Three days later, just past the hour of Mao, the morning mist still clung to the valleys.
Jiang Muchen clutched ten low-grade spirit stones in his hand—his first month's stipend as a C-rank guest of the Artificer's Hall—and stood before the heavy iron door of the materials storeroom. The door was made of century-old ironwood, blackened and brittle from the constant heat of the forge, its surface a web of intersecting cracks, like the wrinkles on an old man's face.
Guarding the door was an old, one-eyed servant named Hu, his left eye covered by a worn black leather patch whose stitching had already frayed. He perched on a three-legged wooden chair—its fourth leg propped up with a half brick—and the chair creaked and groaned under every tiny movement. Upon hearing footsteps, his cloudy right eye lifted. Its yellowed sclera resembled a fish's eye shrouded in mist.
"Token." His voice was hoarse, sandpaper scraping iron.
Jiang Muchen handed over the heavy black C-rank guest token. Hu turned it over in his skeletal fingers, feeling the rough edges of its casting, inspecting it three times before squinting at Jiang Muchen's young, indistinct face in the mist. A rasp escaped his nose:
"C-rank guest? Third stage of Qi refinement?"
Suspicion hung in the air, thick and palpable, just like the morning fog.
Jiang Muchen didn't argue. Instead, he reached into his robes and pulled out a small cloth pouch, handing it over with a motion gentle enough to deliver fragile porcelain: "Old Master Hu, this is a little 'Clarity Powder' I prepared myself—made with Jinfilter herb juice and dew collected at the first hour of Yin. Dried under three full noon suns. Might help your eyes a little."
Hu froze.
His one clear eye narrowed even further, staring at Jiang Muchen for three full breaths before finally reaching for the pouch. Though stitched roughly from coarse linen, it was meticulously cleaned. He opened it and a pale green powder spilled into the morning light, shimmering faintly and carrying a fresh, grassy scent tinged with dew.
He pinched some between his gnarled fingers and sniffed. "Jinfilter… Yin dew… Did you also…?" Another inhale. "…ice blossom powder?"
"You are wise, Old Master Hu." Jiang Muchen bowed deeply.
Ice Blossom was a specialty of the Northern Ice Palace, a rare herb that sharpened sight and cleared the mind. Even a pinch cost five minor spirit fragments. This tiny sachet was traded from a hall servant who regularly traveled north, in exchange for three lightning talismans.
Hu studied the powder for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he cracked a toothy grin, yellow and black, with bits of yesterday's greens stuck between his teeth. "Kid… not bad."
He pocketed the pouch against his chest and rose. The chair toppled, its fourth leg failing under its weight. He ignored it, selecting a rusty key from his belt, inserted it into the lock, and twisted.
"Creak—"
The thick iron door opened a sliver, letting decades of dust fall like golden motes in the sunlight.
"C-rank stock," Hu said, moving aside, one eye fixed on Muchen. "You can take three items per month. But rules…" He raised three fingers, each nail lined with black grime. "One: record what you take and where it's used. Two: if it fails, no selling. Three…" He leaned closer, exhaling a mix of tobacco and rotting vegetables onto Jiang Muchen's face. "…do not touch the box in the northeast corner with the yellow talisman. Touch it, and you die."
The word "die" fell lightly, yet struck Jiang Muchen like ice.
"I understand, sir," Jiang Muchen nodded and stepped inside.
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The storeroom wasn't large—about fifteen feet square—with seven or eight old wooden shelves lining the walls, their legs riddled with insect holes. Dust-covered materials were neatly organized: ores, timber, beast bones, and rare herbs. To anyone else, this was junk. To Jiang Muchen, it was treasure.
He approached the ore section. On the shelves, fist-sized chunks of Cold Iron Ore were stacked neatly, black and frosted with thin white layers, radiating an icy chill to the touch. Perfect for crafting basic cold-element artifacts. But he ignored them.
Instead, his gaze fell on a battered wooden box in the corner, labeled in faded charcoal: "Scrap, to be sorted." Digging through the debris, his fingers found several nail-sized fragments of Starsteel, thin as cicada wings and razor-sharp; and a small heap of soft jade powder, gray-white and smooth.
Truly worthless to ordinary apprentices, but Muchen's mind lit up. Starsteel could be ground into ultra-fine powder for sigils that pierced the defenses of mid-stage Qi cultivators. Soft jade could neutralize minor fire toxins in low-grade elixirs. Life-saving, even if only for three breaths.
He collected the three items he wanted—Starsteel, soft jade powder, and the toxic Corrupted Bone Flower from a dusty earthen jar tucked at the bottom of the herb section. Following a lost recipe in the *Compendium of Herbs*, he could make a repellent powder effective against the parasitic Spirit Eaters in the outskirts of Qingming Valley.
Back in the Fire Chamber, he ground, sieved, and roasted his materials. Starsteel became a silvery dust; jade powder, a silky gray; the flower, a fragrant black powder. Blending them with his custom ink, he produced "Spirit-Breaking Ink," potent enough to pierce protective auras for three breaths—a literal life-or-death edge. He also made a small batch of pest-repelling powder.
By dusk, he had everything packed away: talismans, needles, ink, powders, and his guest token.
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Later that night, in the quiet of the Artificer's Hall, he froze as he heard faint rustling in the supply room. Slipping through the shadows, he discovered Zhao Xiaoliu, a fellow servant, meticulously collecting discarded red ore fragments known as Bloodsand. His intentions were unmistakable: he was preparing "Yin Nurturing" materials, dark magic to cultivate spirit energy from corpses—a deadly crime in their righteous sect.
Jiang Muchen withdrew silently, heart hammering, aware now of the tangled web of needs around him:
White Gui sought guidance before fading; Zhao Xiaoliu craved power through dark arts; Hu needed healing; others needed protection, recognition, survival.
And Jiang Muchen? He needed a path where he didn't have to kneel or beg. A path where people would need him, rely on him, maybe even fear him.
He sat by the old well, tracing three concentric rings with charcoal—a secret signal to summon his allies. The moonlight shimmered off the water, fragmented like his own reflection. Somewhere in the depth, a ripple stirred. Something watched. Something awoke.
Rising, Jiang Muchen caught his reflection once more: a young face, blurred in the moonlight, yet determined.
A quiet voice echoed in his mind: *Kindness is never given freely. How much you receive depends entirely on how many problems you can solve that others cannot.*
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**The Tao of Kindness:** True kindness isn't about how good someone else is—it's about becoming the indispensable piece on their chessboard.
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