Barnaby Holt swept dried herb stems off the wooden chopping block with a stiff straw broom.
Mina tucked the wooden lockbox of spirit stones into the hollow brickwork beneath the hearth.
Outside the window, the autumn wind rustled through the dying turnip greens in the back garden.
Kaelen Vance stretched lazily across his hemp hammock, adjusting the thin silk pillow beneath his neck.
He took a slow sip of warm chamomile tea from a rough clay bowl.
The next thirty-six hours in the Third Herb Shed passed with the slow, peaceful grace of falling leaves.
While the rest of Ashford buzzed with frantic gossip, Kaelen did not leave his hemp ropes.
He spent his time reading a rare manuscript appendix to The Bandit King’s Secret Bride: Book Three.
Barnaby had traded three bundles of dried wild ginseng to an itinerant peddler to secure the handwritten text.
It told the thrilling tale of a rogue martial artist who hid from his enemies by pretending to be an illiterate goat herder.
Kaelen found the protagonist’s philosophy deeply relatable.
A soft blue notification shimmered across his vision as the afternoon sun hit the rafters.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Streak: 72 Hours 00 Minutes] [Active Multiplier: 73x READY]
Seventy-two hours, Kaelen thought, feeling the dense spiritual reservoir pulsing beneath his ribs. Seventy-three times multiplier. If I lift a finger right now, a five-minute stretch equals three hundred and sixty-five hours of high-intensity training.
He chose not to lift a finger.
The tea was still warm, and the goat herder was about to outsmart an entire bandit fortress without drawing his blade.
Before he could turn the page, the air outside the shed shifted.
A heavy, suffocating wave of spiritual pressure rolled down the narrow alleyway.
The wooden planks of the porch creaked under the weight of descending power.
Barnaby froze in the doorway of the drying shed, his wooden ladle slipping from his fingers.
Mina ducked behind the counter, her eyes wide as she looked toward the front gate.
Ten figures walked into the weed-choked yard of the Third Herb Shed.
They were not thugs from the Black-Crow market or common town guards.
Each man wore high-collared silk robes dyed in rich purples, deep indigos, and forest greens.
Jade medallions swung from their embroidered sashes, clinking softly with every step.
Silver hairpins held their topknots in place, and their eyes burned with the sharp, piercing light of advanced cultivation.
Leading the group was Patriarch Bai of the River-Willow Clan, a veteran expert at Mortal Pulse Rank Nine.
Beside him stood Elder Song of the Iron-Gale Sect and Elder Wu from the Southern Mountain Passes.
Behind them walked seven other renowned patriarchs and elders from the regional baronies.
Every single one of them was an established powerhouse at Mortal Pulse Rank Eight or Rank Nine.
In Ashford, any one of these men could demand an immediate banquet from Baron Derrick Vance.
Now, all ten stood crowded in front of a ramshackle shed surrounded by rotting turnips.
Patriarch Bai stepped toward the counter, his deep voice vibrating through the porch beams.
“Is this the residence of Master Ash’s representative?” Patriarch Bai asked, keeping his tone carefully polite.
Word of the yamen duel and the miraculous Cloud-Veined Supreme Pills had traveled far beyond Ashford’s borders.
Old cultivators whose meridians were ruined by decades of cheap medicine knew this was their only chance at survival.
Kaelen did not get out of his hammock.
He didn’t even lower his manuscript.
“Sera,” Kaelen called out softly toward the porch.
Sera Thorne appeared in the doorway, her iron-tipped spear resting lightly across her shoulder.
“What do you want, lazy young master?” Sera asked, her tone dry.
“Master Ash has very strict rules for visitors,” Kaelen said through the window slats. “He does not like noise while he is refining immortal pills in his mountain cave. If these esteemed guests wish to prove their sincerity, they must pay an entry fee.”
Sera raised an eyebrow.
“An entry fee?” Sera asked.
“Five Low-Grade Spirit Stones per person,” Kaelen said. “And the garden out back looks terrible. Hand them ten wooden hoes from the tool shed. If they weed the turnip patch and paint the fence, Master Ash might consider reviewing their pill requests next month.”
Sera stared at Kaelen as if he had lost his mind.
“Are you insane?” Sera whispered fiercely, leaning through the window. “That is Patriarch Bai. That is Elder Song. Any one of them could crush this shed into toothpicks with a single palm strike!”
