The hemp ropes of the hammock swayed gently as the last traces of twilight faded behind the jagged ridge.
A cool mountain breeze rustled the dried bundles of winter-mint hanging from the shed eaves.
Behind Kaelen’s closed lids, the freshly reset tally ticked past its second minute of rest.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 00h 02m] [Active Multiplier: 01x]
Two minutes of pure, uninterrupted loafing already banked, Kaelen reflected pleasantly. If the clan elders knew how much spiritual wealth comes from doing nothing, they’d tear down their ancestral training halls and install sleeping mats.
Old Barnaby stepped out of the kitchen with a Nine-Cauldron Guild catalog tucked beneath his stubby arm and dropped a copper kettle onto the porch brazier.
The old man blew on the charcoal, sending a shower of orange sparks across the boards.
“Browse for a bronze cauldron, you say,” Barnaby grunted, shaking his shaggy grey head. “Yet you just handed twenty-five flawless pills to that greasy weasel without even asking for an advance deposit.”
“Deacon Vane knows the rules,” Kaelen said, tilting his straw hat down over his nose. “Cheat Master Ash once, and he never smells another batch of zero-poison medicine.”
Mina stepped out through the kitchen doorway carrying two steaming wooden cups of red-bean tea.
She set one cup on the small stool beside Kaelen’s hammock and handed the second to Barnaby.
“Brother needs his rest,” Mina told the old man firmly. “He’s been refining pills and working all afternoon.”
Technically, I stirred a soup pot for five minutes and sat on a cushion for thirty, Kaelen thought fondly. Mina’s loyalty really is the greatest shield against manual labor.
“Working,” Barnaby scoffed, though his voice lacked any real bite as he took the tea. “He swung a wooden spoon and took a nap.”
“The tea is hot,” Mina said, ignoring the complaint completely. “Drink it before the mountain chill sets in.”
Kaelen closed his eyes beneath the rim of his straw hat and let the soft sounds of the forest wash over him.
The tally on the Fallow Slate ticked steadily upward through the night and all through the following day.
By the time evening shadows draped the ridge again, a full twenty-four hours of unbroken rest had settled into his bones.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 24h 00m] [Active Multiplier: 25x READY]
***
Six miles down the mountain, beneath Old Ashford’s crumbling foundation stones, the Black-Crow Ghost Market was awake.
Torches soaked in monster-fat sputtered along the damp granite walls.
The smell of bitter herb dregs and wet iron hung thick in the warm air.
Hundreds of cultivators packed the central auction amphitheater.
They sat shoulder to shoulder, their cloaks pulled tight.
Most looked exhausted, their skin sallow from weeks of poor medicine.
Ever since Magistrate Vane-Locke’s new tax drove out the independent apothecaries, his yamen stalls had flooded the district with Standard-Grade pills carrying a brutal twenty-five percent load of raw Pill-Poison.
In the third row, an independent hunter rubbed his swollen forearm with a quiet curse.
Dark purple lines snaked beneath his skin, choking the flow of his meridians.
“Three more of those yamen blood pills, and my arm will wither,” the hunter muttered. “The magistrate calls it a tax, but it feels like slow murder.”
“Keep quiet,” his partner hissed. “The town guards have spies everywhere.”
A sharp brass chime rang out from the raised stone dais.
The crowd fell silent as the heavy velvet curtains parted.
Deacon Vane stepped onto the stage with an exaggerated swagger, silk robes rustling.
He held an ornate folding fan and gestured toward two heavy wooden cases resting on the central pedestal.
“Honored daoists and wandering masters,” Deacon Vane began, his voice echoing cleanly. “Tonight, the Ghost Market offers no ordinary scraps.”
He flicked his wrist, popping the brass latches, and lifted the lids.
Twenty-five pale jade spheres rested in neat velvet recesses, glowing with soft, milky luminescence.
Delicate patterns of natural silver cloud-mist coiled across their glassy surfaces.
The crisp fragrance of wild pine rolled across the pavilion.
Every cultivator who breathed the scent felt the dull ache in their meridians lessen slightly.
“Cloud veins,” an elder from the Iron-River Clan rasped, gripping his walking staff. “Real cloud veins.”
“Twenty-five Cloud-Veined Supreme Pills,” Deacon Vane announced proudly. “Crafted by the reclusive grandmaster, Master Ash. Tested on three mercury balances. Pill-Poison content is zero percent.”
A harsh wave of muttering swept through the benches.
“Zero percent?” someone shouted from the back. “Even Three-Ringed pills carry five percent poison!”
“Master Ash does not deal in compromises,” Deacon Vane said smoothly. “These pills cleanse existing grime and unblock stubborn bottlenecks. We will auction them in lots of five.”
