Ice cracked along the timber floorboards as Old Barnaby lunged toward the bedroom door.
He charged past Sera through the open linen curtain, his single hand bracing against the frost-slick doorframe.
A wave of bitter, dry cold rolled out of the room, smelling of frozen iron and crushed pine needles.
Beneath the jagged icicles hanging from the bedposts, Mina’s small frame convulsed under the stiffened wool quilts.
Her teeth clicked together in rapid, uncontrollable spasms.
Pale blue frost crept across her hollow cheeks toward her rime-sealed lashes.
Every breath she drew rattled like dry autumn leaves in a winter gale.
“The premature lunar pull,” Barnaby growled, hurrying to the bedside. “The full moon is still thirty-six hours away, but the Yin tide is already rising in the earth. Her Frost-Marrow Decay is reacting to the gravitational pull.”
Sera Thorne knelt beside the mattress, touching Mina’s forehead with two fingers.
She flinched, pulling her hand back as if burned by boiling oil.
“She is freezing from the inside out,” Sera said, her voice tight with alarm. “Can we give her the Void-Frost Lotus cure pill now?”
“No,” Barnaby snapped, shaking his head with fierce certainty. “The cure pill requires the absolute peak of the full-moon tide tomorrow night. If we administer the Lotus medicine while the opposing Yin currents are uneven, her brittle meridians will shatter like glass.”
Barnaby touched Mina’s wrist, feeling the sluggish trickle of blood.
“The Void-Frost Lotus petal carries immense celestial cold,” Barnaby explained, his voice tight. “It is designed to absorb the rotten frost in her bones and turn it into pure cultivation marrow. If she takes it early, the pill will feed the rot instead of purging it.”
Barnaby reached into the pocket of his coarse apron and pulled out Kaelen’s small cedar reserve box.
He flipped the brass clasp open, revealing nine shimmering ruby pills resting on velvet lining beside the wax-sealed amber vial holding Mina’s sapphire Void-Frost Lotus Cure Pill.
Each ruby sphere glowed with cloud-veined crimson patterns, emitting a sweet, soothing warmth that instantly melted the frost along the bedside table.
Cloud-Veined Supreme Marrow-Warming Pills.
“We cushion her meridians first,” Barnaby said, taking two of the ruby Marrow-Warming Supreme Pills from the box and leaving seven ruby pills alongside the sealed sapphire cure pill. “Two Supreme Pills will blanket her internal organs in pure, zero-poison warmth. That will hold the frost at bay until tomorrow night.”
Sera stared at the glowing crimson pearls in Barnaby’s calloused hand, her eyes wide.
“Two Cloud-Veined Supreme pills,” Sera whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. “In the capital, grand elders fight bloody duels to secure a single pill of this purity. You are feeding them to a child like candied plums.”
“The boy made them for his sister,” Barnaby grunted, his tone firm. “Silver means nothing if the girl freezes to death.”
Barnaby placed the first pill on Mina’s lower lip.
The pill dissolved into a rich, sweet liquid the moment it touched moisture, trickling smoothly down her throat.
He followed it immediately with the second pill.
A gentle pink flush returned to Mina’s cheeks as the pure medicinal warmth spread through her chest.
Her violent shivering slowed, but her small hands still clutched the wool quilts, stiff and cold as river stones.
From the porch, the creak of hemp ropes broke the silence.
Barnaby turned around, his brow furrowing. “Kaelen?”
Kaelen lay in his hammock, his eyes shut and his silk bathrobe pulled tight.
“Unfasten the iron eyehooks from the porch beams,” Kaelen murmured in a quiet, steady voice.
“What?” Barnaby asked, blinking in confusion.
“The ceiling beams in Mina’s room are four inches thick,” Kaelen said. “Hang my hammock right beside her bed. I am not getting up.”
Barnaby stared at him for a second, then let out a short grunt of understanding.
“Sera, grab the northern hook,” Barnaby ordered.
Together, the one-armed alchemist and the spearwoman unclasped the iron hooks from the outdoor rafters.
They carried the loaded hammock through the doorway without tilting it an inch.
They secured the heavy forged rings into the iron eyelets above Mina’s bed.
