At the previous day’s grand opening, Vane had delivered all ten reserved pills to the voucher holders and placed their purchase payments in the separate market escrow.
Morning mist drifted through the manor courtyards like shredded grey silk.
In the scullery behind the central kitchens, greasy water sloshed over a wooden tub.
Scullion Fen rubbed his greasy hands against his hemp apron, his eyes darting toward the pantry door.
Ten minutes earlier, First Madam Evelyn’s chief maid had cornered him behind the flour sacks.
Five heavy silver pieces were tucked into Fen’s waistband, cold and heavy against his skin.
In his palm lay a tiny paper packet filled with fine white powder.
Slumber-Rot.
A colorless powder refined from dried corpse-mushrooms and bitter mountain almonds.
It did not kill.
It knotted a cultivator’s gut with twelve hours of violent stomach cramps while numbing their meridians into sluggish torpor.
“Just tap it into the spring water bucket,” the maid had whispered into his ear. “The third young master drinks fresh water every morning. If he lies sick before the full moon, the Madam will give you ten more silver pieces.”
Fen swallowed hard, wiped his sweaty nose, and approached the brass-banded water pail.
Every morning at dawn, the herb shed received clean spring water from the eastern well.
He unfolded the paper packet, tapped the chalky powder into the clear water, and stirred it with a wooden stick.
The powder dissolved without a ripple, vanishing into the cold water.
Fen picked up the wooden yoke, hoisted the two water pails onto his shoulders, and hurried out the back kitchen gate.
He crossed the garden path toward the south wall of the Third Herb Shed.
At the side wicket, two armored mercenaries stood guard with heavy arbalests resting against their chests.
“Kitchen delivery,” Fen said, his voice trembling slightly. “Spring water for the tea kettle.”
The guards grunted, unlatched the wicket, and let him step into the courtyard.
On the covered porch, Kaelen lay suspended in his hemp hammock, completely still under his woolen blanket.
His feet were propped on the glowing spirit stone chest, and Book 2 of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride rested over his stomach.
A gentle, steady breath puffed from between his lips as he listened to the scullion’s nervous footsteps on the gravel.
Forty-nine hours of pure rest.
That kitchen boy is sweating like a thief, and Barnaby is already waiting by the door with his ladle.
I will just keep my eyes shut and let the old man handle the pest control.
Fen hurried toward the kitchen door, his eyes fixed on the flagstones.
He had almost reached the threshold when a heavy shadow blocked his path.
Old Barnaby stood in the doorway, wearing his stained grey tunic with the right sleeve pinned neatly to his breast.
In his left hand, the old alchemist held a three-foot-long iron-reinforced ladle carved from cured ironwood.
“Hold on, boy,” Barnaby rumbled, his voice rough as gravel.
Fen froze, the wooden yoke creaking on his shoulders. “Good morning, Elder Barnaby. I brought the fresh well water.”
Barnaby did not smile.
For forty years, Barnaby Holt had refined medicinal herbs and deadly poisons in the high cauldrons of the Red-River border.
He had tasted every leaf, bark, and root known to the northern empire.
He stepped forward, bent his scarred neck, and lowered his nose to the rim of the left bucket.
He took a slow, deep breath.
To an ordinary person, the water smelled of nothing more than cold stone and wet wood.
To Barnaby, a faint, bitter almond trace prickled against his nostrils.
A chill settled into the old man’s grey eyes.
“Who gave you this?” Barnaby asked softly.
“It... it is just well water, Elder,” Fen stammered, his knees beginning to shake. “Drawn from the east courtyard five minutes ago.”
Barnaby did not argue.
His left arm moved with blinding speed.
The heavy ironwood ladle swung through the air, cracking against Fen’s right shin with a sharp, hollow thwack.
Fen let out a squeal of pain and collapsed onto his knees.
The wooden yoke slipped from his shoulders, and the right bucket clattered against the flagstones, spilling harmless water into the dirt.
Barnaby caught the left bucket by the hemp handle with his foot, keeping it upright without spilling a single drop.
Before Fen could scramble backward, the broad rim of the ladle pressed firmly against the hollow of his throat.
“Corpse-mushroom and refined nightshade,” Barnaby said, leaning down until his whiskers touched Fen’s ear. “Slumber-Rot. Made to paralyze the meridians and put a bull to sleep for seventy hours.”
Fen turned white as tallow.
“I have two fingers of Earth-Heart flame in my chest,” Barnaby whispered, his aura flaring with searing heat. “If you scream and wake Young Master Kaelen, I will burn your tongue to a cinder before your knees hit the gravel. Speak.”
A shadow fell over the scullion.
