The gray light of the twenty-fifth morning filtered through the cracks of the stone wall, casting thin lines across the packed dirt floor.
Airan sat cross-legged on his mat, the small wooden room quiet save for the soft, steady breathing of the pup curled near his feet.
For thirty minutes, he forced his awareness inward, guiding his dense, slow-moving Qi along the familiar pathways of his Dantian.
A dull, restrictive ache settled deep in his lower abdomen—the enduring scar of the injury sustained on the first day of the month.
Since then, his daily meditation had been permanently halved, restricted by the damaged channels that refused to process energy at their previous speed.
He broke the concentration, letting out a measured breath, and opened his eyes.
Four days remained until the end of the thirtieth day.
Four days until rent was due again, and his food store, supplemented only by the remaining dry rice, was nearly exhausted.
Airan looked down at the floor.
The puppy, now twenty-five days old, stretched its small frame, its coat sleek and eyes bright from weeks of being nourished on boiled and crushed spiritual rice grain.
It bounded up with a burst of high-pitched energy, nuzzling against his ankle before trotting toward the door.
Airan stood, testing his weight on his left leg.
The bone and muscle had knit together enough to bear his full mass without a limp, but a lingering stiffness reminded him that without healing pills—luxuries he had not been able to afford since his life savings vanished on Day 1—a full, unhindered recovery would take another month of careful strain.
He reached for his worn leather pouch, empty of spirit stones, and fastened a crude, reinforced hand-guard around his left forearm.
For weeks, he had weighed the alternatives.
The deep-mountain herb collecting he had initially considered was a path he decided against; the payouts were unpredictable, the terrain demanded physical exertion, and beasts claimed lives.
He decided to quit as an herb collector and became a cave mouse hunter.
Stepping out into the crisp air with the pup darting ahead, Airan made his way toward the low hills at the edge of the settlement, heading directly for the limestone fissures where the shadows stayed damp year-round.
The cave rets were low-tier beasts, but they were territorial, family-oriented, and fiercely protective of their nests.
Every thirty days, a mother gave birth to a litter of ten.
Their value lay entirely in their utility: their sharp teeth and long nails secreted a toxin used by people as poison antidotes in arrowheads.
The market rate was fixed at one spirit stone for every two carcasses delivered.
Airan reached the mouth of the primary cavern, where the air grew heavy with the distinct, copper-and-musk stench of the nest.
He planted his boots against the uneven stone and stepped past the threshold into the dark.
Author’s Note: Thanks for reading Chapter 5 !
Airan’s journey from a penniless herb collector to a spirit distiller starts here.