So.... I have two rewards, and plenty of new goals.

Within the book, a long green bookmark made of silk had appeared. When Booker flipped open the page it was set to, he saw an instruction.

These bookmarks contain the knowledge of the mortal world. By concentrating on a task and using the bookmark, you can enter a mental realm and attempt that task again and again for a number of hours. This will take no time in the real world.

That’s honestly incredible. I wonder if I can use it to spar against someone.

And if my arm would still be broken inside the ‘mental realm’. Which is… some kind of dream world?

He allowed the book’s pages to turn, almost idly. When they landed on a blank page, he knew he’d found his second prize.

This is an Apprentice Page.

Touch any written work to permanently record its contents into the book. Whenever you use the Apprentice Page, you will also gain access to a written work recorded by a previous holder of the book.

Previous holder? This is the first time the book has mentioned them.

Although I suppose it might give me a blank.

Then I’d know I’m the first to inherit the book, but that seems unlikely.

The funny thing is, the right play might be to copy a worthless scroll right away, just for the random other book I’ll receive. But the value of that play is strictly based on my predecessors not doing that; if they had just copied random books, there’d be nothing worth learning in the pool.

Although…

It doesn’t actually say the ‘written work’ is chosen at random. It might be connected to what written work I copy to begin with.

So for every reason, I’d better save this to use on a valuable book.

He flicked the pages over, turning to his quests.

Quest: Repairing Your Life

Goal: Create a Seven-Times Purified Charcoal Pill and use it to repair your poisoned body.

Reward: Materials Box

At the end of the month, there’s the Sparrow’s Examination. Assuming I can find a way to get my qualification past Instructor Graysky, I’ll be able to purchase alchemy materials from the Sect.

But the very next day, there’s the auction at the Gold Moon Auction House. I might have to spend a lot of money if I want to get the amulet back.

Quest: A Birthright Recovered

Goal: Reclaim Rain’s heritage amulet at the auction.

Reward: Materials Box.

That’s my most important line. Uncripple my cultivation and reclaim Rain’s amulet.

Both of them require cold hard cash. The more I’m able to get, the better things will be. Considering the talents of the book, I’ll probably never be in a situation where I can’t use more money.

But…

Quest: Act of Charity

Goal: Cure or Tame Wild Swan’s Lightning Heart-Demon within 7 (0/7) days.

Reward: Nothing.

This is the most urgent.

I have only seven days to do something incredible. I don’t entirely know where to start.

Quest: Purification of the Body.

Goal: Eat nothing but spiritual food for 7 (0/7) days.

Reward: 10-Hour Practice Token.

And this one is easy enough that I might be able to do it at the same time.

So those three goals should guide my next week: make money, rescue Wild Swan from his Lightning Demon, and eat only spiritual food.

Booker paused as he passed a doorway, and stepped back, examining it carefully.

Have I gotten taller?

He rocked from his heels onto his toes. Booker was definitely about half an inch taller.

Must be the Iron Hell Crucible Pill.

For a moment he glanced back, at the door to the alchemy hall. It didn’t sit right with him– the old man had never shown anything but kindness to his foolish apprentice. And Booker genuinely had no clue what would convince him this was necessary.

Ah well.

I guess you can’t win ‘em all.

— — —

He made his way to the courtyard at the Sect’s gates, where a huge eight-foot pillar had been set in the middle of the pavilion. Hung on that pillar were bamboo slips carved with requests and missions from the city. They rattled like wooden bells in the wind.

Waving to the granny at the rewards kiosk counting out pill stamps and coins to a group of cultivators, Booker swept his eyes around the square. There was a group of novices who were on their knees around a small ring where chickens fought, feathers flying and talons flashing.

Another smaller group was sitting together on the steps up into the Sect, gossiping, novices and cultivators. This group was the ones who needed assistance for a request: they were waiting for someone else to come along who was interested in the same job.

But it was the last group of people that interested Booker, because he spotted a particular apprentice among them. A lanky novice with a blonde buzzcut, the one who’d tried to sell Booker cheap medicinal powders in the library.

Didn’t expect to see him again.

The lanky apprentice was one of the three central figures of the small group. Everyone else orbited around them, vying for their attention, but they were the powerful figures in the equation. Well…

The lanky apprentice seemed less important than the other two. He was in the inner circle in a way none of the toadies around them were, but the toadies seemed less interested in winning his approval.

Looks like the other two are the real players. These people are medicine dealers.

He stepped forward, walking up to the group.