Kaelen settled into place two feet above the floor, hanging perfectly parallel to his sister’s mattress.
He did not open his eyes.
Slowly, deliberately, he extended his right arm over the edge of the hemp netting.
His warm, calloused fingers closed gently around Mina’s small, icy hand.
He did not circulate a single strand of Qi.
Circulating internal energy would count as martial training and wipe his inaction streak clean.
Instead, he simply allowed his natural diamond-tempered body heat to flow into her shivering fingers.
Mina let out a soft, shuddering sigh, her small fingers curling weakly around his thumb.
“Kaelen...” she whispered through the frost on her lips. “It hurts.”
“I know,” Kaelen said softly. “The bones feel like they are packed with winter snow.”
Cultivators swear by grand techniques and glorious divine weapons, Kaelen thought, feeling the faint pulse beneath her skin. Yet when the frost bites your sister’s bones, an older brother who refuses to let go is worth more than ten thousand swords.
With his free left hand, Kaelen reached into the side pocket of his bathrobe.
He pulled out Book 3 of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride.
The paper cover was creased at the corners, smelling of dried ink and pipe tobacco.
He opened the pages with a flick of his thumb.
“Listen to the words,” Kaelen whispered, keeping his voice low and soothing. “In the opening section of Book 3, the bandit king has disguised himself as an imperial noodle vendor. He has smuggled forty pounds of black gunpowder inside three hollow cabbage barrels.”
Mina gave a tiny, trembling nod against her pillow.
Kaelen began to read aloud.
His voice was a calm, steady drone, entirely devoid of theatrical drama or urgency.
He read about the bandit king bargaining with corrupt gate sergeants over the price of sesame oil.
The bandit king haggled over half a copper bit for twenty minutes, inventing three separate ailments in his knees just to avoid paying an entrance toll.
A tiny, breathless giggle escaped Mina’s lips beneath the blankets.
“He sounds like you,” Mina murmured, her eyelids fluttering open.
“The bandit king is an amateur,” Kaelen replied smoothly, turning a page. “He only claimed sore knees. If he were a true master of leisure, he would have brought a stool and fallen asleep in front of the gate.”
Mina tightened her weak grip on his fingers. “Are you scared of tomorrow, Kaelen? Father and Evelyn will bring the guards.”
“Fear requires elevated heart rates and heavy breathing,” Kaelen murmured softly. “Both of those burn valuable calories. Sleep, Mina. Nobody is breaking into this shed while I am taking a nap.”
Barnaby sat by the small brass stove in the corner, gently boiling dried ginger slices in spring water.
Sera Thorne leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, her spear resting against her hip as she listened to the absurd mortal tale.
A faint smile touched the corner of Sera’s mouth.
The Nine-Cauldron Guild would never believe this scene, Kaelen thought with quiet amusement. Master Ash spends the eve of a county siege reading cheap romance pamphlets to a sick girl. Let them think I am meditating on the Grand Dao.
The hours of Day 9 slipped away in quiet endurance.
Kaelen read through the afternoon, pausing only to swallow sips of ginger tea that Barnaby held to his lips.
Outside the wooden walls, the autumn wind rustled through the drying racks.
At the fourth watch of the evening, a quiet knock sounded at the rear delivery gate.
Sera walked to the postern, checking the peephole before pulling the latch.
Deacon Vane slipped through the gap, clutching a black velvet pouch against his chest.
His powdered face was pale, his eyes darting toward the manor walls.
“Scout Thorne,” Vane whispered, catching his breath. “The town is locking down. I had to bribe three gate wardens just to reach the western alley.”
Barnaby stepped out onto the porch, closing the bedroom curtain behind him. “Did you bring the final balance?”
“Every single piece,” Vane said, handing over the heavy pouch. “Fifty Low-Grade Spirit Stones released from the voucher escrow. Those three private buyers had paid a thirty percent premium earlier; this is their already-delivered order balance, not a second sale from our reserve box. The rest of the voucher money stays in market escrow for the next settlement.”
Barnaby took the pouch, feeling the dense weight of the crystalline stones.
“Fifty stones,” Barnaby murmured. “That brings Master Ash’s total war chest to nine hundred and fifty Low-Grade Spirit Stones.”
