Kaelen Vance set his clay teacup down on the wooden crate beside his hammock.
The faint yellow lantern light glinted across the carved frost-flower runes on the dull gray lead.
To avoid triggering a dormant ward through the frozen mud, Kaelen had ordered Barnaby to spend the last eight hours soaking the cylinder in warm oil. Every mundane solvent in the shed had failed to soften the seal, and now Barnaby stood wiping the clean cap.
Sera Thorne stepped into the back room from her night watch, leaning lightly on her spear as she looked at the cold cylinder.
Mina peered over Barnaby’s shoulder, her small fingers reaching out toward the plum blossom crest.
“I still remember that final week before she vanished,” Barnaby whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “Lady Claire spent three days digging by the foundation stones, telling Derrick she was planting winter bulbs.”
“Derrick Vance thought she was a weak concubine,” Sera remarked, her sharp eyes scanning the lead casing. “He never paid attention to anything she did.”
“Derrick was a blind fool,” Barnaby spat. “Lady Claire had more wisdom in her little finger than the entire Vance Clan elders combined. She knew every medicinal plant in the Black-Pine Mountains before Derrick even learned to swing a broadsword.”
Barnaby ran his thumb over the weathered metal.
“The elders called her the Silent Saintess in whispers,” Barnaby said quietly. “She never argued with anyone. She simply brewed her tea, tended the sick in the outer slums, and smiled at their arrogance.”
Barnaby pulled a small iron chisel and a mallet from his tool apron.
“Let me crack the green sealing wax,” Barnaby said, positioning the chisel against the seam.
He tapped the mallet lightly against the iron head.
Crack.
A sharp pulse of icy blue light flared from the frost runes.
A wave of freezing force slammed into the chisel, shattering the tempered iron tip into jagged shards.
Barnaby stumbled backwards, clutching his numb fingers against his chest.
“Cold-iron warding,” Barnaby gasped, shaking his stinging hand. “The runes reject any forceful entry.”
Kaelen lay back in his hammock, observing the glowing plum blossom pattern with a lazy squint.
A faint blue prompt drifted across his sea of consciousness.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Streak: 104 Hours 00 Minutes] [Active Multiplier: 105x READY]
One hundred and four hours, Kaelen thought, feeling the immense spiritual reservoir humming beneath his skin. If I channel Qi right now to force this lock open, my timer resets to zero. I am not throwing away a hundred-fold multiplier just to unscrew a jar.
Mother always had better taste in secrets than Derrick Vance.
Derrick hid a pathetic blood-pact beneath a family ancestral altar.
Claire Vance had buried a celestial frost relic in the mud beneath a cabbage drying shed.
Kaelen looked closely at the seven-petal plum blossom crest.
The rune structure was not an offensive trap designed to kill thieves.
It was an ancestral lock designed with bloodline resonance in mind.
“Put away the hammer, Barnaby,” Kaelen said. “This is not a nail. It is a lock meant for family.”
Kaelen turned his gaze toward Mina.
“Mina,” Kaelen said softly. “Come here.”
Mina stepped up to the wooden table, her eyes wide with nervous curiosity.
“Take the silver sewing needle from the basket,” Kaelen instructed. “Prick the tip of your thumb. Place one drop of blood on the center of that plum flower.”
Mina did not hesitate.
She picked up the polished needle and pressed the sharp tip into her right thumb.
A tiny bead of bright crimson blood welled on her skin.
She reached out and pressed her thumb against the cold lead crest.
The moment her blood touched the carved plum blossom, the metal shivered.
The green sealing wax melted away like morning frost under a hot sun.
The seven carved petals flared with brilliant azure luminescence.
With a soft, pressurized hiss, the heavy lead cap unthreaded itself, turning three full rotations on oiled grooves.
A plume of dense, white vapor spilled over the rim, cascading across the table like a miniature waterfall.
The air inside the shed dropped ten degrees in a heartbeat.
Frost crystals bloomed across the edges of the wooden planks.
A pure, intoxicating fragrance filled the room, smelling like frozen mountain snow and sweet winter plum blossoms.
Barnaby held his breath, his eyes misting with tears.
“That scent,” Barnaby choked out. “That was Lady Claire’s private medicine.”
Kaelen reached out and tipped the heavy cylinder.
