The heavy silver ingot gleamed under the sickly green lanterns of the auction vault.
Deacon Vane swallowed the knot of spit in his throat.
The two Crimson Vulture emissaries stood like blood-soaked birds, their yellow eyes unblinking beneath broad wicker brims.
Behind them, the local patriarchs and medicine elders stirred with anger.
Old Master Chen of the Iron-Gravel Clan slammed his walking staff onto the stone floor.
“The Red-River sects have no authority in the Ashford Ghost Market!” Chen barked, his white beard bristling. “Thirty-seven Low-Grade Spirit Stones for the first lot!”
The foremost vulture emissary did not even turn his head.
“Thirty-eight,” the cloaked man said, his voice flat as hammered lead.
“Thirty-nine!” yelled a representative from the northern trade guild.
“Forty,” the vulture emissary said without hesitation. “Forty stones for every pill in that box. If anyone bids higher, my sect will remember their face on the trade road.”
The threat hung in the damp chamber like an unsheathed blade.
Old Master Chen opened his mouth, glanced at the curved sabres on the emissaries’ hips, and slowly sat down.
No merchant in Ashford wanted a blood feud with the border killers of Red-River.
Deacon Vane’s trembling hands suddenly steadied.
Forty Low-Grade Spirit Stones each.
Fifteen Cloud-Veined Supreme Marrow-Warming Pills.
That was six hundred Low-Grade Spirit Stones in a single night.
Vane brought his mallet down against the bronze bell with a crisp clang.
“Sold!” Vane called out, his voice cracking with delight. “To the noble gentlemen of the Crimson Vulture Sect! Six hundred stones in full!”
The transaction was swift and deadly quiet.
The emissaries dumped three heavy deerskin sacks of pure spirit stones onto the dais, reclaimed their silver bullion marker, took the black ironwood box, and melted into the foggy tunnels.
Deacon Vane waited until their footsteps vanished before letting out a wheezing cackle.
He did not waste an hour.
Remembering Master Ash’s standing orders for high-grade ingredients, Vane took one hundred spirit stones directly to the wholesale herb vaults.
He purchased a massive handcart filled with Tier 2 bruised spirit herbs: frost-bark roots, sun-spotted leaves, and scarred dragon-tail stems that gatherers had damaged during harvest.
To regular alchemists, bruised herbs were half-ruined waste.
To Master Ash, they were cheap raw material for impossible miracles.
By mid-morning of Day 2, a creaking wooden handcart rolled through the southern lane toward the Third Herb Shed.
Deacon Vane pushed the cart himself, sweating through his silk jacket, flanked by four hired guards carrying iron-banded chests.
At the gate, Sera Thorne stepped forward, her spear tip resting three inches from Vane’s nose.
“State your business,” Sera said.
“Special delivery for Master Ash!” Vane wheezed, wiping his brow. “Five hundred Low-Grade Spirit Stones, plus eight baskets of Tier 2 bruised spirit herbs!”
Sera inspected the chests, opened one lid to verify the glowing blue crystals inside, and raised her hand.
Sergeant Korba and two guards dragged the gate open.
The handcart rattled into the courtyard and stopped before the covered porch.
Kaelen lay motionless in the hemp hammock, his head propped on a bundle of dried straw.
A porcelain teapot steamed on a low stool beside his elbow, filled with fragrant jasmine tea.
Book 1 of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride rested open across his chest.
He did not open his eyes as the iron chests clattered onto the flagstones.
“You are making too much noise, Vane,” Kaelen said in a calm drawl. “The bandit king was just about to reveal his secret lineage.”
“Forgive the intrusion, Master Ash!” Vane bowed until his knuckles touched the stones. “The Crimson Vulture Sect bought all fifteen pills for forty stones apiece! Six hundred stones total!”
“And the rest?” Kaelen asked, opening one eye.
“I spent one hundred stones on prime Tier 2 bruised herbs, just as you instructed,” Vane said proudly. “Five hundred stones remain in these four chests. Combined with the two hundred and fifty you held, your war chest now stands at seven hundred and fifty spirit stones!”
Kaelen glanced at the four chests.
Inside his mind, the grey slate hovered peacefully.
[The Fallow Slate]
[28 Hours Abstained]
[Multiplier: 29x READY]
Seven hundred and fifty stones is a respectable mountain of gravel.
Now I do not even have to leave my porch to step on wealth.
“Stack them around the hammock,” Kaelen said, waving a lazy hand at the seven hundred and fifty stones packed like glowing bricks inside the open crates. “Two on the left, two on the right.”
Old Barnaby came out of the shed, scowling as he looked at the wooden boxes.
“What kind of madness is this?” Barnaby demanded. “You are using chests of Low-Grade Spirit Stones as decorative furniture?”
“They make an excellent footrest,” Kaelen said.
He shifted his hips, slid his legs over the edge of the woven rope, and propped his heels comfortably onto the flat lid of the nearest chest.