Let them try, Kaelen thought with calm amusement. They spent fifty years poisoning their meridians with Crack-Grade junk. They need my clean pills more than they need their own pride.
“Just tell them the price,” Kaelen said. “Take the stones first. If they refuse, tell them Morvath is still taking patients at the yamen.”
Sera shook her head in disbelief, but she turned and walked out onto the porch.
She stood before the ten terrifying regional patriarchs, holding a wooden abacus in one hand.
“Master Ash is in deep secluded cultivation,” Sera announced, her voice flat and formal. “He requires martial sincerity from all petitioners. Five Low-Grade Spirit Stones cash for an audience slip. Furthermore, all guests must weed the turnip patch and paint the outer fence.”
The ten elders froze.
Elder Wu’s white beard bristled with sudden indignation.
“Weed turnips?” Elder Wu barked. “I am the Grand Elder of the Wu Clan! I have not touched a farm tool in forty years!”
Sera remained completely impassive.
“Then the Grand Elder may purchase his medicine elsewhere,” Sera said, pointing her thumb toward the road.
Before Elder Wu could draw his sword, Patriarch Bai reached out and grabbed Wu’s wrist.
Patriarch Bai took a deep sniff of the air drifting from the herb shed.
Faint traces of cloud-veined pill fragrance still lingered in the woodwork, pure and entirely free of Pill-Poison.
Patriarch Bai’s eyes flared with desperate hunger.
His own ninth pulse gate had been locked for twelve years, aching every winter like a frozen iron spike.
“Weed the turnips,” Patriarch Bai said firmly.
“Patriarch Bai!” Elder Wu gasped.
“Hold your tongue,” Patriarch Bai hissed. “Master Ash is testing our patience and humility. An immortal alchemist does not care about our petty mortal titles. Give the girl the stones.”
Patriarch Bai reached into his silk robes and pulled out five glowing Low-Grade Spirit Stones.
He placed them directly into Sera’s open wooden bowl.
Seeing the strongest elder submit, the other nine patriarchs exchanged uneasy glances.
One by one, they reached into their pouches.
Fifty Low-Grade Spirit Stones clinked into Sera’s bowl, their azure glow lighting up the porch.
Sera brought out ten old wooden hoes and three buckets of white lime paint from the tool shed.
She dumped them on the dirt.
“Turnips are on the left,” Sera said. “Chicken coop and fence are on the right. Do not break the handles.”
For the next four hours, the most absurd spectacle in Ashford’s history unfolded in the rear garden.
Ten feared regional powerhouses took off their silk coats and rolled up their embroidered sleeves.
Patriarch Bai knelt on his knees in the damp dirt, using a wooden hoe to gently loosen weeds around the withered turnip greens.
His movements were precise, guided by the delicate control of a Rank Nine expert.
Not a single turnip root was harmed.
Beside him, Elder Song of the Iron-Gale Sect dipped a horsehair brush into white lime paint.
He swept the brush across the weathered pine fence, his arm moving with the flawless rhythm of a master swordsman.
The fence was coated in pure, gleaming white without a single drip of wasted paint.
Near the shed wall, Elder Wu found an earthen grease pot.
He carefully applied lard to the iron hinges of Kaelen’s hammock, making sure the metal did not squeak.
None of the ten elders dared to speak above a whisper.
Whenever one of them stepped on a dry twig, the others glared at him with murder in their eyes, terrified of waking the hidden master.
Kaelen lay comfortably in his silent hammock, turning pages of his manuscript appendix.
Father spent three years trying to arrange a single dinner with Patriarch Bai, Kaelen reflected, taking another sip of chamomile. Now the old man is pulling thistles out of my radish bed so I might sell him a sugar pill. Cultivation society really is simple once you control the medicine.
Around mid-afternoon, heavy footsteps sounded at the entrance of the alley.
Baron Derrick Vance strode down the path, his dark red cloak billowing behind him.
Chief Bailiff Horgan walked at his shoulder, his hand resting on the hilt of his broadsword.
Derrick had heard wild rumors in the upper manor that a mob of powerful elders was gathering at the Third Herb Shed.
He had rushed down in full armor, intending to protect his family’s property and assert his authority as local lord.
