Having dropped his dawn declaration, Kaelen had refused to utter another word until Sera had dried off by the kitchen stove and his morning rest had crossed the hundred-hour threshold.
When he finally lifted his straw hat four hours later to outline his daylight break-in, Old Barnaby choked on his mid-morning tea, spraying the brew across the porch planks with a wet cough.
“Rob the ancestral altar?” Barnaby sputtered, his single hand gripping the porch post for balance.
“Boy, that hall has thirty ancestral tablets, five ward formations, and twenty guards posted at the courtyard gates! If Derrick catches you touching the founder’s shrine, he will execute you for treason!”
Kaelen leaned back into his hammock, unbothered by the old man’s sputtering panic.
Behind his brow, the floating white tablet hummed softly as the timer ticked past its milestone.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 100h 02m] [Active Multiplier: 101x READY] [Stage 1 Vessel Cap: 240h (241x)]
One hundred hours of pure, unbroken negligence.
A hundred and one times speed hovered in his veins, waiting like a coiled spring.
“You have one hundred hours stacked, boy,” Barnaby urged, stepping closer with eager eyes. “Cash out now! Take twenty minutes to circulate Qi! With a hundred times speed, you can smash through to Rank 8, strap on a sabre, and storm the manor gates!”
Old Barnaby thinks the answer to every problem is breaking a sweat and breaking bones, Kaelen thought dryly. He doesn’t understand the sacred economics of compounding interest.
“Cash out now?” Kaelen asked, shaking his head gently beneath his straw hat, his voice ice-cold and calm. “And throw away sixty hours of compounding? Not a chance. At one hundred and sixty hours, I’ll advance to Rank 8 and settle Father’s debts in one move.”
“You have a family emergency, you fool!” Barnaby barked.
“Which is why brute force is the worst option,” Kaelen replied smoothly. “If I storm the manor, thirty guards fight back, the noise brings the town watch, and the contract burns in the chaos. But if the hall is completely empty, I can retrieve the scroll without sweating a single drop.”
Mina stepped out onto the porch, carrying a steaming bowl of rice porridge sprinkled with dried wolfberries.
She set the bowl gently on Kaelen’s side table, her brow creased with worry.
“Brother,” Mina whispered softly, “Father keeps two mastiffs chained outside the ancestral courtyard. And Madam Evelyn has her personal maids watching the eastern corridor day and night.”
“The mastiffs sleep when they are fed roast beef,” Kaelen said, smiling faintly. “And Madam Evelyn only cares about two things in this world: her social standing and Cassian’s cultivation.”
He looked toward Sera, who was wringing rainwater from her dark hair near the woodpile.
“We need forty-eight more hours of rest,” Kaelen calculated. “By then, the Slate will sit at one hundred and sixty hours. When the time is right, I will advance to Rank 8 and break Father’s teeth in a single stroke. Until then, we let rumors do the heavy lifting.”
Barnaby rubbed his chin with his single hand, staring at Kaelen with grudging respect.
“Rumors?” Barnaby muttered. “What kind of rumor can drag Derrick Vance out of his own fortress?”
“The kind that promises unlimited power,” Kaelen replied.
An hour later, light footsteps crunched on the gravel outside the gate.
Deacon Vane arrived carrying an umbrella of oiled black paper, his velvet slippers muddy from the morning trail.
The appraiser looked exhausted, having spent the night managing the aftermath of the Ghost Market auction, but his eyes lit up the moment he saw Kaelen.
“Young Master,” Vane greeted, bowing respectfully. “The town is still buzzing about Master Ash. Half the merchant guilds are offering bounties just for the color of his cloak.”
“Good,” Kaelen said, swinging his legs out of the hammock. “Then give them something to chase.”
He gestured for Vane to step onto the covered porch, keeping his voice low and measured.
“I need a rumor planted in the upper tea houses by this evening,” Kaelen instructed. “Tell them Master Ash was seen entering the East Gate herbal stalls. Say he was disguised in a grey traveling cloak, searching for dried fire-lotus seeds and century-old star-anise to brew a new batch of marrow-cleansing medicine.”
