Rain tapped a steady, soothing rhythm against the thatched eaves of the Third Herb Shed.
Inside the rear room, the charcoal brazier glowed with faint red warmth.
Kaelen Vance did not shift an inch in his woven hammock, snoring softly beneath his wide straw hat.
Mina sat cross-legged on the floorboards beside the hearth, practicing her frost control.
She focused her Frost-Pine Qi into her fingertips, freezing individual droplets of cold water into tiny, flawless glass beads.
Beside the front counter, Barnaby Holt was carefully grinding dried red chili peppers and sulfur lumps into a stone mortar.
The pungent aroma of dried peppers prickled the air, mingling with the dry scent of medicinal roots.
Outside in the wet alleys, thirty Ghost Market mercenaries remained hidden beneath rain tarps and hay bales, keeping silent vigil.
Sera Thorne had positioned them with precision.
Every blind corner was watched, and four marksmen sat in the hayloft with heavy repeating arbalests resting across their knees.
A pale blue notification shimmered across Kaelen’s resting mind.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Streak: 124 Hours 00 Minutes] [Active Multiplier: 125x READY]
One hundred and twenty-four hours, Kaelen thought, shifting his shoulders into a warmer hollow of his blanket. Sixteen hours left until midnight. Sixteen more hours of doing nothing, and I hit one hundred and forty-one times.
He closed his eyes, intending to sleep straight through the afternoon.
The heavy tramp of iron-shod boots shattered the quiet rhythm of the rain.
A squad of armored men marched down the gravel lane leading to the herb shed gate.
Barnaby stopped grinding his mortar, his one hand gripping the stone pestle tightly.
He leaned toward the window slats, peering through the gray drizzle.
Twelve yamen bailiffs strode into the front yard, their black-lacquered breastplates gleaming in the rain.
Each man carried a heavy iron baton, a long-handled capture pole, and a painted wicker shield.
Leading the squad was a woman dressed in a magnificent purple silk robe trimmed with white fox fur.
Madam Evelyn Vance held a scented silk handkerchief over her nose, stepping over mud puddles with deliberate disgust.
With Baron Derrick Vance cowering in his private study, the First Madam had taken matters into her own hands.
She carried a rolled warrant scroll stamped with Magistrate Vane-Locke’s official vermilion seal.
“Open the gate,” Evelyn commanded, her shrill voice echoing off the surrounding brick walls.
The front bailiff kicked the wooden gate open, the rotten hinges groaning under the force.
Barnaby rushed out onto the porch, clutching his stone pestle like a war hammer.
“Halt!” Barnaby shouted, his gray beard bristling with rage. “This is private apothecary property! You have no authority to kick down our fences!”
Evelyn offered a cold, venomous sneer, her sharp eyes scanning the porch.
“Silence, old cripple,” Evelyn said smoothly. “This is an official blood-warrant issued by Magistrate Vane-Locke himself. We are here to seize Mina Vance under emergency medical quarantine.”
Barnaby planted his boots wide, refusing to yield an inch.
“Mina is not sick with any quarantine plague,” Barnaby bellowed. “She is recovering under the care of Master Ash’s licensed apothecary!”
“Her medical state is a matter for the magistrate to judge,” Evelyn replied, her tone dripping with contempt. “You are merely a discarded servant with one arm. Do not make me have these bailiffs break your remaining limbs.”
Two bailiffs stepped forward, raising their iron batons with cruel grins.
“Surrender the girl immediately,” Evelyn ordered. “If you resist, my men will burn this filthy shed to the ground and execute you for treason.”
Inside the back room, Kaelen did not leave his hammock.
He didn’t even push the straw hat off his forehead.
Madam Evelyn spent twenty years perfecting her cold matriarch sneer, Kaelen thought, a lazy grin touching his mouth. If she thinks that sneer is going to ruin my one-hundred-and-forty-hour milestone, she severely underestimates my commitment to napping.
If he stood up and fought, his Rank Eight strength would shatter all twelve bailiffs in five seconds.
His multiplier streak, however, would reset to zero.
A true master of the Fallow Dao never resolved with violence what could be solved with shameless deceit.
Why break bones in the cold mud when a good lie worked ten times faster?
