Kaelen Vance did not flinch under Chief Bailiff Horgan’s cold stare.
He glanced down at his thin linen slippers, then back at the bailiff’s drawn brow.
“Carry me if you like,” Kaelen said mildly. “Your back will give out on the hill, and Father hates paying bonesetters.”
Horgan’s jaw muscles clenched.
“Then walk on your own feet, Third Young Master,” Horgan growled, gesturing toward the trail.
“I will finish my evening meal and bring my heavy wool cloak and a jar of hot tea,” Kaelen countered. “The main hall has no hearth. If I freeze my knees on an empty stomach, I cannot sit upright to absorb Father’s sacred wisdom.”
Old Barnaby stepped forward, clutching his wooden spoon like a dagger.
“The boy is frail,” Barnaby barked at Horgan. “Let him eat his supper and fetch his cloak, or I will report you to the clan elders!”
Horgan frowned, weighing the delay, then stepped back toward the gatepost with an impatient wave of his truncheon.
“My guards will wait outside the fence until the dinner hour ends,” Horgan warned. “If you try to climb out the back window, my men will drag you through the mud.”
Kaelen gave a small, reassuring nod to Mina, who was watching from the doorway with worried eyes.
“Set the supper bowls out in an hour, little sister,” Kaelen murmured as he passed her. “I need to make a small preparation before dinner.”
He strolled casually into his bedroom and pushed the wooden door shut.
The moment the iron latch clicked into place, his relaxed smile vanished.
A two-hour paternal lecture from Derrick Vance was not merely annoying; it was a lethal Dao Biohazard.
Father cannot speak for ten minutes without reciting the Vance founder’s blade formulas, Kaelen thought, lighting a small tallow candle on his desk. If I hear a single couplet of those mnemonics tonight, my passive comprehension will trigger and reset my timer.
By the time he finished supper and walked up the hill at ten o’clock, his slate would sit at one hundred thirty-eight hours of unbroken abstinence.
One stray spark of martial inspiration would reset that one hundred thirty-nine times multiplier back to zero.
He had worked too hard doing nothing to let Derrick ruin it with a speech.
Kaelen took a block of soft, flesh-colored beeswax from an earthen jar beneath his bed.
He pinched off two small lumps and held them over the candle flame until they softened into pliable putty.
Rolling the warm wax between his palms, he molded two smooth, tapered plugs.
After eating a quiet supper of steamed buns on the porch, two more hours ticked onto his slate, bringing his timer to 138h 00m (139x READY). Kaelen returned to his bronze mirror, pulled back his ears, and shoved the wax plugs deep into both ear canals.
He pressed them firmly into place, sealing every gap until the sound of his own breathing became a muffled, distant echo.
The world went stone dead.
No night wind.
No crickets in the bamboo grove.
No creaking floorboards.
He tapped his temple with a fingernail, hearing only a dull, internal vibration like a drum under water.
Kaelen unpinned his dark hair, letting his thick bangs fall down around his neck to completely cover the sides of his head.
To any casual observer, he merely looked like a tired boy with untidy hair.
He blew out the candle, grabbed his wool cloak, and filled a heavy porcelain travel flask with warm red-bean tea from the side table.
Tucking the flask under his arm, he pushed open the bedroom door.
Horgan was waiting on the porch with his arms crossed over his leather cuirass.
Kaelen watched the bailiff’s lips move, but not a single sound registered.
The man appeared to be issuing another stern warning about family discipline.
Kaelen offered a calm, polite smile, patted his warm tea flask, and walked past the guards into the dark courtyard.
Barnaby was shouting something behind them, waving his single fist in the moonlight.
Kaelen simply kept walking, savoring the absolute silence of the mountain night.
***
The Great Ancestral Hall smelled of aged sandalwood, old parchment, and burning mutton fat.
Rows of black lacquered ancestral tablets rose up the northern wall, each inscribed with the gold-leaf names of dead Vance patriarchs.
Heavy banners of indigo silk hung between carved timber pillars, depicting the frost-pine crest of the family.
Derrick Vance stood on the raised platform beneath the central tablet.
His heavy iron-hilted sabre hung from his leather belt, and his dark eyes burned with intense martial pride.
