The cave smelled like incense and lies.
We knew it before we reached the entrance. The path leading up was lined with small flags, each one inscribed with characters that roughly translated to "THIS WAY TO HEALING," "MIRACLES AWAIT," and "SPIRIT STONES ACCEPTED." There was a distinct lack of subtlety. A sign at the base of the path had been painted recently, the characters still bright, the wood fresh. This operation was new.
"Professional," Han said.
"Very."
"Healing miracles. Guaranteed results. Satisfaction or your spirit stones back."
"He has a refund policy?"
"Doesn't say that. Just 'spirit stones accepted.' The interpretation is left to the customer."
I looked at the cave entrance. It was draped in silk — cheap silk, the kind that frayed at the edges and faded in the sun, dyed a purple that was supposed to look regal but instead looked like someone had tried to color a bedsheet with grape juice. An incense burner sat on a rock nearby, producing a column of thick, sweet smoke that smelled faintly of artificial cherry. The kind of scent that was meant to cover up something worse.
"We're going to walk in there," I said, "and a man in robes is going to say something profound. He's going to reference the 'flow of heaven's energy' at least three times. He's going to offer us a 'miracle pill' that is definitely just a painted rock. And then he's going to ask for all our money."
"That's suspiciously specific."
"I've watched enough TV to know a televangelist setup when I see one, Han. The aesthetics are different but the structure is identical. Bad lighting. Cheap props. Overwhelming smell. A man in expensive robes telling you that your problems can be solved for a price."
"We don't have any money."
"The people in those TV shows didn't either. That never stopped them from asking."
We walked in.
The cave was larger than it looked from outside. A central chamber had been converted into a treatment room, complete with cushions, more incense burners, and a man in flowing white robes seated on a raised platform. His eyes were closed. His hands were resting on his knees, palms up. A single beam of light fell from a hole in the cave ceiling, illuminating him like a divine revelation.
He looked like he'd spent an hour setting up this exact pose.
He opened his eyes. "Ah. Travelers. This one sensed your approach from a great distance. The heaven's energy shimmered with your presence."
"This one," I muttered to Han, "really likes the sound of his own voice."
"Esteemed guests." The hermit rose, robes flowing. "You have come to the right place. This one has spent a hundred years mastering the art of the heavenly pill. This one's remedies can cure any ailment, break any curse, mend any wound."
"Even poison?" I asked.
"Especially poison. This one's Celestial Purification Pill can draw venom from the blood like a flower draws water from the soil."
"How much?"
The hermit smiled. It was a practiced smile. "For such a rare and potent remedy, the standard price is one thousand spirit stones."
I looked at Han. Han looked at me.
"One thousand," I repeated.
"A bargain, for a pill that can save your life."
"Do you accept credit?"
The hermit's smile flickered. "...Credit?"
"Installments. A payment plan. You know, layaway."
"This one does not understand."
"Let me ask you something." I walked closer to his platform. "How long have you been here?"
"A hundred years, as this one said."
"Right. A hundred years. And in that time, how many customers have you successfully healed?"
The hermit's smile tightened. "Many."
"Can you name one?"
"A healer does not keep records of his patients. It is a matter of confidentiality."
"Convenient. Can I see your pill?"
The hermit hesitated. Then he produced a small wooden box, opening it to reveal a single golden pill, perfectly round, gleaming in the light.
It looked exactly like the beads on a necklace I'd seen at a vendor's stall in the market two weeks ago.
"May I?" I reached for it.
The hermit hesitated again, then handed it over. I held it up to the light, examined it, sniffed it.
"Han. Does this smell like paint to you?"
Han took the pill, sniffed it, and handed it back. "It smells exactly like the paint they used on the building we slept in last night."
"Interesting."
The hermit's composure cracked. "That is— This one's Celestial Purification Pill is—"
"The bead I saw at a market stall for three spirit stones would like to dispute that claim."