“Eeeey, if it isn’t the Iron Cripple.” The eldest of the medicine dealers greeted him. She was a striking beauty with long black hair bound in two bows over her head and then allowed to fall in braids behind her back. Her earlobes were stretched by two massive disks of jade set into them as plug earrings. But she had something absolutely sneering about her smile. “What a celebrity.”

The other dealer was dressed in absolutely exquisite robes hemmed with golden thread. His hair was bowl-cut and jet black. “Ah, it’s such a shame I missed that show…” He leaned casually, one leg bent up with the foot planted on the wall behind him.

“Junior Brother greets his Elder Brothers and Sisters.” Booker replied, sticking to the Sect’s formal greeting.

“Oh, he’s polite.” The girl said.

“Hey you, where was this shit when we first met, huh?” The lanky apprentice immediately cut in, directing a furious stare at Booker, who had barely even turned the boy’s way yet.

“Did you try to sell him some of your powder, Yuxuan?” The girl snickered out, with sing-song sarcasm illuminating the word powder.

The lanky apprentice looked like he wanted to yell something out, going red-faced – but instead he buckled in his lip, leaned in to the bowl-cut youth’s ear, and whispered it behind the back of his hand. Booker didn’t catch what was said – but he saw Bowl Cut’s eyes light up.

“I’m told you have dangerous friends.” Bowl Cut said, seeming deeply amused.

Well shit I didn’t expect this to come back around so fast…

There’s the possibility this guy actually works for Zheng Bai, and knows I’m lying…

But I don’t know if admitting the truth would help, so I’m just gonna keep lying.

“You heard right. But I’m here on my own business.” Booker replied.

Book. I need a recipe that can help Wild Swan. Something that works with common ingredients the Sect is likely to have.

The pages flipped open, landing on…

Spiritual Earth Rebalancing Pill (Earth)

5-9% Potency // 16-20% Toxicity

Effect:

Neutralizes maladies, curses, and inner demons. Especially effective against lightning-attuned effects. Difficult to create due to requiring refined ingredients.

Ingredients:

3rd Refinement Earth-Type Beast Blood

3rd Refinement Earth-Type Frog Liver

3rd Refinement Earth-Type Koi Heartcore

Hmm…

“Beast blood, frog liver, and koi heartcore. Ten vials, ten livers, ten cores.” I’ll handle the refinement process myself. Otherwise, I’d probably have to pay hand and foot for these ingredients – probably more than I actually have to spend. “I haven’t passed the Sparrow’s Examination yet, so I need someone to buy them for me.”

“Oh?” Bowl Cut seemed amused. “I can’t think of any recipe that needs those three…”

“A mystery! Brothers, let me take this one. Cripple, you can have all of those for sixty liang if you show me what you’re using for them.” The girl leaned forward, stepping up to Booker.

His smile was thin and set. “And how much to keep my secrets?”

“Seventy-five liang, and the cost of knowing you’ve disappointed a pretty girl.” She tried.

“Sad to say, I can’t afford to give up my secrets for a smile. Seventy-five…” He counted out coins. “How soon can you have them brought to me?”

“Tomorrow.” She frowned. “Not even a hint?”

“A hint…” Is it better to give her nothing, or to hope that playing along means she won’t investigate further. “Sister, you’ll have to forgive me, I’m not good at playing these riddle games.” Better play it tight-lipped.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

He took a very cold step back. She laughed. “Uptight! Extremely serious. Stiff-backed old Master Ping has made a stiff-backed little apprentice man. Made him like a spirit beast in a jar.”

“Oh, is that how he’s so tough?” Bowl-Cut laughed. “Is junior brother a homunculus?”

“Tomorrow is good.” Booker replied, skipping all their foolishness. “Thank you.”

— — —

Going out into the city, Booker asked politely at the nearest teahouse if anybody had houses for rent. Within an hour he’d purchased a small cottage on the edge of the city, an extremely bare-bones shack with a raised foundation to keep out wild insects. It was pretty shabby as a living space went, but for Booker’s purposes it was perfect, especially as it had a small backyard that was shaded and concealed by oak trees.

He wouldn’t be sleeping here. Sect members were largely forbidden from living outside the Sect. He just needed somewhere to experiment.

Cicadas and moths buzzed out as soon as he opened the door. It seemed the house was less insect-proof than he’d hoped.

I’ll bring froggy around here. That’ll show them.

Ever since the golden frog had begun its recovery in Booker’s rooms, that apartment had become a fortress of death that no insect dared step foot inside. Any that did were added to the corpses lined up for Booker’s inspection each morning.