He struck the bronze gong with his wooden gavel.
“Lot one,” Vane declared. “Five pills. Bidding starts at forty Low-Grade Spirit Stones!”
“Fifty stones!” the Iron-River elder roared, waving a leather pouch.
“Fifty-five!” shouted a caravan master.
“Sixty-five!”
The price climbed with savage speed as cultivators threw their savings into the air.
In less than three minutes, the first five pills sold for sixty-eight spirit stones—nearly fourteen stones per pill.
Deacon Vane struck his gavel down with pure mercantile joy.
“Sold to the western caravan master for sixty-eight stones!”
Up in the shadowed private balconies overlooking the stage, a burly man sat in the dark behind a woven reed screen.
He wore the plain grey tunic of a merchant steward, but his posture was rigid and his jaw was clenched like an iron vice.
It was Steward Meng, the chief financial administrator of the Ashford Yamen.
Beneath his loose grey sleeves, Meng held a thick drawstring bag woven from gold-threaded silk.
Inside the bag were several hundred Low-Grade Spirit Stones, freshly gathered from the town’s monthly commercial tax levy.
Meng took a slow, painful breath through his nose.
His master, Magistrate Vane-Locke, had reached the bottleneck of the early Iron Bone realm two months ago.
To force a breakthrough, Vane-Locke had consumed dozens of official yamen pills, only to have his bones ache with creeping mercury poison whenever the weather turned damp.
The magistrate could not afford another speck of toxic slag in his marrow.
He needed clean medicine, and he needed it tonight.
If I return to the yamen without these pills, the magistrate will skin my legs, Meng thought, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool cave air.
Down on the stage, Deacon Vane raised his gavel again.
“Lot three and lot four will be combined by special request,” Vane announced with a sly grin. “Ten Cloud-Veined Supreme Pills in a single grand parcel! Bidding opens at eighty spirit stones!”
“Ninety!” a mercenary captain barked.
“One hundred!” the Iron-River elder countered, coughing hard into his sleeve.
“One hundred and ten!” shouted a merchant from the eastern lake.
Steward Meng leaned over the railing of his balcony.
“One hundred and forty Low-Grade Spirit Stones,” Meng called out in a low, flat voice that cut through the noise of the floor.
The hall fell dead silent for two full breaths.
Cultivators turned in their seats to stare up at the shadowed booth.
One hundred and forty stones was enough to purchase a small manor house or equip an entire platoon of town guards with iron breastplates.
The Iron-River elder opened his mouth, looked at his trembling, blackened hand, and slowly sank back into his seat with a hollow sigh.
Deacon Vane tapped his ivory fan against his palm, his sharp eyes lingering on the grey-clad figure behind the screen.
Vane recognized the yamen steward’s voice immediately.
A wide, predatory smile spread across the appraiser’s thin face.
“One hundred and forty stones from the upper pavilion,” Vane sang out cheerfully. “Going once. Going twice. Sold!”
The gavel slammed down against the bronze plate with a ringing crack.
Behind the screen, Steward Meng exhaled a shuddering breath and clutched his chest.
He had secured the medicine, but the price had carved a massive hole into the yamen’s emergency treasury.
The magistrate’s own extortion silver had just been handed directly over to the mysterious alchemist who was ruining his monopoly.
By the time the final lot was struck, all twenty-five pills had been cleared from the velvet cases.
The entire auction had generated three hundred and fifty Low-Grade Spirit Stones in less than two hours.
Deacon Vane stood on the stage, bowing to the crowd with theatrical modesty while his guards carried the heavy payment trunks into the back vault.
***
Back at the Third Herb Shed, the morning sun climbed slowly over the eastern pine forest.
The crisp autumn light turned the dew on the grass into thousands of glittering diamonds.
Kaelen lay quietly in his hammock, staring up at the slate floating before his eyes.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 28h 00m] [Active Multiplier: 29x READY] [Stage 1 Vessel Cap: 240h (241x)]
A full day and four hours had slipped by without him having to lift a finger, swing a blade, or utter a single cultivation chant.
The multiplier was sitting comfortably at twenty-nine times speed.
Twenty-eight hours of total non-action, Kaelen thought with deep satisfaction. My meridians are quiet, my mind is clear, and I haven’t had to endure a single lecture from Father about family duty.
The wooden porch creaked under heavy, fast footsteps.
Deacon Vane came rushing up the gravel path, his robes dusty and his hair disheveled from a hard ride on a mountain mule.
Two burly market guards followed behind him, sweating under the weight of a reinforced iron-banded chest.
Sera Thorne stepped out from the shadow of the woodpile, her iron spear dropping smoothly to bar their way.
“Halt,” Sera said coolly, her sharp eyes scanning the guards’ hands.