His broad shoulders were pulled back, and his grey-streaked beard was brushed into sharp points.
As Kaelen entered the hall, Derrick turned sharply, planting his boots wide in a standard horse-riding stance.
Chief Bailiff Horgan saluted with a fist to his chest and stepped out of the hall, pulling the heavy timber doors shut behind him.
The heavy iron latch thudded into place, sealing father and son inside.
Kaelen bowed low from the waist, showing flawless decorum.
He walked forward with measured steps, selected a cushioned stool near the front row, and sat down with his posture neat and upright.
He placed his heavy porcelain tea flask beside his knee.
He pulled his wool cloak over his shoulders, keeping his posture straight, his chin lifted, and his gaze fixed attentively on his father’s face.
Derrick began to speak.
Kaelen could see Derrick’s chest swell with breath as his mouth opened wide.
Derrick’s arms swept outward in a broad, theatrical arc.
His head tilted back, his eyebrows drew together, and his lips formed sharp, aggressive shapes.
Kaelen heard absolutely nothing.
It was the most peaceful experience he had enjoyed all week.
Look at him go, Kaelen thought with deep affection. Veins popping in his neck, spit flying through the air, and not a single dangerous word reaching my eardrums. This is true family harmony.
Derrick took two heavy strides to the left, turned on his heel, and pointed an index finger straight at the ancestral tablets.
His mouth moved rapidly, forming the distinct rhythms of an ancient martial poem.
Judging by the sweeping arm gesture that followed, Derrick was reciting the seventh stanza of the Iron-Willow Sabre manual.
That specific stanza was notorious for its dense descriptions of wind resistance and shoulder alignment.
If Kaelen had heard even four words of it, his brain would have automatically deduced the underlying blade intent, ruining his cultivation streak forever.
Instead, Kaelen waited for Derrick to pause and glare down at him.
Counting the time in his head, Kaelen nodded solemnly every three minutes whenever Derrick’s chest heaved for air.
He allowed a solemn, reflective expression to wash over his features.
He closed his eyes for three seconds, as if Derrick’s words were cutting straight into the marrow of his soul.
Then he opened his eyes, picked up his tea flask, and took a polite sip of warm red-bean tea.
Derrick seemed thrilled by the response.
His eyes gleamed with fierce paternal triumph.
Derrick resumed his pacing, his hands cutting through the air in sharp horizontal slashes.
With his ears safely plugged, Kaelen had nothing to do but let his mind drift into more productive channels.
He leaned back slightly, keeping his face turned toward Derrick, and began planning his fan-fiction sequel to The Bandit King’s Secret Bride.
In Book Three, Lord Roderick was captured by the imperial constables because he refused to abandon his silver carriage, Kaelen thought, watching Derrick strike an imaginary enemy with his forearm. That was terrible writing. A true nobleman would have abandoned the carriage immediately and bought a donkey cart.
Derrick stomped his boot onto the stone flags, shaking the nearby candle sconces.
Kaelen nodded again, furrowing his brow to mimic deep philosophical contemplation.
If Lord Roderick fled into the southern marshes with the bandit queen, they would need an income, Kaelen continued mentally. They could open a small roadside noodle tavern near the river crossing. Roderick could knead the dough with his soft noble hands while the bandit queen threatened complaining customers with her dual daggers.
Derrick spun around, his coat tails swirling through the sandalwood smoke.
His mouth worked furiously, his expressions alternating between furious condemnation and martial longing.
Roderick would struggle with the firewood at first, Kaelen mused, taking another slow sip of tea. He would complain about soot staining his silk cuffs, and the bandit queen would throw a cabbage at his head. That would build far more character than fighting another rival sect elder.
A whole hour slipped by in pure, undisturbed contemplation.
Derrick showed no signs of slowing down.
In fact, the Baron appeared to be entering the grand climax of his lecture.
He drew his iron sabre from its scabbard with a flourish, holding the cold steel before his face.
He traced the flat of the blade with two fingers, mouthing words of profound ancestral veneration.
Kaelen watched the steel gleam in the candlelight.
He adjusted his sitting posture, keeping his spine straight and his hands resting lightly on his thighs.