He clambered inside. There was enough room for the medicine chests, which was all Booker needed to store here, and he could use the back yard to experiment with alchemy.

If I come back here often enough, I can get a dog. That’ll solve the problem of thieves. For now, I’ll have Snips guard over it.

The mantis flickered off his shoulder and flew through the air, buzzing around the confines of the shack.

I still need something else.

The earth-type refinement for the materials was a laborious process. The book could describe it best:

Thunder Neutralization Jar Refinement Procedures

A refinement ritual of moderate difficulty that can be performed by non-cultivators, making it valuable despite its low limit of 3rd stage refinement.

Refinement procedure as follows:

1. Create a clay jar sized to hold roughly double the size of the refinement material.

2. Place the refinement material at the bottom, then cover with rich dark soil. Pack the soil to a firm consistency.

3. Pour in burning coals, and feed in small branches enough to burn long and strong.

4. Seal the jar with additional clay as the branches begin to burn.

5. Heat the sealed vessel in an oven, raising the temperature as high as possible.

6. The jar will crack open naturally. At this time, douse the oven’s heat immediately.

7. Cool the ingredients swiftly with ice.

If done correctly, material will be refined with a 10-60% success rate. The success rate depends on how much of the natural air energies are removed, and how long the vessel can sustain high temperatures before cracking.

So in short… It’s a primitive way of creating a vacuum… It wasn’t that complicated of a process, but the overall procedure took a lot of skill. Working with clay was a craft of its own, and it looked like Booker was going to have to learn.

But I can hire someone to build the actual oven for me in the backyard. That should save me several days of trying to figure out how to do it on my own.

Sure enough, there was a local potter who agreed to have an oven built for him by tomorrow. Booker was quickly burning through cash at this point: he had spent 20 liang to rent the space for a month, another 20 to have the oven built, and another 75 for the ingredients.

Adding that up to 115 liang hurt a fair bit…

But I’ll make money back at the market today. With my alchemy powers, there isn’t much chance of staying poor for long.

While I’m waiting for the oven and the ingredients, there’s not much else left to do here, except move the medicine chests.

So…

He took a small bundle from his robes. It was the white-furred cape he’d bought in the market, cut into tassels that resembled feathers. Wrapped inside was the fortune teller’s mask.

— — —

He arrived to the market in disguise, his injured arm concealed under the fur cape, and handed the unsuspecting clerk a golden hundred-liang coin.

“For the license.” Booker explained, his voice disguised by herbs so it was a deep, scratchy croaking. The herbs made his throat itch horribly, but it was worth it for the added layer of protection. This market was close enough to the Sect that running into someone he knew was inevitable.

“Ahhh… We have to see your face…” The clerk started to mumble out. Another ten liang hit the counter. “Nevermind sir.”

The clerk drew out an impressive-looking seal. It was carved from ivory with a dragon curled around the handle. He stamped down on a slip of paper written with dense legal jargon, and passed it over to Booker.

“This license entitles you to sell Earth-Grade medicines in this market. If the Sect finds anything they deem Sky-Grade, they are entitled to buy it from you at a fair price.”

Or more realistically, seize it and offer me pennies.

Sky and Earth-Grade… Antiquated names for the upper and lower reaches of Dull-Grade medicines. I guess to whoever wrote the book, they were so similar as to be the same. But down here, Earth-Grade and Sky-Grade are a world apart.

“Don’t worry. I’m only going to be selling medicines made with ingredients sold here, in the market.”

The scribe paused, and looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and deeply ringed with dark pouches bagged up underneath. “Are you a pillmaker?”

“Yes, why…” Booker paused. The veins in the man’s eyes were black. “You’re showing signs of pill toxicity.”

“Yes,” He nodded, clearly miserable. “I was taking some for ah, a personal matter of pride, and they work well enough, but the moment I stop taking them my hair starts falling out again. It’s been two weeks and…”

“Two weeks. And you’ve been taking a pill daily?” Booker asked.

The man nodded. He was a thin, gray-haired man whose skin was withered tight to his skull, a wiry beard standing out on his chin.

No prizes for figuring out what happened here.

The pill must be truly low-quality. Low enough Potency that it doesn’t fully do its job, so he has to keep taking them.

And high enough Toxicity to add up.

Toxicity was the constant price of using pills. Every pill had a certain percentage of Toxicity, and you could understand it as a chance of lingering side effects. 100% Toxicity would be a guarantee of consequence, and likely lethal ones. Thankfully, anything below 30% or so Toxicity was considered ‘safe’. While these pills could have side effects, they would be almost invisible unless you were constantly taking pills.

