Sera Thorne hoisted the heavy pine crate of signal flare tubes onto her shoulder.
She carried the crate toward the rear drying shed without another word.
Barnaby Holt wiped his grease-stained fingers on his leather apron.
He pulled a soft brass wrench from his tool belt and stepped to the doorway to fetch a jar of cobalt salts from the front shelf.
“Cobalt salts and paraffin wax,” Barnaby muttered under his breath. “The blue burn will look just like regular hunting flares from a distance.”
Kaelen Vance did not follow Sera toward the rear worktable.
Instead, he reached into his sleeve and pulled out a rolled parchment tied with crimson silk ribbon.
It was the forfeited yamen apothecary permit transferred to the shed after Court Alchemist Morvath’s defeat.
The heavy red wax seal of the Ashford Magistrate gleamed under the porch lantern.
Kaelen held the scroll out to Barnaby before the old alchemist could head to the back.
“Take a hammer and nail this to the front post,” Kaelen said.
Barnaby took the parchment with his single weathered hand.
“The front post?” Barnaby asked. “Our gilded license is already above the counter. Most shops would frame this yamen permit behind glass.”
“A rusty nail works just as well,” Kaelen said. “If customers ask for Master Ash, tell them he is busy in deep seclusion.”
“And if they ask where you are?” Barnaby asked.
“Tell them I died of exhaustion,” Kaelen said. “Then hand them a price list.”
Kaelen kicked off his cloth sandals and walked into the back corner of the shed.
He unrolled his woven hemp hammock between two thick cedar support beams.
He set a fresh clay kettle on the charcoal brazier to steep dried chamomile flowers.
From his pocket, he pulled out a dog-eared romance pamphlet titled The Bandit King’s Secret Bride: Book Three.
He climbed into the hammock, folded his arms behind his head, and let out a long sigh.
A faint shimmer of blue light flickered across his vision.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Streak: 4 Hours 00 Minutes] [Active Multiplier: 5x READY]
Four hours down, Kaelen thought, feeling the gentle hum of the slate inside his mind. The duel is over, Morvath is in bed with a fever, and Derrick Vance is too terrified of my non-existent master to bother me. If I lie here for the next day and a half, the multiplier will climb past thirty-five times.
Over the next thirty-two hours, the Third Herb Shed transformed into the busiest shop in Ashford.
Word of the yamen duel had spread through the alleys like wildfire.
Every martial cultivator in the eastern district wanted medicine from the shop that broke Court Alchemist Morvath.
Barnaby stood behind the wooden counter from dawn until dusk.
His one arm moved with fluid speed, weighing out dried roots and sliding ceramic jars across the polished wood.
He did not sell the Supreme Pills to ordinary foot traffic.
Instead, Barnaby sold the Three-Ringed Spirit-Marrow Pills, Blood-Staunching Pills, and Marrow-Warming Pills that Kaelen had refined.
Each pill boasted ninety-five percent purity with barely five percent Pill-Poison.
In Ashford, common shops sold Crack-Grade medicine that was fifty percent toxic sludge.
Even the high-end trading houses only stocked Standard-Grade pills with twenty-five percent poison.
The town guards, mercenary captains, and caravan scouts bought every Three-Ringed pill Barnaby placed on the counter.
Silver coins clinked steadily into Barnaby’s separate shop register. He kept those retail takings against herb, fuel, and household bills; they were not silently added to Kaelen’s counted spirit-stone investment reserve. Each sale and supply payment went on the shop counterfoil, distinct from Sera’s still-open night-watch payable.
Meanwhile, a quieter trade took place behind the shed.
Late on the second evening, Deacon Vane slipped through the back alley, his silk slippers making no sound on the gravel.
The weasel-faced appraiser carried a heavy velvet sack under his cloak.
He tapped three times on the wooden windowsill near Kaelen’s hammock.
Kaelen opened one eye without shifting his legs.
“Speak quietly, Deacon,” Kaelen said. “You are rustling the chamomile leaves.”
Deacon Vane offered a greasy, obsequious bow.
“Master Ash’s divine medicine has taken the Ghost Market by storm,” Vane whispered.
He set the velvet sack gently on the windowsill.
The sack clinked with the dense, unmistakable weight of spiritual crystal.
“Ten Cloud-Veined Supreme Pills were auctioned last night,” Vane said, his voice trembling with genuine awe. “Not a single pill sold for less than fifteen Low-Grade Spirit Stones.”
Kaelen glanced at the sack.
“Did anyone ask where they came from?” Kaelen asked.
“Three different clan elders tried to corner me in the alley,” Vane chuckled smoothly. “I told them Master Ash lives in a mountain cave and eats lightning for breakfast. They swallowed every word.”
Vane wiped a drop of sweat from his narrow chin.