Kaelen took a deep, rattling breath and forced his voice into a pitiful, dying rasp.
“Aunt Evelyn...” Kaelen wheezed loudly through the window. “Stay back... I beg of you... do not come closer...”
Evelyn paused, her boots freezing on the wet flagstones.
She turned her narrow eyes toward the dark window of the shed.
“Kaelen?” Evelyn asked, her eyebrows furrowing with deep suspicion. “Stop hiding like a rat and come out.”
“I cannot walk, Aunt,” Kaelen groaned, letting out a series of wet, hacking coughs that sounded like a dying mule. “The gods have cursed us. Mina and I... we have contracted the dreaded Explosive Meridian Measles.”
Evelyn stiffened.
The twelve bailiffs looked at each other with sudden unease, their grips loosening on their iron batons.
“Explosive Meridian Measles?” Evelyn snapped, her voice wavering slightly. “I have never heard of such an illness!”
“It is a secret plague from the deep southern swamps,” Kaelen rasped in theatrical despair. “First your tongue turns bright purple. Then your dantian boils like hot porridge. Finally, the toxic pus bursts through the skin in bright yellow blisters.”
Kaelen paused to deliver another series of hideous, shuddering gasps.
“The wind carries the spore,” Kaelen wheezed. “One breath of our air, and your face rots away within three days. If you touch our door, your meridians will liquefy before sunset.”
The bailiffs took a collective step back, several of them hurriedly checking their own wrists for imaginary yellow spots.
“Lies!” Evelyn barked, though she took a hurried step backwards into the mud. “You are fabricating nonsense to protect your sister!”
“Barnaby,” Kaelen whispered softly from his hammock. “Stoke the stove.”
Barnaby didn’t need to be told twice.
The old alchemist grabbed the stone mortar filled with crushed red chilis, raw sulfur lumps, and dried bitterweed.
He dumped the entire powder mixture straight into the blazing charcoal hearth beside the front door.
He slammed the cast-iron firebox door shut and pulled the draft lever wide open.
Hiss.
A billow of thick, foul-smelling yellow smoke exploded from the chimney flue and the porch vents.
The smoke was dense, suffocating, and reeked of rotten eggs and scorching pepper.
A cloud of yellow vapor rolled across the porch steps, washing over the twelve bailiffs like a poisonous tidal wave.
“Gah!” the lead bailiff cried, dropping his wicker shield into the dirt.
He clutched his throat, his eyes streaming with burning tears as the chili fumes seared his nasal passages.
“The measles smoke!” another bailiff shrieked, gagging violently. “The yellow plague air is burning my lungs!”
Evelyn pressed her perfumed handkerchief against her nose and mouth, coughing until her face turned bright red.
“Insolent dogs!” Evelyn sputtered, tears leaking down her powdered cheeks. “Break the door down! Drag them out!”
The bailiffs hesitated, terrified of stepping into the yellow cloud.
Before anyone could move, a faint whistle sounded from the upper hayloft.
Sera Thorne sat perched on the roof rafters, her hand resting on a hidden wooden lever wired to the elm tree.
She looked down at the coughing bailiffs with a cold, predatory smirk.
“Package delivery,” Sera whispered.
She gave the hidden lever a sharp yank.
Above the front yard, three woven bamboo cages suspended in the branches of the old elm tree sprang open.
Dozens of writhing, wriggling bodies poured out of the cages, raining down through the drizzle.
Thud. Slap. Thud.
Fifty common garden snakes crashed onto the helmets, shoulders, and boots of the twelve bailiffs.
The snakes were completely harmless garter serpents that Barnaby had caught in the turnip patch.
Yesterday afternoon, however, Barnaby had meticulously painted every single snake with bright scarlet circles and neon yellow rings using indelible lacquer.
They looked like the most lethal blood-venom pit vipers in the southern jungle.
“Snakes!” a bailiff screamed, jumping three feet into the air as a scarlet-spotted serpent coiled around his iron shin-guard.
“Blood-venom vipers!” another man howled, swinging his iron baton wildly and striking his own comrade in the elbow. “The shed is crawling with plague serpents!”
Pandemonium erupted in the front yard.
