With a gentle, practiced twitch of his wrist, Kaelen rotated the soot-stained censer a quarter-turn to the left.
A faint metallic click echoed inside the hollow cavity of the stone pedestal.
Behind the third patriarch’s memorial plaque, a square panel slid backward with a muffled scrape, exposing a velvet-lined alcove within the ancient masonry.
“The compartment opened,” Sera whispered, leaving Mina to watch the door slit as she stepped forward to the altar step.
“Don’t let me see inside,” Kaelen reminded her calmly from behind his black silk blindfold. “If there are runic diagrams in there, my brain will translate them into a martial strike before I can blink. Reach in and take whatever Father hid.”
Blindly robbing my own family altar while standing on the founder’s bones, Kaelen thought with dry satisfaction. If Father ever discovers this, he will probably suffer a meridian rupture without me having to throw a single punch.
Sera reached her calloused fingers into the narrow stone recess.
Her knuckles brushed soft fabric and smooth, oiled leather.
She pulled out two items: a thick scroll bound in grey ox-hide, and a slender roll of black silk tied with a braided blood-red cord.
The black silk was stamped with the deep crimson wax seal of the Ashford Yamen.
Right beside the magistrate’s official emblem rested a dark, smeary thumbprint of dried human blood.
“The manual is here,” Sera said, her voice tight as she weighed the ox-hide roll in her left hand. “The Tier 2 Iron-Bone Tempering Manual. It only contains the first half of the manual—the foundation breathing and bone-hardening formulas.”
“And the silk scroll?” Kaelen asked, his hands resting lightly on the altar edge.
Sera broke the red cord with her thumbnail and unrolled the black silk.
The characters were written in heavy, official court script with cinnabar ink.
Mina stood beside Kaelen’s elbow, her eyes widening as she tried to read the dense calligraphy.
“Read it aloud, Sera,” Kaelen instructed softly. “Skip the martial cultivation formulas. Just read the legal covenants.”
Sera took a slow breath, her grey eyes darting across the brushstrokes.
As she read, the color steadily drained from her cheeks, leaving her skin as pale as chalk.
“By blood-seal of Baron Derrick Vance and Magistrate Vane-Locke,” Sera read, her voice shaking with barely contained rage. “The Vance House confirms the continuous administration of Cold-Marrow Root to the third daughter, Mina Vance, across thirty-six consecutive lunar cycles.”
Mina froze.
Her small fingers, which had been holding Kaelen’s sleeve, tightened until the linen fabric strained.
“The daily herbal broth,” Sera continued in a harsh rasp, “was brewed by First Madam Evelyn Vance to repress the girl’s internal fire and condense her Frost-Marrow Decay into pure Yin-Marrow.”
A tear slipped from Mina’s lashes, rolling silently down her cheek.
“On the night of the full moon in the tenth month,” Sera read, her knuckles turning white against the silk, “Baron Derrick Vance shall deliver the subject to the yamen lower sanctuary. Magistrate Vane-Locke shall execute the marrow-severing ritual to purge his mercury bone toxicity and attain Iron Bone Middle Stage.”
Sera paused, her breathing ragged and sharp in the cavernous, quiet hall.
“In consideration thereof,” Sera finished, “Magistrate Vane-Locke delivers the complete Iron-Bone Tempering Manual to Derrick Vance, guaranteeing the appointment of Derrick Vance as Chief District Overseer.”
Silence fell over the Ancestral Tablet Hall.
The smell of aged sandalwood suddenly seemed suffocating and rotten.
Mina buried her face against Kaelen’s ribs, her small body trembling with quiet, gasping sobs that broke the stillness.
“Three years,” Mina choked, her voice muffled against his linen robe. “Every morning... Madam Evelyn brought me that bitter soup with a smile. She told me it was medicine to keep me alive. And Father stood by the door and told me to drink every drop.”
Kaelen did not speak for several long seconds.
He placed his right hand gently atop Mina’s dark hair, his fingers warm and steady.
Behind the black silk blindfold, his face was completely motionless, but the air around his shoulders dropped by ten degrees.