“The regional demand is immense, young master,” Vane added. “We can easily clear fifteen Low-Grade Spirit Stones every single day without depressing the market price.”
“Good,” Kaelen said. “Leave the stones on the sill.”
Vane bowed his way out into the dark.
Kaelen glanced down at the velvet sack.
One hundred and fifty Low-Grade Spirit Stones lay inside, glowing with pale azure light.
Added to his two hundred and fifty-five stones in the lockbox, his liquid wealth stood at four hundred and five spirit stones, with twenty-eight Supreme Pills still in reserve.
He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
By the afternoon of the following day, the Fallow Slate delivered another silent prompt.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Streak: 36 Hours 00 Minutes] [Active Multiplier: 37x READY]
Thirty-six hours of pure rest, Kaelen thought, stretching his shoulders against the hemp rope. Thirty-seven times multiplier. If I trained for ten minutes right now, it would equal three hundred and seventy full hours of bone-breaking labor.
He decided not to train.
The afternoon breeze was cool, the sun was warm on his face, and page seven of his romance pamphlet was getting interesting.
A sharp crunch of boots on gravel caught his ear.
Kaelen kept his head down while his ears twitched.
Through the wooden slats of the shed window, he looked out toward the entrance of the front yard.
A tall figure stood in the shadow of the elm tree near the broken fence.
The visitor wore a ragged brown cloak with the hood pulled low over his brow.
He walked with an awkward, stiff-legged limp, leaning his left side against the stone wall.
Kaelen looked at the man’s right hand.
The thumb and forefinger were callused into thick, yellow pads.
The skin across the knuckles was scarred from thousands of hours gripping a Vance Clan heavy broadsword.
Brother Cassian, Kaelen noted with silent amusement. The pride of the Vance Clan. The fanatical grinder who trains eighteen hours a day and calls everyone else trash.
Cassian did not look like an invincible martial prodigy today.
His face beneath the hood was pale, almost translucent.
A sickly, greenish-gray tint clung to his cheekbones.
His breathing was shallow, whistling through his teeth as if his lungs were filled with dry sand.
He took too many Crack-Grade pills to push his cultivation, Kaelen realized. His meridians are clogged with toxic ash. He cannot clear the bottleneck, and the poison is eating him from the inside out.
Cassian stepped up to the front counter.
Mina stood on a wooden step-stool behind the wood, carefully wiping ceramic jars with a clean rag.
Barnaby was in the drying shed grinding dried mint leaves.
Cassian leaned over the counter, his voice muffled by a thick wool scarf.
“Give me a bottle of your Three-Ringed Marrow-Warming Pills,” Cassian rasped.
His voice sounded like two dry stones scraping together.
Mina looked up, her bright eyes blinking in surprise.
She did not recognize Cassian’s face under the heavy hood, but she recognized the arrogant tone.
Kaelen cleared his throat softly through the open window behind her.
Mina glanced back at her brother.
Kaelen tapped the edge of the wooden counter and pointed a lazy finger toward a painted pine board hanging on the wall.
Mina followed his finger.
A wide, mischievous smile spread across her face.
She turned back to the hooded customer and reached for a small pine sign sitting beneath the counter.
She slammed the wooden board down onto the counter with a loud thud.
Cassian flinched, gripping his chest as the sudden noise sent a jolt of pain through his bruised ribs.
He looked down at the freshly painted sign.
Double Price for Grinders Who Broke Our Porch Sign—10 LSS Cash.
Cassian froze.
The cloth scarf slipped an inch down his nose, exposing his trembling jaw and bloodshot eyes.
“What is the meaning of this?” Cassian hissed, his voice rising in anger. “A Three-Ringed pill is worth five spirit stones at most! You are running an extortion racket!”
Mina did not flinch.
She leaned forward, resting her chin in both hands, her eyes sparkling with pure innocence.
“The sign is very clear, Senior Brother,” Mina said in a sweet, polite voice. “Common customers pay five stones. Arrogant bullies who smash our porch furniture with their iron broadswords pay double.”
Cassian’s teeth clicked together so hard a drop of blood welled on his lower lip.
“I am the Eldest Son of the Vance Clan!” Cassian snapped, his fingers clawing into the counter. “You dare fleece me in my own family’s territory?”
From inside the shed, Kaelen did not even look up from his romance pamphlet.
“You can always go buy Morvath’s pills at the yamen,” Kaelen called out casually. “Oh, wait. Morvath lost his license, his kiln broke, and he is bedridden with lung rot.”
Cassian stiffened as if struck by a whip.
He turned his bloodshot eyes toward the window, catching sight of Kaelen swinging gently in the hammock.