Sera Thorne appeared at Barnaby’s elbow, her spear tip pressed against Fen’s left temple.
She reached down, slid her hand into the boy’s waistband, and pulled out the five pieces of silver, sealing them in an evidence envelope instead of mixing them with the household purse.
“Madam Evelyn’s silver,” Sera murmured, turning the coins in her palm. “Stamped with the house mint from last autumn.”
Fen sobbed quietly, pressing his forehead against the damp stones.
“Do not kill me!” Fen wept in a frantic whisper. “The Madam’s head maid gave it to me! She said it was only sleeping powder! She said the third young master would only take a nap!”
“He is already taking a nap,” Barnaby muttered, glancing toward the porch.
On the hammock, Kaelen merely shifted his shoulder, muttering something about a horse thief, and went right back to snoring.
“What do we do with him?” Sera asked, her spear steady. “If we slit his throat, the kitchen will know the plot failed.”
“And if we make a commotion, the master wakes up,” Barnaby said. “And when the master wakes up early, his multiplier breaks.”
Barnaby looked at the poisoned bucket, then looked toward the main manor in the distance.
A grim, vicious smile crept across the old alchemist’s scarred face.
“Derrick Vance came here yesterday begging for medicine,” Barnaby said. “He wanted a filial contribution to heal his family’s aches.”
Sera’s lips twitched. “You wouldn’t.”
“I am an alchemist,” Barnaby said with great dignity. “It is my duty to provide nourishing tonics to the head of the household.”
Barnaby grabbed an empty, glazed clay jug from the windowsill.
He carefully poured three cups of the poisoned water into the jug, added two crushed mint leaves to cover the bitter almond scent, and sealed the top with a wooden bung.
He dipped a brush into black ink and wrote four neat characters on the red paper label:
Master Ash’s Herbal Tonic.
He pushed the jug into Fen’s trembling hands.
“Get up,” Barnaby ordered.
Fen stumbled to his feet, clutching the clay jug like a live serpent.
“You walk to the inner lane gate under Sera’s crossbow and hand this to Bailiff Horgan for Baron Derrick’s study,” Barnaby said, tapping the ladle against Fen’s chin. “Tell him Young Master Kaelen felt remorse for yesterday’s misunderstanding and sent this secret marrow-warming tonic.”
Fen blinked, staring at the jug. “Will... will it kill the Patriarch?”
“It only causes twelve hours of violent stomach cramps and sluggish meridians,” Barnaby said cheerfully. “Then you walk right back here so we can lock you in the cellar until the full moon.”
Sera marched the trembling scullion to the inner lane to hand off the jug, then dragged him back through the wicket door under guard.
She locked Fen inside the dry cellar and turned to Barnaby.
“That was remarkably petty,” Sera said.
“Petty?” Barnaby scoffed, resting the ladle on his shoulder. “That was filial piety in action. The boy sent his father a gift. Nobody can say Kaelen lacks respect.”
Fifteen minutes later, inside the ornate study of the main manor, Derrick Vance sat behind his desk.
His stomach had been knotted with bitter rage ever since the gate slammed in his face the day before.
A knock sounded at his door.
Chief Bailiff Horgan entered, carrying the glazed clay jug with both hands.
“Patriarch,” Horgan said, bowing low. “A kitchen scullion just brought this from the Third Herb Shed.”
Derrick looked up, his brow furrowed. “What is it?”
“It has Master Ash’s seal on the label,” Horgan replied, reading the red paper. “The scullion said Third Young Master Kaelen reflected on your words yesterday. He sent this secret herbal tonic to aid Lord Cassian’s recovery and appease your anger.”
Derrick Vance’s eyes widened with greedy triumph.
“Ha!” Derrick barked, slamming his palm on the desk. “The unfilial brat knows his place after all! He realized he cannot survive in Ashford without my protection!”
Derrick reached out and snatched the jug from Horgan’s hands.
He pulled the wooden bung.
A fresh, crisp scent of crushed garden mint drifted into the air.
Underneath the mint, a rich, dark herbal aroma seemed to promise ancient strength.
“He sent it for Cassian,” Horgan noted cautiously. “Should we deliver it to the young master’s bedchamber?”
“Cassian is too weak to absorb such concentrated medicine,” Derrick said, waving his hand dismissively. “A father must test the purity of the draft first. If it is potent, I will share the remainder with him.”
Derrick poured a generous measure of the clear liquid into a jade cup.
He raised the cup to the morning light, admiring its crystal clarity, and gulped it down in a single swallow.
The liquid went down smooth and cool.
Then came the aftertaste.
A strange, lingering bitterness spread across the back of his tongue, tasting faintly of dried almonds and rotten moss.