Father watched his twelve-year-old daughter wither in bed for thirty-six months, Kaelen thought, his inner voice turning into flat, razor-sharp iron. He watched her cough up frost-spit every winter just so he could trade her marrow for a promotion and a manual. Some debts cannot be settled in silver.
“We have the proof,” Sera said, her voice thick with venom. “If we show this scroll to the clan elders and the provincial inspectorate, Derrick will be stripped of his title and chained to the city wall.”
“Not yet,” Kaelen replied in a low, level tone. “An official complaint requires court hearings, magistrates, and months of legal maneuvering. Vane-Locke controls the town guards. If we wave this paper now, he will burn the shed down before noon tomorrow.”
“Then what do we do?” Sera asked, rolling the black silk back into a tight cylinder.
“We keep the evidence safe,” Kaelen said calmly. “And we make sure Derrick doesn’t realize his treasure is gone.”
He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a stiff sheet of brown parchment.
It was an old, discarded timber receipt from the lower lumber yard, folded several times.
With swift, deft movements of his fingers, Kaelen creased the rough paper along diagonal lines.
Within ten seconds, the flat parchment transformed into a three-dimensional, neatly folded paper turtle with four stubby legs and a pointed shell.
He reached into his coin pouch and took out a heavy lead fishing weight.
He slipped the lead weight inside the hollow belly of the paper turtle, testing its heft on his palm.
“What is that?” Sera asked, staring at the folded paper creature in disbelief.
“A turtle,” Kaelen said mildly. “It weighs four ounces, exactly the same as Derrick’s blood-pact scroll. Put it inside the alcove.”
Sera looked from the paper turtle to Kaelen’s blindfolded face, a faint, incredulous smirk twitching at the corner of her lips despite the grim situation.
“You are replacing your father’s treasonous blood-pact with an origami turtle?” Sera whispered.
“Father appreciates discipline and traditional symbolism,” Kaelen replied smoothly. “A turtle represents long life and steady cultivation. When he reaches into the dark to check his secret, he will feel something heavy and dense. It will buy us several days of quiet.”
Sera took the weighted paper turtle and placed it carefully into the velvet-lined alcove.
She tucked the black-silk blood-pact and the ox-hide manual securely into her inner tunic.
Kaelen reached out and twisted the bronze burner back to its original position.
The marble panel slid forward with a soft, smooth click, sealing the seam completely.
To any casual glance, the altar of Lord Cedric Vance looked undisturbed, coated in decades of untouched dust and dried candle wax.
“Mina,” Kaelen said softly, gently squeezing his sister’s hand. “Lead me outside.”
Mina wiped her tears with the hem of her sleeve, nodding bravely.
“Yes, Brother.”
She took his sleeve again, guiding him past the tiered ancestor tablets and out through the heavy bronze doors.
Sera unbarred the doors, slipped through first to check the courtyard, and gave two soft whistles.
They crossed the stone bridge and slipped through the northern garden side-gate without encountering a single soul.
Only after they were three hundred yards past the manor boundary wall, deep in the shadow of the pine groves, did Kaelen reach up and untie the black silk from his eyes.
He blinked against the bright afternoon daylight, taking a deep, refreshing breath of mountain air.
Behind his eyes, the white Fallow Slate glowed with pristine, unbroken clarity.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Stacking Time: 128h 15m] [Active Multiplier: 129x READY] [Stage 1 Vessel Cap: 240h (241x)]
One hundred and twenty-eight hours of total non-action.
His multiplier had reached one hundred and twenty-nine times speed.
He had infiltrated the clan’s core sanctuary, stolen the Baron’s most dangerous secret, and comforted his sister—all without casting a single spell, flexing a single meridian, or breaking his fallow streak.
One hundred and twenty-eight hours stacked, Kaelen noted with cold satisfaction as they climbed the gravel ridge toward the herb shed. Derrick thinks he’s two weeks away from becoming an Iron Bone master. He doesn’t know his grave is already dug.
They reached the Third Herb Shed just as the sun began to cast long orange rays through the pine branches.
Old Barnaby stood on the porch, his wooden ladle raised like a club, his single eye darting between the bushes.
