Cool salt air stirred the hem of Kaelen Vance’s faded flannel bathrobe as he climbed the spiral stone steps.
In his right hand, he carried a polished cedar back-scratcher with a carved claw. It was a humble mortal tool bought from a street vendor for three copper coins, yet the wood was smooth, light, and perfectly balanced.
In his left hand, he held a warm porcelain mug of freshly brewed oolong tea. He had poured the water from his small iron kettle just moments before leaving the hammock, letting the steam warm his nose.
He paused on the third landing, listening to the muffled commotion drifting from the ramparts above.
Inside his dantian, the golden light of the Fallow Slate pulsed in steady, tranquil waves.
Track 1 now rested at 1,442 hours with a 14,430x multiplier, while Track 3 had reached 242 hours with its 240-hour draw safely sealed at 241x.
I am not touching Track 1, Kaelen thought, leaning his shoulder against the damp granite wall. If I let it sleep another seven hundred and twenty hours, it hits the three-month milestone at 2,160 hours. That will yield a twenty-one-thousand-times surge.
Cashing his primary cultivation vessel now for a minor harbor skirmish was completely out of the question.