Barnaby untied the drawstring and emptied the stones across the workbench.
The fifty translucent blue gems clattered against the timber, each one cut with razor-sharp facets and humming with pure earth energy.
Barnaby inspected each stone with practiced care, confirming the weight and clarity.
Satisfied, he scooped them back into the velvet pouch and carried them into the bedroom.
He slid the pouch into the fifth iron lockbox beneath Kaelen’s hammock, where nine hundred other spirit stones rested in dense stacks.
“How does the town look, Weasel?” Barnaby asked quietly, returning to the porch.
“Terrible,” Vane said, shivering under his rabbit-fur collar. “The four merchant patriarchs have barricaded their guildhalls. Elder Bao and Master Shen stationed fifty Ghost Market and guild guards along our warehouse perimeter, but the magistrate’s men are growing bolder.”
“Has Vane-Locke moved his troops?” Sera asked, resting a hand on her spear.
“Not yet,” Vane said, his voice trembling. “Word on the street says Vane-Locke promised the Blood-Wolf gang free plunder across the northern estates once the moon is full.”
“Let them try,” Sera said, her jaw tightening. “They will find nothing but iron and fire waiting for them here.”
“I am returning to the Ghost Market vault,” Vane said, bowing deeply toward the bedroom curtain. “May the ancestors watch over you all.”
Vane scurried back out into the twilight, the gate latch clicking firmly shut behind him.
Night settled over the Third Herb Shed.
Inside the small bedroom, Mina’s breathing had smoothed out into a deep, peaceful rhythm.
The two Cloud-Veined Supreme Marrow-Warming Pills had thoroughly insulated her organs, while Kaelen’s warm grasp anchored her against the chill.
Midnight struck across the quiet valley.
The ninth day of Kaelen’s ten-day stack came to an end.
In the stillness of his mind, the Fallow Slate flashed with blazing golden letters.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Inaction Tally: 216 Hours 00 Minutes] [Current Multiplier: 217x] [Stage 1 Vessel Limit: 240 Hours (241x)] [Condition: Stable] [Total Inaction Bonus: 217x multiplier available for immediate cash-out]
Two hundred and sixteen hours.
Nine full days of absolute, unyielding stillness.
His multiplier now stood at two hundred and seventeen times.
Only twenty-four hours left, Kaelen thought, gently squeezing Mina’s warm fingers. Twenty-four hours until the full moon. Tomorrow night, Mina will be cured forever, and everyone who disturbed this house will pay their bill.
The ninth night passed in unbroken silence.
Dawn arrived, painting the sky in bands of pale amber and cold grey.
In the courtyard, twenty-five mercenaries checked their gear, wiping down their bronze shields with oiled rags.
In the loft above the drying shed, two archers inspected the twenty heavy Spirit-Iron repeating arbalests hidden behind the false decoy racks.
The sun climbed steadily toward the center of the sky on Day 10.
The Fallow Slate ticked through the morning hours, passing two hundred and twenty-eight hours of accumulated potential.
[The Fallow Slate] [Current Inaction Tally: 228 Hours 00 Minutes] [Current Multiplier: 229x]
At high noon, a deep vibration rolled across the plains from the south.
The heavy bronze war horns of the Ashford County Yamen blared three long, wailing notes.
Ooooong.
Ooooong.
Ooooong.
On the roof of the herb shed, Sera Thorne looked out over the southern rooftops.
Her jaw tightened into an iron line.
A messenger scout bounded over the herb shed gate with Deacon Vane scrambling through the wicket behind him, and dropped to one knee before the porch.
“Report from the south road!” the scout cried out. “Magistrate Vane-Locke has dropped the iron portcullises and sealed all four city gates! He has declared the Vance clan under imperial investigation!”
Barnaby rushed to the porch railing, his ladle clenched tight. “How many men?”
“Two hundred armed troops!” the scout shouted, his voice cracking with panic. “One hundred and fifty Blood-Wolf gang raiders in iron plate, fifty yamen bailiffs in heavy ring-mail, and four mounted Nine-Cauldron Guild enforcers! They are marching straight toward the manor gates!”