So he takes them until lingering Toxicity kicks in.

Lingering Toxicity was poison left in the body after taking a pill. The body would naturally flush these out, but the shorter a time you waited before taking another pill, the more the first pill’s Toxicity would stack up with the new pill.

This guy’s stacked up enough pills that the old Toxicity is never leaving his system. So it just builds up, getting higher each day.

“Stop taking that medication immediately. It’s poisoning you.” Booker said. “And whoever gave them to you, don’t trust them again.”

“But my hair…” He said.

“I’ll make you a medicine that will solve that permanently.” And I’ll try to make it as non-Toxic as possible. “But you’ll have to wait to take it. Right now, adding another pill to the mixture in your veins could kill.”

“Hmmm.” The old man combed his hair with a distressed look in his eyes. But slowly, that changed to suspicion. Booker could see the thoughts turning. Who was this masked stranger insisting he was in deadly peril? He felt a little under the weather, sure. But it was hardly a matter of life and death. More likely, this stranger was trying to con him. “And how much would this medicine cost?”

“Nothing. I’ll bring the medicine to you tomorrow.” Booker said, just to watch the man’s mental train derail. He smirked under his mask as he said. “Just send people my way. Tell them that because I’m a new alchemist, there won’t be any customers in front of them and they’ll get their medicine right away. And tell them I’ll match the price of anyone in this market.”

Usually it took a week or more to meet an alchemist. And they were so in demand outside of the Sect that it could take two weeks to get your medicine. These delays were probably why the man hadn’t been helped before; any alchemist could have said what was wrong with him, but going to an alchemist meant spending money and, even more importantly, time he didn’t have.

“Think of it as me letting you sample my merchandise, so you can recommend it to others.” Booker added.

“Huh.” He stroked his beard. “That’s a pretty shrewd deal, sir. Alright… Today I’ll send customers your way. But if that pill’s no good, tomorrow, you won’t see a single client at your doorstep.”

Booker nodded, taking the license and departing.

In a short time he was back with several laborers and a market tent, setting up his space. It would be a small, closed tent, in comparison to the large open canopies of the nearby market stalls. Booker couldn’t compete – but he could maintain a sense of mystery.

I can’t afford to remain here for long. This market is mostly for the middle-class.

I want to get a reputation that will attract rich clients. People I can charge four or five times the price without even hurting them.

The old man kept his word: customers arrived soon after. A young man and woman seeking a fertility cure, a middle-aged man complaining of an aching tooth, and so on. Booker met them all with the unmoving smile of his mask and an equally unmoving politeness. Over the last few days, he’d done a lifetime’s worth of lying, and he’d been pretending to be someone he wasn’t every waking moment. It had done something to him. He no longer felt any pressure from lying. Nothing squeezed or constricted in his chest and his pulse didn’t even rise when he had to invent a new lie.

His performance as ‘Rain’ had been do or die. Now he got to occupy a different part, and Booker found himself naturally approaching it like a theater actor might, subtly adjusting his voice and mannerisms to create an image of himself: detached, professional, and remote.

He greeted the patients, explained his prescription, and took their money. They’d be back tomorrow to collect the medicine: the license acted as a deposit to keep scam-artists from disappearing with the money.

But even a fairly busy afternoon for an alchemist had long empty stretches, and didn’t occupy much of his attention.

He spent his time and energy gazing out from the edge of the tent, taking in the market. In particular his gaze settled on the competition. He was hardly the only Sect alchemist to think of this hustle: most of the other alchemists in the market were established members of the Sect, and had tents and stalls worked by their apprentices, novice Sect members bustling around the market doing petty tasks and sweeping the cobblestones.

It wasn’t unusual to put your apprentice to work like this. Most apprentices only trained under the master a small portion of their time, and spent the majority of their service earning a wage they gave directly to their master.

I was lucky to get the old man…

Goddamn it…

Really lucky.

The largest of the alchemist tents naturally belonged to the richest and most prestigious alchemist in the market. This was Instructor Greenmoon, and Booker recognized the name. It was the same Instructor who was credited with rescuing him from a ‘street fight’ and bringing him to the infirmary.

In short…

Instructor Greenmoon had been the mysterious Instructor betting on the fight.

Booker knew he had captured the man’s attention. Now he was curious: how did Greenmoon treat those who worked under him?

The man himself only showed up to the market once, and while he was there, every apprentice was on their best behavior. They stood stiff-backed like soldiers, attending to his every need. The Instructor took a leisurely seat in a chair that was hurried forward by two apprentices, who appeared behind him without any need for him to gesture or call. He reached out, and like magic there was a golden cup of wine waiting for his hand. The sheer rigor of the routine was stunning: he had his apprentices trained like mechanical men.

