The grand royal bedchamber, once a freezing tomb of demonic Nether Frost, now smelled of rich mutton broth, toasted sesame oil, and fresh scallions.
Sitting propped up against stitched silk pillows, the Dowager Empress Yan was happily slurping a massive fine china bowl of spicy braised lamb noodles. Her silver hair was neatly pinned. Her cheeks were flushed with vibrant, youthful color, her chopsticks darting into the bowl with the vigor of a veteran frontline general.
“Good broth,” the Dowager Empress declared between slurps. She wiped chili oil from her chin with a royal silk napkin. “Rich marrow, proper cumin, plenty of garlic. For thirty years, those bearded frauds fed me powdered ice and bitter tree bark. A bowl of hot lamb noodles does more for the Dantian than ten thousand spiritual pills!”
He knelt in the corner of the room. Imperial Physician Gu looked as if he had aged forty years in five minutes.
His white physician robes were soaked in cold sweat. His hands shook with violent, rhythmic tremors. And his medical Dao heart—nursed through six decades of high-born arrogance—had fractured into tiny dust. Every time the Empress took another bite of lamb, Gu coughed up a mouthful of sour, black blood onto the jade floor tiles.
“Fraud... I’m a royal fraud...” Gu whimpered, his eyes glassy, his fingers feebly plucking at the stitched needles on his chest. “Thirty years of Glacial Pills... Undone by five seconds of ditch-digger plumbing...”
Behind the silver curtain at the rear of the pavilion, Consort Rong was trying to creep toward the servants’ exit on tiptoe, her face hidden behind a dark veil.
Princess Jiang Ling’er stepped in front of the door, her builder hard hat catching the warm lamplight, her brass valve-wrench resting casually against her shoulder.
“Leaving so soon, Consort Rong?” Ling’er said, her voice cool and sharp as autumn frost. “You haven’t stayed to watch Grandmother finish her noodles. Or are you in a hurry to inform my brother that your thirty-year poison scheme just washed down into Master’s drain bucket?”
Consort Rong shivered wildly, clutching her silk sleeves to her chest: “Insolent girl... You dare threaten a royal consort?!”
“I’m Classroom 404’s Lead Clockwork Checker,” Ling’er replied with cold pride. “And you, Consort Rong, are an unlicensed contamination hazard. Return to your quarters before I depressurize your spirit veins.”
Consort Rong scurried backward into the shadows like a cornered rat, her royal poise fully shattered.
On the other side of the room, Frank stood by the bedside table, finishing the last lines of his handwritten service invoice with a red carpenter’s pencil.
He blew the graphite dust off the parchment, unclipped it from his light metal board. Then he handed it directly to Emperor Yan.
“Service call complete, Emperor,” Frank said deadpan. “Here is your ticket.”
Emperor Yan—ruler of three hundred million subjects across thirty-six commanderies—received the rough parchment with both trembling hands, treating the slip of paper as if it were an ancient edict from the High Heavens.
The Emperor read the itemized lines aloud in a voice thick with respect:
“Service Item One: One-stage heat radiant thaw using two-hundred-and-fifty-watt quartz infrared emitter. Fifty spirit stones.”
“Service Item Two: Clockwork fluid pressure drop and chest radiator purge via copper bleed pin. Three point five gallons of dangerous waste collected. One hundred spirit stones.”
“Service Item Three: Emergency after-hours call-out fee and two hours journeyman builder labor. Forty-nine thousand eight hundred and fifty spirit stones.”
“Total balance due: Fifty thousand spirit stones.”
Emperor Yan looked up from the invoice, his bloodshot eyes wide with cosmic disbelief.
Fifty thousand spirit stones?!
To cure the incurable Nine-Abyss Nether Frost—a demonic affliction that had baffled three ages of Grandmasters and burned up twelve million spirit stones from the royal treasury—this quirky immortal was charging only the humble wage of an artisan!
“Master Lu...” Emperor Yan choked out, tears welling in his eyes. “You have rescued the Mother of the Empire from the gates of the Netherworld! You have saved Great Da-Qi from a national disaster! And you ask... For a mere fifty thousand stones?!”
“The rate is fifty thousand stones because that’s what two hours of emergency test labor costs,” Frank replied. He crossed his arms. “I don’t gouge my clients on materials. But I don’t work off the clock for free either. Cash or spirit crystals. My students need to buy high-pressure lime before the supply yards close.”
Emperor Yan turned to his Chief Treasury Eunuch, roaring with thunderous power:
“Open the Dragon Vault! Deliver fifty thousand top-tier refined purple-spirit crystals to Master Lu right away! If a single crystal is chipped or cloudy, I’ll take your head!”
“Right away, Your Royal Majesty!” The eunuch bowed until his nose touched the floor, sprinting toward the vault chambers.
Frank nodded with satisfaction: “Good. And remember my follow-up instructions: keep the bedchamber ventilated. Open a window. Stop feeding her frozen pills, and let her eat whatever noodles she wants. Her boiler is sound. She just needs fuel and fresh air.”
In Frank’s eyes, the Heavenly Bug Tracker screen flared with brilliant golden light!
