The gentle crackle of roasting sweet potato skin was the only sound inside the obsidian grotto.
A warm draft drifted upward from the Grade-8 thermal vent, lifting the spirit-jade hammock in a slow, rhythmic cradle.
Kaelen Vance turned page one hundred and forty of The Bandit King’s Runaway Bride, Book Fifty.
He took a slow bite of the caramelized purple potato, chewing with measured indifference.
Ten real days had passed since he slid the five-foot basalt door into its groove.
In those ten days since beginning his rest, including the first hour already shown on the Slate, Kaelen had established a strict, unyielding routine. He slept fourteen hours every night, woke up at noon, drank two pots of roasted Wuyi oolong tea, and read through fifty mortal romance novels.
He did not channel a single wisp of Saint Qi.
His dantian remained completely dormant, a dark, motionless pool of golden liquid. His meridians lay slack and peaceful, free from the violent pressure of combat circulation.