Deacon Vane’s thin mustache twitched with instant understanding.
“Baron Derrick and Madam Evelyn are desperate for Master Ash’s favor,” Vane whispered, a sly grin spreading across his face. “First Young Master Cassian has been coughing up black bile ever since your duel. If they think Master Ash is shopping at the East Gate, they will deploy every guard in the estate to hunt him down.”
“Ensure the rumor sounds urgent,” Kaelen added. “Make sure they believe Master Ash will leave Ashford by noon tomorrow.”
“They will tear the East Gate apart,” Vane chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “Derrick Vance has been terrified of the magistrate’s anger since the auction. If he can buy Master Ash’s friendship, he believes he can replace the yamen entirely.”
“Go spread the word,” Kaelen said. “And make sure the spice merchants know to look mysterious when asked about grey cloaks.”
Deacon Vane bowed deeply, his ivory fan tapping his palm.
“Consider it done, Young Master. By dusk, the entire noble quarter will be searching the spice bins.”
***
At noon the next day, just as Kaelen’s fallow streak ticked past one hundred and twenty hours (121x), the midday sun burned bright over the tiled roofs of Ashford.
Down at the East Gate commercial avenue, hundreds of market stalls were thrown into absolute chaos.
Baron Derrick Vance strode down the center of the flagstone street, wearing his crimson formal robes and an iron-plated breastplate.
His hand rested heavily on the hilt of his broadsword, his eyes darting frantically between every merchant booth.
Behind him followed Madam Evelyn, her face pale and sharp, her embroidered silk skirts rustling against the dusty paving stones.
Beside her limped Cassian Vance, his broad torso wrapped in thick linen bandages to support his cracked ribs.
Every time Cassian took a deep breath, he wheezed in agony, but his eyes burned with fanatical hunger.
“Find him!” Derrick bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone shopfronts.
Twenty mounted clan guards forced their horses through the crowded street, knocking over crates of dried peppers and scattering frightened pedestrians.
“Search every spice warehouse!” Evelyn commanded sharply, her voice cutting through the panic. “The master must be here! If he leaves for the provincial capital, Cassian will never purge the poison from his marrow!”
Cassian grabbed a terrified spice merchant by the collar with trembling hands.
“Where is the grey cloak?” Cassian hissed, spit flying from his lips. “Who bought the fire-lotus seeds?”
“No one, My Lord!” the merchant stammered in terror. “A wandering peddler bought two ounces of dried fennel an hour ago, but he was eighty years old and walked with a crutch!”
Derrick slammed his fist against a wooden post, splintering the timber.
“Keep searching!” Derrick roared. “Seal the city gates! No one leaves until every merchant is questioned!”
***
While the Vance clan leadership tore the East Gate to shreds, the northern noble quarter of Ashford was as quiet as a graveyard.
At the Vance Manor, the heavy iron gates stood slightly ajar.
The courtyard was deserted.
The guard barracks were empty, their weapon racks stripped of iron spears and cross-bows.
A small wooden side-gate in the northern garden wall clicked open with a faint groan.
Kaelen Vance walked through the archway, his hands tucked comfortably into the wide sleeves of his plain linen robe.
Beside him walked Mina, carrying a small woven basket filled with white incense sticks and red wax candles.
Behind them, Sera Thorne glided with silent, measured steps, her iron spear held low against her thigh.
As Kaelen strolled across the flagstones, the Fallow Slate gleamed quietly in his mind.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 122h 10m] [Active Multiplier: 123x READY] [Stage 1 Vessel Cap: 240h (241x)]
A hundred and twenty-two hours of total, unblemished rest.
His multiplier sat at one hundred and twenty-three times speed.
His breathing was smooth and deep, every meridian in his chest resting in diamond-hard tranquility.
Father spent twenty years drilling guards and building watchtowers, Kaelen reflected pleasantly as they crossed the quiet garden path. Yet a single sentence whispered over cheap tea emptied his fortress faster than an invading army.
Mina looked around the deserted rose gardens, her small hand clutching her basket tightly.
“I have not walked through this courtyard in three years,” Mina whispered softly. “Madam Evelyn always had the servants lock the garden gates whenever we left the shed.”