A heavy, dark-gold parchment page materialized inside Frank’s internal system storage, streaming the boundless understanding of the Heavenly Bug Tracker.
Beside it, Emperor Yan reached into his royal robes and pulled out two sacred artifacts.
The first was a five-inch medallion carved from ancient blood-dragon jade, inscribed with two golden medical needles crossing a sky fire bowl: the 2-Star Royal Grand Physician Badge.
The second was a heavy, blackened iron token forged from star-fallen star-iron and dragon marrow, carved with the roaring face of the Founding Emperor: the Imperial Iron-Veto Token.
“Master Lu,” Emperor Yan said, presenting both tokens on a tray of golden brocade. “By my sovereign decree, you’re hereby appointed Chief Medical Counselor of the Royal Court! Plus, this Imperial Iron-Veto Token grants you total court immunity across every province, clan territory, and craft guild in Great Da-Qi! No judge, prince, or sect patriarch may arrest, detain, or audit you without my personal signed name!”
Frank picked up the blackened iron token, testing its weight in his hand.
It weighed about three pounds, cold and solid.
“Nice paperweight,” Frank murmured, slipping the token into his tool belt alongside his tape measure and the 3-Star Potion-maker Crown. “At least this will keep those office clerks from waving town check tickets in my face.”
The Dowager Empress put down her empty noodle bowl, letting out a satisfied sigh: “Lu Zhen... You have the thanks of an old woman. Ling’er, my dear child... Whenever you have free time from your Master’s workshop, come visit your grandmother. The royal palace has plenty of rooms with proper air-flow.”
“I’ll, Grandmother,” Ling’er said softly, bowing with deep respect.
Frank picked up his tea thermos, zipped his canvas tool bag, and turned toward the doors: “Alright, crew. We’ve collected the fee, closed the work order, and the sun is setting. Let’s head back to the carriage house, load the carts, and prepare our convoy for Ironwood Peak.”
Classroom 404 walked out of the Royal Physician Hall, their boots crunching cleanly over the paved palace courtyards.
The royal guards stood at rigid attention along the avenues, saluting Frank with lowered spears as the quirky builder strode past the marble pavilions with his hands in his pockets.
They crossed the royal moat, exited the Great Vermilion Gates of the palace complex. Then they entered the bustling northern merchant district.
The evening sun was casting long, copper shadows across the capital’s tile roofs.
“Master,” Ling’er said, walking beside Frank with a bright smile. “With the ten million spirit stones from the tournament, fifty thousand from the Emperor, and sixty barges of building supplies, Ironwood Peak will have the finest clockwork workshop in the eastern kingdoms!”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Ling’er,” Frank said, checking his clipboard. “We still need to pour three hundred yards of concrete footing, run four miles of copper ground wiring, and install grease traps on all three bunkhouse kitchens. A workshop isn’t a workshop without proper drainage.”
Suddenly, the hurried clatter of heavy boots broke the evening calm.
Running down the cobbled street toward them came Niu Mang, his massive chest heaving, his hard dark metal-iron trench shovel slung over his broad shoulder.
The third student’s face was soaked in sweat. His eyes were wide with urgency as he skidded to a halt in front of Frank.
“Master! Master!” Niu Mang gasped, catching his breath against the handle of his shovel.
Frank frowned: “Niu Mang, what did I tell you about running in work boots? You’ll wear down the rubber soles. Where is Shitou? I told you two to watch the carriage house and guard the tool carts.”
“Master!” Niu Mang shouted, his voice thick with fury. “The Divine Sword Shen Clan! They broke into the carriage house ten minutes ago!”
Frank stopped walking. Ling’er’s expression hardened into ice.
“Explain,” Frank said calmly.
“Patriarch Shen Canghai broke out of the town transport convoy!” Niu Mang panted. “The Shen Clan mobilized forty Golden Core elders from their old family manor! They brought their Ten Thousand Flying Sword Slaughter Array and surrounded our entire courtyard!”
Niu Mang clutched his shovel: “They ambushed us while we were strapping down the cast-iron wok! Shitou pushed me through the back garden wall to come get you! They have Shitou pinned in the center of the courtyard, and Shen Canghai is preparing to extract his star-steel bones with old family swords!”
Ling’er drew her brass valve-wrench, her aura flaring with blazing crimson dragon fire: “Those rotten scoundrels! They lost in court, so they resort to banditry! Master, let’s go crush them!”
Frank didn’t rush. He slowly unscrewed the cap of his stainless steel thermos, took a calm sip of lukewarm jasmine tea. Then he looked down at his watch.
It was 5:15 PM.
“Forty elders trespassing on a private leasehold,” Frank muttered. His voice dropped into a deadly, pedantic flatline. “Damaging property, disturbing the peace, and attempting to dismantle my lead ironworker during off-duty hours.”
Frank tightened the cap on his thermos and hooked it to his belt.
“Niu Mang. Ling’er.”
“Here, Master!”
“Grab the heavy sledgehammers and the spare ground stakes,” Frank said. His eyes narrowing into was cold builder care. “It’s past closing time, and someone is about to pay double overtime in broken bones.”