“Easy, Master Spearwoman, easy,” Deacon Vane wheezed, waving his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “We come bearing the fruits of last night’s labor! Master Ash’s glory has shaken the four corners of the valley!”
Kaelen pushed his straw hat back and swung his legs over the edge of the hammock.
“Set the chest down on the porch,” Kaelen said mildly. “And tell your men to wait by the lower garden gate.”
The two guards looked at Vane, who nodded vigorously.
They set the heavy iron chest down with a dull thud that rattled the porch planks, then quickly retreated down the path.
Deacon Vane rubbed his hands together like a child in front of a banquet table.
“Young Master,” Vane whispered, leaning close so his breath did not carry toward the garden. “It was an absolute slaughter. The buyers nearly tore the benches apart. Fourteen stones per pill! Even the yamen’s own dogs were forced to beg for scraps!”
Kaelen reached out and flipped the iron latch of the chest.
The lid swung open.
Inside, three hundred and fifteen Low-Grade Spirit Stones lay packed tightly in neat rows of velvet slots.
The pale azure crystals gave off a soft, humming resonance that made the autumn air around the porch feel warm and crisp.
“Total gross was three hundred and fifty stones,” Deacon Vane reported with proud precision. “After the five percent Ghost Market floor tariff and my five percent brokerage fee—thirty-five stones in total—three hundred and fifteen stones remain. Every single stone has been tested for purity.”
“You did well,” Kaelen said, his fingers lightly brushing the cool, glassy edges of the crystals.
Three hundred and fifteen spirit stones added to my remaining one hundred and ten, Kaelen calculated. That puts my liquid reserve at four hundred and twenty-five Low-Grade Spirit Stones.
For an eighteen-year-old third son who was officially classified as a useless invalid, that was enough wealth to buy half a dozen commercial estates in the lower town.
“Who bought the largest lot?” Kaelen asked casually.
Deacon Vane chuckled, a sly, wicked sound that came from deep in his throat.
“Steward Meng,” Vane whispered, leaning in closer. “The magistrate’s personal lackey! He sat in the top box and dropped one hundred and forty spirit stones from the yamen tax pouch for ten pills. Vane-Locke is so terrified of his own poisoned pills that he paid your asking price with town taxes!”
Old Barnaby walked around the corner of the shed, leaning heavily on a garden shovel.
The old man stared into the open chest, his one good eye bulging as he took in the sheer mass of blue crystal.
“Merciful ancestors,” Barnaby croaked, his jaw dropping open. “Three hundred... boy, did you rob the imperial caravan?”
“No,” Kaelen replied calmly, closing the heavy iron lid with a soft click. “The magistrate’s steward was kind enough to finance our future tea purchases.”
Sera stepped up to the porch, looking down at the chest with a low whistle.
“With this much crystal, you could buy three proper iron cauldrons and hire an entire mercenary company to guard the gate,” she noted.
“We only need one cauldron,” Kaelen said, standing up and dusting his trousers. “Help me carry this beneath the floorboards.”
Sera and Barnaby took the iron handles and dragged the heavy chest into the bedroom, sliding it under the hearthstones next to the smaller lockbox.
When the floorboards were replaced, Deacon Vane lingered by the doorway, his playful swagger suddenly vanishing.
The appraiser pulled a small, folded piece of grey paper from his inner sleeve.
“There is one more matter, Young Master,” Vane said, his voice dropping to a harsh, cautious whisper.
“Speak,” Kaelen said, leaning against the doorframe.
“Steward Meng did not just buy medicine last night,” Vane explained, glancing nervously toward the ridge. “He sent an urgent runner to the yamen the moment the auction ended. Magistrate Vane-Locke was so furious at the loss of his monopoly and the cost of the pills that he smashed his office desk in half.”
Kaelen raised an eyebrow. “Is he sending another squad of inspectors to search our shed?”
“Worse,” Deacon Vane said, handing the grey slip to Kaelen. “He bypassed the inspectors entirely. An hour before dawn, a yamen messenger delivered an iron summons directly to Baron Derrick Vance.”
Kaelen unfolded the paper.
Scrawled upon it was a brief, coded report from Vane’s informants inside the manor.
“The magistrate has ordered your father to attend a private midnight meeting two nights from now,” Vane whispered grimly. “Not at the yamen, and not at the Vance estate. At the abandoned Mountain-God Shrine in the high peaks.”
Kaelen looked up toward the misty, craggy peaks rising behind the herb ridge.
The abandoned shrine had sat desolate for fifty years, a place where no honest official ever conducted business in the light of day.
“A midnight meeting at an empty ruin,” Kaelen murmured softly.
“Whatever Vane-Locke is planning,” Deacon Vane warned, “he is ready to squeeze the Vance House until blood flows.”