Silence.
The hermit stared at me. I stared back.
"Your poetry is plagiarized too, by the way," I continued. "The line about 'heaven's energy shimmering' is word for word from a cultivation manual that costs five silver taels at any bookstore. I read it in a ditch three days ago."
The hermit's face went through several emotions in rapid succession: offense, panic, calculation, and finally, resignation.
"...Do you still want the pill?"
"No."
"I can discount it. Eight hundred."
"If I wanted a painted bead, I could paint one myself for free. I have access to paint."
"Five hundred. My final offer."
"I have three spirit stones to my name. All of them are currently in a jar that Han is carrying. The jar is also empty."
Han held up the jar. It was, indeed, empty.
The hermit looked at the jar. At me. At Han. At the empty jar again. His composure collapsed entirely.
"THEN WHY DID YOU WASTE MY TIME? DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG I WAITED FOR A CUSTOMER?"
"Because I wanted to see the face of the man who thought 'mysterious cave healer' was a good scam pitch in a world where every third building has a 'mysterious cave healer.' You're not even a good scammer. You're a guy in a robe with painted beads and a borrowed script."
The hermit opened his mouth to respond.
He was interrupted by a distant shout from outside the cave: "HEY! THAT GUY IN THE CAVE SOLD ME A FAKE PILL! MY WARTHOG IS STILL SICK!"
The hermit's face went pale.
"There's more of you?"
"There's a line outside, apparently. You've been busy."
He looked from me to the cave entrance to the painted bead still in my hand. For a moment, I thought he was going to fight. Then he grabbed a bag from behind his platform, shoved a handful of spirit stones into it, and sprinted for a crack in the back wall of the cave. His robes snagged on a rock and tore, revealing cheap cotton underneath.
"THIS ISN'T OVER," he shouted over his shoulder.
"It kind of is, though."
He disappeared into the darkness. A moment later, I heard the sound of someone falling down a hill, then swearing, then silence.
I looked at Han.
"Well," I said. "That was—"
I stopped.
The world tilted.
I sat down heavily on the nearest cushion, my vision swimming. The adrenaline of the confrontation had been masking something — the poison hadn't stopped spreading. It was at my collarbone now, the purple veins branching out like a tree frozen mid-growth. The skin around the wound was hot enough to feel through my sleeve. My fingers were starting to tingle. That was a new symptom, and not a welcome one.
"Caelan."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You just sat down in a scammer's cave and your eyes are unfocused."
"I'm taking a moment."
"You're collapsing."
"I'm... resting aggressively."
Han knelt beside me. His face was worried. That was new. Han had been through a lot in the past few days — betrayal, rescue, MTL detox, a Patriarch exploding, a wall exploding, a tavern exploding — but this was the first time I'd seen genuine worry on his face.
"We need to find a real healer," he said.
"We will. Just need a minute."
My system interface flickered. For a moment, the normal GUI dissolved, and I saw raw code scrolling past — lines of text that resolved into a single clear image before I could look away:
[CHARACTER FILE: CAELAN MACGREGOR] [CLASS: GLITCH ENTITY] [HP: N/A] [STATUS: POISONED (UNSUPPORTED DAMAGE TYPE)] [BACKSTORY: Office worker. B-minus in Business Administration. Single. No dependents.] [WORTH: TBD BY SECTOR 9-C AUDIT]
I stared at the last line. WORTH: TBD BY SECTOR 9-C AUDIT.
TBD. To be determined.
My entire existence in this world was a performance review waiting to happen.
"Caelan." Han's voice. "You're staring at nothing again."
I closed the interface. "Let's go find that real healer."
He helped me up. We walked out of the cave, past the line of villagers who had gathered to confront the fraud hermit, past the warthog that was still sick, past the cheap silk flags fluttering in the wind.
The mountain air was cold. My arm was hot.
And somewhere in the system, a file on me was being prepared for review.