“Madam Evelyn is currently turning over burlap bags of cumin at the East Gate,” Kaelen said dryly. “She does not have time to lock gates today.”
They crossed the arched stone bridge spanning the ornamental carp pond.
At the far end of the garden stood the imposing black roof of the Ancestral Tablet Hall.
The building was constructed from massive grey granite blocks and dark ironwood pillars, radiating the cold, solemn dignity of a two-hundred-year-old martial clan.
As they approached the broad stone steps, Kaelen reached into his pocket and pulled out a long strip of folded black silk.
He raised the cloth to his face, wrapping it tightly around his eyes and tying the knot behind his head.
Sera stopped on the bridge, staring at him with open disbelief.
“What are you doing?” Sera asked, her brow furrowing. “You are breaking into the most heavily fortified hall in the estate, and you are blinding yourself?”
“Safety precautions,” Kaelen explained in a muffled, calm voice from behind the black silk.
“Safety precautions?” Sera repeated, her voice dripping with skepticism. “How is stumbling around in the dark a safety precaution?”
“The walls of the Ancestral Hall are carved with the founding patriarch’s Nine-Frost Sword Mantras,” Kaelen replied patiently. “If I look at those carvings, my comprehension will involuntarily decipher the sword intent in three breaths. Mastering an ancient sword art would count as active martial training and ruin my multiplier streak.”
People spend thirty years begging for enlightenment, Kaelen reflected with profound weariness. They don’t realize how exhausting it is when your brain accidentally masters a grandmaster technique while you’re just trying to mind your own business.
Sera stared at him for five seconds, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to process the sheer absurdity of the statement.
“You are worried your brain will accidentally learn sword arts,” Sera said flatly.
“Exactly,” Kaelen said, nodding with complete sincerity. “Mina, take my sleeve. Lead me up the stairs.”
Mina smiled softly, taking her brother’s linen sleeve with both hands.
“Step up,” Mina whispered, guiding him toward the carved limestone steps. “There are three stone stairs here, Brother.”
Kaelen lifted his feet smoothly, letting his sister guide him past the pair of stone guardian lions flanking the entrance.
The heavy bronze doors of the Ancestral Tablet Hall were unlocked, left slightly ajar by the hurried departure of the household elders.
Mina pushed the doors open, and a wave of cool, dry air rushed out to meet them.
The interior of the great hall smelled of aged cypress wood, cold stone, and decades of burned sandalwood incense.
Tiered stone altars rose along the northern wall, holding dozens of dark ironwood tablets inscribed with gold-leaf calligraphy.
Each tablet commemorated a deceased lord or hero of the Vance bloodline.
Sera stepped inside, her sharp eyes scanning the rafters and corner alcoves for hidden watchmen or tripwires.
Finding the hall completely deserted, she gently pulled the heavy bronze doors closed behind them, dropping the heavy wooden bar into its iron brackets.
“The hall is secure,” Sera reported in a low, tense whisper. “We have twenty minutes before Derrick realizes the East Gate rumor was hollow.”
Kaelen stood in the center of the flagstones, pitch-black darkness surrounding him behind the silk blindfold.
He took a slow, measured breath through his nose, using the subtle echoes of the cavernous room to map the space.
“The third founder’s altar,” Kaelen said calmly. “Lead me to the left wing.”
Mina guided him across the granite floor to the raised tier of Lord Cedric Vance, the third patriarch. Then she hurried back to keep watch beside Sera at the bronze doors.
His dark wooden tablet rested upon a pedestal of carved black marble.
Kaelen reached out with both hands, his fingers lightly brushing the cold stone base.
He did not use divine sense.
He did not channel a single wisp of internal Qi.
Using only the mundane, natural sensitivity of his fingertips, Kaelen traced the intricate geometric patterns carved into the dark stone behind the tablet.
His thumb slid over a subtle seam in the polished marble.
Right along the recessed groove, hidden beneath dried candle wax and soot, a mechanical spring linkage ran from behind the third founder’s tablet to a small bronze incense burner.
Kaelen paused, his mundane fingertips resting lightly against the hidden bronze mechanism.