Lord Roderick would eventually invent a special dipping sauce made from fermented mountain beans, Kaelen mused, feeling a pleasant warmth spreading through his stomach. The constables would try to arrest him, but the regional magistrate would love the sauce so much he would grant them a permanent pardon. That resolves the entire romance plot without any annoying sword fights.
Derrick was sweating heavily now.
Dark patches of perspiration soaked through the armpits of his fine silk robe.
His face was flushed crimson, and his throat worked like a leather bellows.
Yet every time he looked down at Kaelen, he saw only absolute stillness.
No whining.
No shifting on the cushion.
No bored yawns.
Kaelen sat like an ancient stone monk, his eyes wide and receptive, nodding at every rhythmic cadence of Derrick’s delivery.
Derrick’s chest swelled with immense satisfaction.
For three years, Derrick had considered his third son a hopeless disgrace to the Vance lineage.
He had expected the boy to argue, to complain of cold tea, or to beg for permission to sleep.
Instead, Kaelen was taking the ancestral lecture like a true heir drinking pure spring water after a long drought.
The boy has finally realized his folly, Derrick thought, his heart swelling with paternal vindication. Tomorrow’s public trial terrified him, and my martial wisdom has forged his resolve. Even a dull stone can be sharpened if struck with enough force.
Derrick sheathed his sabre with a firm, resounding click.
He wiped his dripping brow with a silk sleeve and let out a long, wheezing breath.
Inside Kaelen’s mind, a soft golden pulse shifted across his sea of consciousness.
[The Fallow Slate] [Stage 1: Mortal Tally] [Current Stacking Time: 140h 00m] [Active Multiplier: 141x READY]
One hundred forty hours, Kaelen noted cheerfully behind his impassive gaze. Two full hours of Father screaming at the walls, and I banked every single second without doing a stroke of work.
Derrick stood tall, resting his hand upon the pommel of his sheathed sword.
His mouth moved slowly, delivering what appeared to be a final, dignified benediction.
He gestured toward the high doors with a curt nod of his head.
Kaelen recognized the dismissal immediately.
He placed the lid on his tea flask, stood up smoothly, and bowed with the utmost solemnity.
He maintained a look of profound, humbled gratitude all the way to the threshold.
Derrick watched him go, nodding to himself with deep, self-satisfied pride.
***
Kaelen pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped out into the cool night air.
He walked several yards down the quiet flagstone terrace, well away from the guards stationed near the hall.
Reaching up under his long bangs, he dug his fingernails into the edges of the soft wax plugs.
With two gentle tugs, he popped the beeswax from his ear canals.
The night instantly roared to life.
The wind hissed softly through the pine needles above.
A garden frog croaked from the edge of the carp pond.
In the distance, the faint clinking of sentry armor echoed across the outer walls.
“My ears are slightly greasy,” Kaelen muttered, wiping his fingers against a scrap of cloth. “Still, a bit of wax is far cheaper than losing one hundred forty hours of multiplier.”
He rolled the plugs into a neat little ball and tucked them into his sleeve pocket.
He stretched his arms, rolled his stiff neck, and took a deep breath of fresh mountain air.
A sudden flash of light caught his attention.
High above the manor, on the eastern watchtower roof, a faint hiss cut through the darkness.
Kaelen stepped into the shadow of a stone pavilion and looked up.
Silhouetted on the watchtower roof against the starry sky stood Madam Evelyn Vance.
She wore a dark travel cloak, her hood pulled low over her brow.
She held a bronze signal tube in her gloved hands.
With a soft, muffled pop, a streak of crimson fire shot into the midnight sky.
It rose hundreds of feet into the air, bursting into a sharp green spark that drifted toward the north.
Before the first spark faded, she fired a second tube.
Then a third.
Three crimson-green flares arched high over the valley, casting eerie, flickering light across the tiled roofs before disappearing behind the jagged silhouettes of the Black-Pine Mountains.
Kaelen stood in the darkness below, watching the smoke trail dissolve into the clouds.
Those were not provincial distress flares.
Those were coded military signals, aimed straight at the lawless peaks where mountain bandits made their dens.
A faint, cold smile touched Kaelen’s lips.
“Evelyn is getting impatient,” Kaelen whispered to the night wind. “She wants to make sure tomorrow’s duel has an audience.”