The bailiffs threw their rattan shields into the mud, dancing frantically as they tried to kick the painted snakes off their boots.
One serpent dropped from a wet branch directly onto Madam Evelyn’s fox-fur collar.
The snake flicked its tiny black tongue against her earlobe.
Evelyn let out a shriek so shrill it cracked the autumn silence for three blocks.
She tore off her expensive fox-fur mantle, throwing it into a muddy puddle.
She lost one of her embroidered silk slippers in the clay, her elaborate hairpins tumbling into the weeds.
“Retreat!” Evelyn shrieked, her noble dignity completely abandoned. “Retreat back to the yamen!”
She gathered her mud-soaked skirts in both hands and sprinted down the lane like a panicked goose.
The twelve bailiffs did not need a second invitation.
They scrambled after her in total chaos, dropping swords, shields, and warrant scrolls in the mud as they fled into the town streets.
Within thirty seconds, the alleyway was completely silent except for the gentle pitter-patter of rain.
Sera Thorne dropped down from the hayloft ladder, landing lightly on the porch floorboards.
She casually used the tip of her spear to nudge a painted garter snake back toward the turnip garden.
From her leather pocket, Sera pulled out a small black-bound notebook and a piece of charcoal.
She opened the cover to her Overtime Grudge Ledger.
She flipped to the section marked Vance Manor Penalties.
With steady, deliberate strokes, Sera wrote: Item: Illegal courtyard intrusion and biological disturbance. Culprit: Madam Evelyn Vance. Fine: 20 Low-Grade Spirit Stones.
“Twenty spirit stones logged,” Sera said, snapping the ledger shut with a satisfying click.
From the upper loft window, Mina poked her head through the wooden frame.
She clapped her hands in pure delight, laughing until her ribs ached.
“Did you see Madam Evelyn run without her shoe?” Mina giggled. “She looked like a plucked rooster!”
Barnaby leaned against the porch railing, his single hand wiping soot from his brow as he grinned through his wet cloth mask.
“Explosive Meridian Measles,” Barnaby wheezed, shaking his head. “I swear, Young Master, you could convince an imperial magistrate that stones grow on trees.”
Inside the shed, the yellow sulfur smoke slowly drifted out through the high vents, clearing the air.
Kaelen didn’t move from his hammock.
He didn’t even adjust his blanket.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Streak: 130 Hours 00 Minutes] [Active Multiplier: 131x READY]
One hundred and thirty hours, Kaelen noted, his lips curving in a faint, satisfied smirk. Not a single drop of blood spilled, zero Qi wasted, and my streak remains completely intact.
Ten hours remained until midnight.
Outside, the rain gradually subsided, giving way to clear, cool night air.
The autumn twilight faded into deep purple, and stars began to glitter through the quiet mountain sky.
In the Third Herb Shed, nobody spoke.
Mina fell asleep curled on a warm sheepskin rug near the hearth, her breathing soft and even.
Barnaby sat by the counter, quietly oiling his apothecary balance and arranging dried root slices into neat paper packets.
Sera stood silent guard by the front porch, her sharp eyes scanning the shadows of the alleyway.
The thirty Ghost Market mercenaries remained motionless in their hiding spots, silent as stone statues.
Time slipped away with the slow, inevitable grace of deep water.
One hour.
Three hours.
Six hours.
Inside his mind, Kaelen focused on the quiet stillness of his breath.
He could feel the dormant potential of his eighth pulse gate, solid as diamond.
He could feel the cold, pure resonance of the Void-Frost Lotus petal resting in his inner silk pouch.
When the streak matured, everything would align.
As the bells of the central Ashford watchtower tolled midnight, a radiant silver moon climbed above the mountain peaks.
The full moon was now only four nights away, bathing the valley in cool, luminous light.
Inside Kaelen’s sea of consciousness, the Fallow Slate suddenly flared with brilliant, celestial gold.
A crystal chime rang through his soul, as pure and ringing as a bronze bell striking the dawn.
[The Fallow Slate] [140 Hours Abstained -> Multiplier: 141x READY!] [Burst Window Available: 60 Minutes]
Kaelen opened his eyes in the dark, the golden glow of the slate reflecting in his pupils.
The wait was over.
It was time to wake up.