When he saw the three of them walk through the gate unharmed, the old man dropped the ladle onto the bench with a heavy gasp.
“You got it?” Barnaby demanded, rushing down the steps.
Sera pulled the black-silk scroll from her tunic and held it up.
Barnaby snatched the scroll, reading the red wax seal with a trembling eye.
“Ancestors preserve us,” Barnaby rasped, his voice thick with fury. “The swine... the cowardly swine actually sold his own blood!”
The old man spat heavily into the weeds, his knuckles white against the silk.
Mina walked over to the wooden rain barrel beside the porch steps.
She dipped a copper basin into the cold mountain water, washing her hands and wrists over and over.
She scrubbed her skin until it turned pink, trying to wash away three years of bitter memory.
Kaelen reached into his sleeve, pulling out a small dried honey-pear wrapped in paper.
He placed the sweet fruit into Mina’s wet hands.
“The bitter soup is finished, Mina,” Kaelen said gently. “From now on, you only eat what we brew here.”
Mina looked up, clutching the sweet fruit against her chest, and gave a small, watery nod.
“Put the scroll in the ironwood lockbox under the hearthstones,” Kaelen instructed Barnaby, stepping onto the porch and easing his back into the hammock. “Next to the spirit stones. We will bring it out when the harvest moon rises.”
Barnaby nodded grimly, carrying the evidence inside the bedroom with quiet, heavy steps.
Kaelen pulled his straw hat down over his eyes, crossing his ankles as the hammock swayed gently in the evening breeze.
***
Two miles away, down at the Vance Manor, the heavy gates groaned as Derrick Vance rode into the courtyard.
His black stallion was lathered in white sweat, its flanks heaving from hours of hard galloping.
Derrick swung down from the saddle, his crimson formal robes drenched in grey dust and horse hair.
Behind him, Madam Evelyn stepped down from her carriage, her expensive silk gown torn at the hem and her powdered face smeared with dirt.
Cassian limped behind them, clutching his heavily bandaged ribs and wheezing with every step.
They had spent four straight hours tearing the East Gate spice market apart, overturning barrels and interrogating eighty different merchants.
They had found zero trace of Master Ash.
“A trick,” Derrick snarled, slamming his riding crop against his leather thigh as he marched into the great hall. “Some rival merchant planted a false rumor to disrupt the trade traffic! We wasted half a day chasing a ghost while the entire town laughed at us!”
“Cassian’s chest is burning,” Evelyn complained bitterly, collapsing onto an ebony armchair. “The town apothecary said his ribs need three more weeks of rest. If we do not secure clean medicine soon, his foundation will be crippled forever!”
Before Derrick could reply, heavy iron-plated boots echoed across the outer courtyard.
A yamen messenger wearing black lacquered armor and a silver courier badge marched through the archway.
The soldier carried a heavy wooden scroll-case wrapped in gold-braided silk, bearing the official seal of the Magistrate’s Court.
“Baron Derrick Vance!” the courier announced in a loud, formal tone that echoed through the high hall.
Derrick stiffened, wiping sweat from his forehead as he turned toward the messenger.
“Speak,” Derrick ordered, his voice tense.
The courier snapped the brass latches of the scroll-case and drew out an ornate scarlet challenge scroll stamped with the furnace emblem of the Nine-Cauldron Guild.
“An official proclamation from Magistrate Vane-Locke and Court Alchemist Morvath!” the courier declared.
Derrick’s eyes narrowed. “Morvath? The magistrate’s chief alchemist?”
“Unauthorized medicines are circulating through our border markets,” the courier proclaimed, reading from the scarlet silk.
“Court Alchemist Morvath formally challenges the Third Herb Shed to a public seventy-two-hour Barony Alchemy Duel in Ashford Square.”
Derrick took a sharp, rattling breath.
“Seventy-two hours?” Derrick repeated, his voice cracking.
“Seventy-two continuous hours of open-air refinement,” the courier confirmed with a cold, formal bow. “The stakes are absolute: the loser surrenders their provincial apothecary license, forfeits all clan herb harvesting rights, and bows before the victor in chains.”