Two objects slid gently out onto the clean linen cloth.
The first was a rolled scroll of heavy mulberry paper, tied with a braided silver cord.
The second was a small, octagonal vial carved from translucent white jade.
Inside the jade vial, floating in a droplet of pure spiritual dew, was a single dried flower petal.
The petal was three inches long, shaped like a crescent moon, and completely crystal-clear.
Faint silver veins pulsed through the petal, radiating a chilling divine pressure that made the surrounding air sparkle with frozen mist.
Sera’s eyes went wide as she stared at the petal.
“A Tier Three Void-Frost Lotus petal,” Sera whispered, her voice filled with deep awe. “My father spoke of these in the southern trade cities. A single petal of that celestial flower is worth more than the entire Ashford Yamen.”
“It does not just cost money,” Barnaby added, his voice trembling. “Void-Frost Lotuses only bloom once every three centuries on glacial peaks above the cloud sea. How in the world did Lady Claire acquire one?”
“Mother had her ways,” Kaelen said quietly.
He picked up the mulberry scroll and pulled the braided silver cord.
He unrolled the thick parchment across his lap.
The handwriting was neat, elegant, and familiar, written in dark pine-soot ink that had not faded after twelve years in the earth.
Kaelen read the words aloud in a steady, quiet voice so Mina and Barnaby could hear every line.
To my beloved children, Kaelen and Mina, the letter began.
If you are reading this, it means Mina’s blood has unlocked the seal, and I am no longer beside you to shield you from the vultures of Ashford.
Mina, my sweet daughter, listen to me carefully. What the ignorant doctors call Frost-Marrow Decay is not a curse. You were born with the legendary Absolute Zero Yin-Vein, an ancient physique of peerless purity.
Mina gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks.
When you were an infant, Claire’s letter continued, Madam Evelyn Vance and Magistrate Vane-Locke conspired to poison your cradle. They fed you a corrupted Qi manual designed to calcify your meridians, turning your heavenly blessing into a slow, freezing sickness.
They wanted you weak. They wanted to wait until your twelfth year so Vane-Locke could harvest your awakened Yin-Marrow to fuel his breakthrough to the Iron Bone realm.
Barnaby slammed his one fist onto the counter, wood splintering beneath his knuckles.
“Those murderous bastards,” Barnaby roared in a low, furious growl. “They poisoned an infant in her cradle.”
Kaelen’s eyes hardened, but his voice remained calm as he continued reading.
I could not purge the poison then without destroying your infant vessels, Claire wrote. Before I was forced to draw my pursuers away into the deep mountains, I secured this petal from the Void-Frost Lotus. It has been sealed beneath the earth, waiting for your fourteenth pulse cycle.
When refined into a zero-poison Supreme Pill, this lotus petal will burn away every drop of Evelyn’s corrupting toxin. It will heal your marrow, clear your meridian gates, and fully awaken your Absolute Zero Yin-Vein.
Mina leaned against Kaelen’s hammock, weeping quietly as she buried her face in his wool blanket.
For three years, she had lived in terror of dying before her next birthday.
Every winter morning had brought crippling pain and the bitter reminder that her life was slipping away.
Now she knew the truth.
She was not broken.
She was a sleeping prodigy, and her mother had left behind the exact cure to save her life.
Kaelen turned to the bottom of the scroll, where a short postscript was written in a looser, more playful script.
And to my dear son Kaelen, the postscript read.
I know you better than anyone in this dusty town. If the world tries to drag you into their endless, bloody wars, pay them no mind.
Sleep as much as you like, my boy. Rest is the deepest Dao of heaven and earth. Let the fools swing their swords until their arms fall off.
Just remember one thing: never let anyone look inside my old leather recipe book until you have reached the Golden Core realm. The secrets inside are too heavy for this mortal province. Live well, take your naps, and protect your sister.
A genuine, warm smile touched Kaelen’s lips.
A mother who tells her son to take naps, Kaelen thought, a rare feeling of warmth spreading through his chest. She truly was a saintess.
Sera looked down at the jade vial resting on the linen cloth.
“Can you refine it?” Sera asked, turning her sharp gaze toward Kaelen. “A Tier Three ingredient is beyond ordinary alchemy. Even Court Alchemist Morvath would incinerate that petal into black cinder.”