The cool, steady pulse of spiritual energy seeped through the thick wood, soothing his calves.
“See?” Kaelen said, taking a slow sip of jasmine tea. “The height is perfect for lower back support. If you practiced less and lay down more, your hip wouldn’t ache when it rains.”
Barnaby sputtered, his face turning red. “People die in mountain mines for five of those stones, and you are using seventy pounds of them to elevate your ankles!”
“Comfort is an essential part of my regimen,” Kaelen replied smoothly, turning a page.
Sera Thorne walked past, checking the perimeter wall with her spear balanced across her shoulders.
She paused by the hammock, eyed the glowing blue seams of the chests, and pulled a charcoal pencil from her tunic.
“Four chests,” Sera murmured. “Seven hundred and fifty stones total. The fifty-stone garrison payment was already deducted before this delivery: forty for wages, six for shields and bolts, and four for food and oil. These are its budget lines, not another fifty-four-stone charge. Profit balance is solid.”
“Do not let the guards steal any,” Barnaby grunted.
“They know I would gut them before they reached the alley,” Sera said calmly.
The sun climbed toward noon, beating down on the clay tiles of the herb shed.
Fifty guards stood at their posts, their iron armor reflecting the harsh sunlight.
In the side garden, Mina sat on a wooden bench, practicing her needlework while keeping one eye on the gate.
The amber vial containing the Void-Frost Lotus cure pill remained pressed securely against her chest beneath her tunic.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from the outer lane.
It was the heavy, stomping stride of clan authority.
“Open this gate!” a booming voice roared from the street. “Open in the name of the Vance Clan Patriarch!”
Through the gaps in the iron-reinforced gate, the tall figure of Baron Derrick Vance came into view.
The patriarch wore embroidered dark purple robes trimmed with silver fox fur.
Behind him stood Chief Bailiff Horgan and six senior clan guards armed with iron maces.
Derrick Vance’s eyes swept across the courtyard.
He saw the fifty heavily armed mercenaries lining the walls.
He saw the piles of dried herbs stacked neatly by the storerooms.
And then, his gaze locked onto the covered porch.
There, surrounded by four glowing chests of Low-Grade Spirit Stones, lay his third son.
Kaelen was sipping tea, reading a blue-bound pamphlet, with his feet resting atop hundreds of glittering gems.
Derrick Vance’s jaw dropped.
His cheeks flushed with intense fury.
“Kaelen!” Derrick bellowed, his voice vibrating with the pressure of a peak Rank 9 expert. “What is the meaning of this? Where did you obtain those spirit stones?”
Kaelen did not lift his head from the pamphlet.
He slowly turned page sixty-eight.
If Derrick yells any louder, he will scare the sparrows off the roof.
Someone really needs to teach the man how to use an inside voice.
“I asked you a question, boy!” Derrick roared, stepping closer to the iron bars. “Your elder brother Cassian lies in his bed with frostbitten legs, cramped meridians, and shattered pride! His recovery requires medicinal tonics and pure spirit marrow!”
“Then buy him some soup,” Kaelen said mildly over the top of his page.
“Soup?” Derrick Vance choked on his own breath. “You sit there with a fortune in spirit stones while your own flesh and blood suffers? The Vance Clan provided you with food and shelter for eighteen years! You owe everything to this bloodline!”
Chief Bailiff Horgan stepped up beside the baron, scowling through the bars.
“Third Young Master,” Horgan said. “The clan treasury is strained after recent duel expenses. The Patriarch requires a filial clan contribution of three hundred Low-Grade Spirit Stones. Hand them over at once, and your disrespect will be forgiven.”
Old Barnaby stepped onto the porch, clutching his wooden ladle like an iron cudgel.
“Filial contribution?” Barnaby spat, his voice harsh. “When Kaelen was freezing in this shed with blocked meridians, where was your clan contribution? When Mina was coughing blood from frost decay, did the main hall send a single copper?”
“Silence, one-armed cripple!” Derrick snarled, his aura flaring with crackling wind. “This is clan business! Kaelen, hand over the three hundred stones, or I will have Horgan tear down this gate!”
Kaelen took another slow sip of jasmine tea.
He set the porcelain cup down on the wooden stool.
“Sera,” Kaelen said without looking up.
“Yes, master?” Sera Thorne stepped toward the gate.
“What does the wooden sign on our porch say?” Kaelen asked.
Sera turned toward the porch, where a weathered cedar plank hung beside the door frame.
Carved into the wood in neat, black letters were five simple words:
No Cultivation or Begging.
Sera looked back at Baron Derrick Vance.
“The sign says no cultivation or begging,” Sera repeated, her voice deadpan.
“You dare call the Clan Patriarch a beggar?” Derrick roared, veins bulging against his temples. “I am your father, boy! I demand—”
Sera Thorne did not wait for him to finish.
She grabbed the heavy iron handle of the gate with both hands.