Derrick smacked his lips, frowning. “A curious blend. The herbs have an earthy bite.”
Thirty seconds passed.
Suddenly, Derrick’s stomach gave a loud, violent gurgle.
The sound was like wet rocks tumbling down a steep well.
Derrick froze.
A sharp, stabbing cramp ripped through his lower abdomen, so intense that his vision blurred with grey spots.
His dantian contracted into a knot of ice.
“Patriarch?” Horgan asked, stepping forward with alarm. “Are you unwell?”
Derrick tried to speak, but only a strangled wheeze escaped his throat.
His face turned a pale, sickly greenish-yellow.
Another gurgle erupted from his gut, louder than the first.
Cold sweat burst from every pore on his forehead.
“The... the chamberpot,” Derrick gasped, clutching his stomach with both hands as his knees buckled. “Get the chamberpot! Now!”
For the next twelve hours, the master of the Vance Clan did not leave his private washroom.
Violent, agonizing stomach spasms wracked his body, punctuated by sudden bouts of overwhelming, heavy exhaustion that made his eyelids droop even while his insides turned to water.
Every time Derrick tried to circulate his peak Rank 9 Qi to purge the poison, the Slumber-Rot dissolved his concentration, sending him tumbling back onto the wooden stool with moans of helpless agony.
Evelyn Vance stood outside the washroom door, listening to her husband’s miserable groans with horror and disbelief.
“How could this happen?” Evelyn hissed at her maid. “Did the fool drink the entire pot?”
“He drank the tonic meant for Cassian, Madam!” the maid whispered, trembling. “The herb shed sent it directly to his study!”
Evelyn’s teeth ground together in silent fury.
She knew instantly that her plot had been turned back on her.
Meanwhile, half a mile away in the Third Herb Shed, the sun climbed peacefully into the afternoon sky.
Kaelen woke up from his nap, stretched his arms toward the wooden rafters, and let out a long, luxurious yawn.
He picked up his teapot, poured a steaming cup of fresh, unpoisoned roasted barley tea, and took a slow sip.
Twelve hours of quiet.
Not a single interruption from the main hall.
Whatever Barnaby did with that ladle, the man deserves a bonus in dried beef.
He rested his feet back onto the chest of spirit stones, opened Book 2 to part fourteen, and settled back into the hammock.
Beside the porch steps, Mina was humming a light tune while mending a linen sleeve.
Sera Thorne walked past the porch, a small smirk playing on her lips.
“The main manor is completely quiet today,” Sera reported in a low voice. “It seems Lord Derrick is suffering from an acute stomach condition. He has cancelled all clan meetings until tomorrow.”
“A tragedy,” Kaelen said without looking up from his pamphlet. “He should really watch what he eats. Bad food ruins the spleen.”
The sun drifted behind the western pines.
Twilight deepened into purple night, and the stars emerged above the shed roof.
Inside Kaelen’s dantian, the grey stone slate chimed softly with pure, golden resonance.
[The Fallow Slate]
[72 Hours Abstained]
[Multiplier: 73x READY]
Three full days.
Seventy-two hours of total, unbroken stillness.
His multiplier was now seventy-three times, and his vessel had not leaked a single drop of spiritual pressure.
Suddenly, the cellar trapdoor creaked open.
Old Barnaby climbed up into the courtyard, dragging the captured Scullion Fen by the collar.
The boy’s arms were tied tightly behind his back with hemp rope, and a cloth gag was stuffed into his mouth.
Barnaby pushed the boy down behind the drying racks, out of Mina’s line of sight.
Sera stepped up, spear ready. “Did he finally break?”
“He tried to chew through his ropes in the dark,” Barnaby said in a harsh whisper. “When I went down with the ladle to check his knots, he started begging to trade a bigger secret for his life.”
Barnaby yanked the cloth gag from Fen’s mouth.
“Tell them what you saw in the shrine,” Barnaby commanded.
Fen was shaking so violently his teeth clattered against each other.
He looked at Sera, then looked at Kaelen on the distant porch, his eyes wide with terror.
“It... it is not just the bandits,” Fen whimpered, his voice cracking. “Madam Evelyn... she had the blacksmith build something in secret three days ago.”
“Build what?” Sera demanded, pressing the flat of her blade against his collarbone.
“An iron cage,” Fen wept. “Inside the secret vault beneath the Ancestral Shrine. A cold-iron ritual cage with drainage spikes welded into the floorboards.”
Barnaby’s face hardened into stone. “Drainage spikes?”
“For the young lady,” Fen sobbed, pointing a trembling chin toward Mina. “The Madam said... when the bandits break the gates on the full moon... she will lock Young Lady Mina in the cage and harvest all her Yin-Marrow before the town burns.”