchen door.
He peered out toward the hammock on the porch, where Kaelen lay motionless in the autumn shade.
Suddenly, a clear crystal chime rang within Kaelen’s sea of consciousness.
The sound was pure and clear, ringing like an ancient bronze bell submerged in cold mountain water.
The white slate flared with brilliant, golden radiance.
[The Fallow Slate] [120 Hours Abstained -> Multiplier: 121x READY!] [Stage 1 Stacking Cap: 50% Reached] [Stored Cultivation Multiplier: 121x] [Burst Window Available: 60 Minutes]
Kaelen opened his eyes.
The golden light reflected softly in his dark pupils.
One hundred and twenty hours of unbroken indolence had crystallized into absolute power.
One hundred and twenty-one times efficiency.
Kaelen sat up smoothly in the hammock, swinging his legs to the porch floor.
He looked toward the kitchen door, where Old Barnaby stood frozen with a wooden ladle in his hand.
“Old Barnaby,” Kaelen said, his voice quiet in the pristine silence of the valley.
“Boy?” Barnaby stammered, his eyes widening.
“Light the braziers,” Kaelen said. “It is time to cook.”