He sat in his chair and drank his wine, conversing idly with a rich customer. As the customer left, satisfied that they’d received the actual alchemist’s attention instead of an attendant. Once they were gone, Greenmoon rose, waved for the chair and the wine to be taken away, and walked off without looking back once.

As soon as he was out of sight, the apprentices slumped their shoulders and heaved sighs of relief.

Looks like he’s… demanding, to say the least. Booker thought, grimacing beneath his mask.

As the apprentices relaxed, there was an accident. One apprenticed stepped backwards, his elbow struck the cup of wine sitting on a table, and it splashed over the chair.

You could have drawn a Renaissance classic out of the poses of horror the apprentices all struck in that moment. The nearest apprentice was clutching his hair, aghast, eyes bulging fully out of his socket as the hands in his hair pulled his skin tight to his skull. The apprentice who’d actually done the deed had recoiled like the wine cup burned to the touch, and was currently frozen there, balancing on the toetips of one foot like the floor was repellent to touch. The last apprentice had made a dive to catch the cup, and was lying facefirst on the ground.

And then the moment of horror ended, and they all unfroze, and the one grasping his hair shouted “YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

The on one of the floor scrambled up and grabbed the one who’d done it in a headlock, whipping punches onto the back of his head. The first one grabbed ahold of his hair and began to rip at it. “STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!” He repeated.

“I can fix it I can wash it let me go!” The one in their grip begged. “Let me go its going to set we have to clean it now!” His words tumbled out like a river as they dragged him and the chair out behind the tent. A moment after the fabric of the tent had fallen still, the oldest of the apprentices stepped back through and returned to serving the horrified customer who’d witnessed it all.

By this point, Booker was already in motion. He walked at a hurried pace around the back end of the market, the alleyways for workers between the tents.

What he arrived to was a truly miserable scene: the youngest apprentice frantically trying to wash out the stain with water and no soap, on his hands and knees scrubbing at the chair.

“He’ll kill us.” The other apprentice said frankly, marching in a wide circle. Every time he came back to the start of the circle, he would kick the young apprentice hard in the ribs. Every time the whimper of pain in response got less pronounced. “He’s going to kill us!”

“Nobody’s going to kill you. Stop kicking him.” Booker said, interrupting them. The frantic scrubbing stopped for a moment as the apprentices looked up at the masked man above them.

“No, maybe not, but we’ll be whipped for sure.” The one doing the kicking spat out. “And I don’t know you and I don’t give a fuck so go away.”

“Don’t help don’t help me. I don’t fucking deserve it.” The other one said in a choked, small voice. “It’s not fucking coming out!”

They aren’t kidding are they.

He would have them whipped over a wine stain on a chair.

They’re fourteen.

“Both of you need to shut up and turn around.” Booker said.

“Why the fuck would we–”

“Because you aren’t getting out of this without a miracle. And I’m offering you one.” Booker said, very calmly. Sometimes all very frightened people need to hear is a certain level of calm, and they just followed whatever that calm voice said.

They turned around.

Booker ran his hand over the stain and thought, Dialyze.

A clean shimmering disk of water materialized across the surface of the fabric. It filled the tiny spaces between stitches, the surface tension rippling as it sank down into the material, pulling out threads of rosy pink wine.

But wait there’s more. It also dissolves pills, purifies ghosts, and it’s only nine easy installments of nine ninety five..

Doing magic will never stop feeling like cheating.

He was grinning underneath his mask, the natural response to a hammer-wielding mind that had just found a nail-shaped problem. As he pulled his hand away, the shimmering water pulled the wine out of the cushion completely.

Booker let the water splash to the ground and stain the cobbles instead.

“You can turn back around.” He said.

“Who has a secret cleaning technique?” The kicker demanded. But despite his skepticism, the stain was gone.

“Who the fuck cares we’re saved.” Groaned the kickee.

“You’ll have to forgive me.” Booker said. “I don’t answer questions.” He turned and left them, walking away from a sort of stunned, silent gratitude.

Well shit. He thought.

Instructor Greenmoon looks like a real piece of work. A stickler for details, not terribly grateful for good work, and willing to literally fucking torture anyone who makes a minor mistake.

But I’m an alchemist apprentice without a master. If I go too long, the Sect will take notice and take away my alchemy privileges. Then I’d be stuck buying at double price through the dealers. I’m surprised that hasn’t already happened.

An apprentice needs a master.