“Kaelen,” Cassian snarled, his voice thick with venom. “You lazy leech. You hide behind Barnaby’s cauldrons while our family prepares for war. When Father finds out you are hoarding spirit stones—”
“Father already knows,” Kaelen interrupted smoothly. “He watched me dismantle your friend Morvath on public stage. If you have breath left to complain, your meridians must not hurt that badly. Mina, close the shutters. It is time for my afternoon nap.”
“Wait!” Cassian barked.
A sudden, violent spasm wracked Cassian’s chest.
He doubled over, gripping the wooden counter with both hands to keep from collapsing onto the dirt.
His face twisted in agony as black veins bulged along the sides of his neck.
The Pill-Poison was flaring.
Every breath felt like swallowing crushed glass.
Cassian had spent three months swallowing cheap Crack-Grade pills to force his breakthrough to Mortal Pulse Rank Eight.
Now, his eighth pulse gate was locked tight, clogged with toxic residue, and the blocked Qi was threatening to shred his internal organs.
If he did not flush the blockage with a pure, high-grade warming pill within hours, his meridians would rupture.
He looked up at Mina, his pride crumbling beneath raw terror.
“Ten stones,” Cassian choked out, his voice cracking. “I will pay ten stones.”
He reached beneath his heavy cloak and pulled out an embroidered silk pouch.
With trembling fingers, he dumped the contents onto the wooden counter.
Ten glowing Low-Grade Spirit Stones tumbled out, rolling across the grain of the wood.
It was clearly his entire private allowance for the month.
Mina did not hesitate.
She swept all ten spirit stones into her wooden register box with a single practiced swipe of her sleeve.
Then she picked up a small blue ceramic vial containing a single Three-Ringed Marrow-Warming Pill.
She placed the vial in the center of the counter.
“No refunds for poor attitudes,” Mina said cheerfully.
Cassian grabbed the vial as if it were a life raft in a stormy sea.
He ripped the wax stopper off with his teeth and dumped the pill straight into his mouth.
He swallowed it dry.
A soft golden glow flickered beneath his throat as the ninety-five percent pure medicine dissolved.
The soothing warmth spread through his chest, damping the raging fire in his meridians.
His ragged breathing slowed, though his skin remained an unhealthy gray.
Cassian wiped his mouth with his sleeve, glaring at the window with pure hatred.
“Do not think this changes anything, Kaelen,” Cassian whispered, his voice trembling with humiliated rage. “Once my eighth gate clears, no alchemy trickery will save you from my broadsword.”
“Good luck with that,” Kaelen replied from his hammock. “Try not to break any more signs on your way out. Pine wood is getting expensive.”
Cassian pulled his hood down over his eyes, turned on his heel, and hurried down the gravel alley.
He limped heavily, leaning against the walls for support as he vanished into the crowded streets.
In the doorway of the shed, Sera Thorne leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest.
She held an iron whetstone in one hand, slowly running it along the edge of her spear tip.
“Ten spirit stones for a single pill,” Sera said, a faint smirk touching her lips. “You rob your own family more cleanly than the Blood-Wolf bandits.”
“That was not robbery,” Kaelen said without opening his eyes. “That was a fee for property damage and emotional disturbance.”
Mina skipped into the back room, carrying the heavy register box in both arms.
“He looked like a drowned rat,” Mina giggled, setting the box on the low table beside Kaelen’s hammock. “Did you see his face when I pointed to the sign?”
“I heard his teeth grinding from ten yards away,” Kaelen said, noting that his total stash now stood at four hundred and fifteen spirit stones.
Barnaby walked in from the drying shed, holding a cloth wrapped around a bundle of dried roots.
The old alchemist did not share Mina’s laughter.
His weathered brow was furrowed, and his single hand clenched tight against his apron.
He walked over to the window and looked out toward the empty alley where Cassian had disappeared.
“Barnaby?” Mina asked, noticing his grim expression. “What is wrong?”
Barnaby turned toward Kaelen’s hammock, his voice dropping to a harsh, troubled whisper.
“Did you look closely at his wrists when he reached for that vial?” Barnaby asked.
Kaelen opened his eyes.
“I saw the dark purple bruising along his pulse lines,” Kaelen said.
“It is worse than bruising,” Barnaby muttered, shaking his head slowly. “The skin over his radial pulse was hard as river slate. I could smell the scorched sulfur from five paces away.”
Barnaby leaned closer, his single eye wide with grim certainty.
“His pulse gates are at least seventy percent calcified with toxic sediment,” Barnaby said. “His foundation is rotting away from the inside. If Cassian takes a single bottle of Crack-Grade pills to force another breakthrough, his pulse gates will shatter like brittle glass. He will be crippled for the rest of his life.”
Kaelen looked toward the ceiling beams, the silence of the herb shed settling heavy around them.
The price of fanatical grinding had finally come due.