“Morvath could not refine a turnip without burning his eyebrows,” Barnaby muttered. “Refining a Tier Three petal requires tremendous spiritual fire and flawless temperature control. If the heat fluctuates by half a degree, the medicinal essence evaporates into thin air.”
Barnaby walked over to the hearth and pointed at Kaelen’s damaged cast-iron stew-pot.
“Look at this pot,” Barnaby said, shaking his head. “The base is warped from your duel with Morvath. Micro-fractures run through the cast iron. If you pour Tier Three spiritual fire into this kettle, the metal will split like an overripe melon.”
“Then I will not use brute force,” Kaelen said.
“How else do you refine a Tier Three lotus?” Barnaby asked.
“With pure, compressed intent,” Kaelen answered.
Kaelen picked up the jade vial, feeling the intense cold radiating through the stone.
To refine a Tier Three Void-Frost Lotus petal in a cracked kitchen pot without producing a single speck of Pill-Poison was mathematically impossible for a normal alchemist.
It required an absurd level of spiritual compression.
Kaelen closed his eyes and checked his mental tally.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Streak: 108 Hours 00 Minutes] [Active Multiplier: 109x READY]
One hundred and eight hours, Kaelen calculated silently. A one-hundred-and-nine times multiplier is strong, but it is not enough. If I cash out now, I might only achieve ninety-five percent purity. A five percent residue of Pill-Poison would damage Mina’s fragile Yin-Veins.
Furthermore, Vane-Locke’s deadline was five days away.
When the magistrate discovered Mina was cured, he would attack with the full force of the yamen.
Kaelen needed more than just a cure for his sister.
He looked toward Sera Thorne, who stood vigilantly by the door with her ancestral spear.
Sera was currently at Mortal Pulse Rank Seven.
If they faced an Iron Bone magistrate and dozens of armored bailiffs, having another Rank Eight powerhouse was essential.
Kaelen had two critical tasks to accomplish in a single burst window.
Refining the lotus petal into a zero-poison Supreme Pill required massive focus.
Guiding one hundred and fifty spirit stones and six Supreme Pills into Sera’s meridians to force her breakthrough to Rank Eight required equal power.
Together, both feats demanded a multiplier of at least one hundred and forty times.
That meant reaching an uninterrupted streak of one hundred and forty hours.
He was currently at one hundred and eight hours.
Thirty-two hours remained before he reached his target, and a thirty-six-hour nap block would give him four hours to spare.
“Sera,” Kaelen called out.
“What is it?” Sera asked, turning her head.
“When my multiplier reaches one hundred and forty times, I will help you break through,” Kaelen said. “We will use one hundred and fifty spirit stones and six Supreme Pills to push your cultivation straight to Mortal Pulse Rank Eight.”
Sera’s breath caught in her throat.
Her knuckles whitened around her spear shaft.
She had spent three grueling years as an indentured guard, fighting bandits and surviving ambushes, just to reach Rank Seven.
The thought of reaching Rank Eight within days seemed like a dream.
“Are you serious?” Sera asked, her voice shaking slightly.
“I am always serious about avoiding work,” Kaelen said. “If you are Rank Eight, you can kill the yamen bailiffs so I do not have to get out of bed.”
Kaelen rolled the mulberry scroll carefully and handed it to Mina.
He slipped the jade vial containing the lotus petal into his inner silk pouch.
Then he reached down, took his straw hat from the table, and pulled it down over his eyes.
He pulled the wool blanket up to his chin and settled his shoulders deep into the hemp ropes.
“Barnaby,” Kaelen said, his voice already muffled by the straw brim.
“Yes, Young Master?” Barnaby asked.
“Nobody wakes me for the next thirty-six hours,” Kaelen said.
Sera blinked in disbelief.
“Thirty-six hours?” Sera exclaimed. “Vane-Locke’s bailiffs could be at our gates by tomorrow morning! The entire barony is looking for Mina, and you are going to sleep for a day and a half?”
“Sleep is the deepest Dao of heaven and earth,” Kaelen quoted smoothly from beneath the hat. “Mother said so herself. If the yamen comes knocking, tell them I have a headache.”
Kaelen crossed his ankles and let out a long, contented breath.
He was going to sleep his way straight to a one-hundred-and-forty-one times multiplier.