“Kaelen!” Derrick barked as he rounded the corner. “What trouble have you brought upon our gates now?”
Derrick took three aggressive strides into the yard.
Then his boots froze in the mud.
His voice died in his throat.
His eyes locked onto the back garden.
There, kneeling in the dirt with a wooden hoe, was Patriarch Bai.
Beside him, painting a wooden fence with meticulous care, was Elder Song.
And oiling the chicken coop door with a grease rag was Elder Wu.
Ten of the most terrifying martial masters in the province were working like common tenant farmers in the mud.
Patriarch Bai stopped his hoe.
He slowly turned his head toward Derrick Vance, his eyes cold and menacing.
“Silence, Baron Vance,” Patriarch Bai whispered, his voice laced with the heavy spiritual pressure of Rank Nine. “You are trampling the garden path. If your heavy boots disturb Master Ash’s meditation, I will personally break your legs.”
Elder Song didn’t even look away from the fence.
“Take your noisy bailiff and leave,” Elder Song muttered. “Some of us are trying to earn our medicine.”
Derrick Vance turned completely pale.
The blood drained from his face so fast he looked like a walking corpse.
His hand fell away from his sword hilt.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
He looked toward the open window of the shed.
Inside, Kaelen was swinging gently on freshly oiled, silent hinges, calmly reading a cheap paper book.
Derrick’s knees trembled under the crushing realization.
His lazy, useless third son did not just have a mysterious master.
He had the entire regional nobility kneeling in his turnip patch.
Without uttering a single word, Derrick Vance turned on his heel.
He grabbed Chief Bailiff Horgan by the shoulder and dragged him backwards out of the alley on tiptoe, fleeing the yard in sheer terror.
Kaelen smiled behind his book, hearing his father’s hurried retreat.
As dusk fell, the ten elders finished their chores.
The turnip patch was entirely free of weeds, the fence gleamed brilliant white, and the chicken coop looked brand new.
Patriarch Bai neatly stacked the ten hoes by the shed door.
He walked up to the counter and bowed low to Sera.
“The sincerity of the ten clans has been delivered,” Patriarch Bai said with deep respect. “Please convey our humble greetings to Master Ash.”
Sera nodded gravely, holding out ten stamped audience tokens made of scrap wood.
“Master Ash will consider your requests at the next new moon,” Sera said.
The ten elders bowed again and departed into the evening gloom, looking completely satisfied with their day’s labor.
Sera carried the heavy bowl of spirit stones into the back room and dumped them onto Kaelen’s lap.
Fifty glowing Low-Grade Spirit Stones tumbled across his blanket.
“Fifty spirit stones for yard work,” Sera said, shaking her head. “You are an absolute demon.”
“I am an efficient manager,” Kaelen corrected her. “Now our fence is painted, our garden is clean, and we have four hundred and sixty-five spirit stones in the lockbox.”
Mina laughed, clapping her hands in delight as she counted the glittering stones.
The good mood in the shed, however, did not last the night.
Two hours after sunset, a sharp knocking rattled the front gate of Vance Manor in the upper town.
A yamen messenger dressed in dark iron-banded armor rode into the courtyard on an armored horse.
The messenger carried a wooden scroll case wrapped in crimson silk and sealed with black pitch.
He did not ask for tea or pleasantries.
He strode directly into Derrick Vance’s private study and slammed the scroll down onto the mahogany desk.
“An official blood-warrant from Magistrate Vane-Locke,” the messenger announced coldly.
Derrick Vance broke the black wax seal with trembling hands and unrolled the thick parchment.
The text was written in dark, iron-infused ink, vibrating with the chilling spiritual pressure of an Iron Bone realm master.
The magistrate did not ask for permission.
He ordered Derrick Vance to surrender Mina Vance into the direct custody of the Ashford Yamen within five days.
The decree cited a fabricated emergency quarantine, claiming Mina’s Frost-Marrow Decay posed a spiritual contagion to the town.
If Mina was not delivered before the full moon, the yamen guards would seize the Vance estate and execute the entire family for treason.
Derrick stared at the crimson blood-seal on the bottom of the page, his breath catching in his throat.
The full moon was less than a week away.
Magistrate Vane-Locke had finally dropped his mask, and the harvest of Mina’s marrow was officially set in motion.