With a single violent pull, she slammed the iron gate shut.
The heavy oak and iron barrier crashed into the stone frame with a deafening boom.
The shockwave blew Derrick Vance’s silver fox collar straight back over his shoulders.
The heavy iron crossbar dropped into place with a definitive, ringing clack.
Through the small viewing slit, Sera pointed a steel-tipped finger directly at the wooden sign.
“Come back when you have an appointment,” Sera said flatly. “And do not stand on the gravel. You are disturbing the master’s footrest.”
Outside the gate, complete silence fell over the lane.
Chief Bailiff Horgan stood frozen, his mouth hanging open.
The six clan guards stared at the closed gate in stunned disbelief.
No one in the history of the Vance Clan had ever slammed a door in the face of the reigning Patriarch.
Derrick Vance’s face turned from red to purple, then to a sickly, mottled grey.
His fists clenched so hard his knuckle bones popped like dry twigs.
He raised his hand to strike the iron bars with his full Rank 9 strength.
Then he looked up at the parapets.
Twenty heavy repeating arbalests were aimed directly at his forehead, their steel winches cranked to full tension.
Thirty armored mercenaries watched him with cold, emotionless eyes, ready to release thirty armor-piercing bolts the moment he circulated Qi against the wall.
Even a peak Rank 9 expert could not survive thirty heavy steel bolts at point-blank range.
“Good,” Derrick hissed between clenched teeth, his voice shaking with rage. “Very good.”
He lowered his hand and spun on his heel.
“Back to the manor!” Derrick snapped at Horgan.
The baron marched down the southern lane, his heavy boots kicking up clouds of grey dust.
Inside the courtyard, Barnaby stared at the closed gate, his one hand trembling against his ladle.
“By the heavens,” Barnaby muttered, turning to Kaelen. “You just slammed the gate in your father’s face. The baron will not let this rest.”
“He was talking too much,” Kaelen said, flipping to page seventy-five. “It was giving me a headache. More tea, Mina.”
Mina hurried over with the steaming kettle, her eyes bright with nervous excitement.
“Here, Brother,” she said, pouring hot water into his cup.
Kaelen took a sip, adjusted his feet against the crate of spirit stones, and leaned back.
The afternoon sun slowly tracked across the western sky.
Hour twenty-nine.
Hour thirty-five.
Hour forty.
The Fallow Slate ticked upward in silence, drinking in every second of motionless peace.
[The Fallow Slate]
[48 Hours Abstained]
[Multiplier: 49x READY]
Two full days had passed.
Kaelen’s multiplier had climbed to forty-nine times, and his war chest was locked behind fifty disciplined guards.
Meanwhile, inside the shadowed study of the Vance Main Manor, Derrick Vance stood before the hearth.
His hands gripped the edge of the heavy ironwood desk so hard that hairline cracks webbed across the polished timber.
First Madam Evelyn sat in the high-backed rosewood chair beside the window, sipping plum wine from a silver goblet.
Her cold, narrow eyes watched her husband’s shaking shoulders with quiet amusement.
“Did your filial son give you the three hundred stones?” Evelyn asked, her voice silky and sharp.
“He had his indentured spear-girl slam the iron gate in my face,” Derrick snarled, turning around with bloodshot eyes. “He sits on four crates of spirit stones, using them as a footrest! Fifty mercenaries patrol his walls!”
“I told you,” Evelyn said softly, setting down her goblet. “The boy is no longer the docile runt you ignored in the shed. He has secrets. He has alchemical wealth. And he has no intention of saving Cassian.”
“I am the Patriarch!” Derrick slammed his fist against the desk. “Everything in this barony belongs to me!”
“Not while he has fifty arbalests pointed at your head,” Evelyn said, leaning forward.
She pulled a folded parchment from her sleeve, sealed with the black wolf emblem of Magistrate Vane-Locke.
“The magistrate’s courier arrived an hour ago,” Evelyn said, lowering her voice. “Three hundred Blood-Wolf bandits are gathering in the southern pine forest. They will arrive in Ashford on Day 10, under the full moon.”
Derrick stared at the black seal. “Vane-Locke wants to sack the city?”
“He wants Master Ash’s head and those chests of spirit stones,” Evelyn whispered. “The magistrate promises us half the vault, the secret recipe for Supreme Pills, and an Iron Bone manual for Cassian.”
Derrick swallowed hard, his throat dry. “If the city elders find out we let bandits into the town...”
“The elders will see only a tragic bandit raid,” Evelyn said, her lips curving into a cold smile. “All you have to do is leave the manor’s back postern gate unlocked on the night of the full moon.”
Derrick looked at his clenched knuckles, remembering the sound of Kaelen’s iron gate slamming shut.
His eyes hardened into ruthless stone.
“Tell Vane-Locke the postern gate will be open,” Derrick said. “Let the wolves tear that unfilial dog to pieces.”