Ch. 003| Seeing It True

The 7 coppers had barely warmed in his palm before Lai San had spread the word.

Within a few days, poor rogue cultivators from West Street began finding their way to the alley behind Hundred Herbs to look for Lin Que. They were all of Lai San's sort—men who drilled the same breathing manual everyone owned, stuck at the second or third layer of Qi Condensation, unable to afford a good pill yet unable to let go of that itch to cultivate. As before, Lin Que sold the revived Death-Black Pills quietly, 2 coppers apiece; to anyone who asked where they came from, he only said he'd patched them together from scrap pills he'd picked up, and not a word more.

A whole sack of Death-Black Pills, mended bit by bit—he scraped them from cleaning the vats, patched them one by one through the night, and just managed to keep up. Half a month on, the coppers gathered in his palm strung together into a string for the first time, hanging heavy against his chest.

This string of coppers was more than he'd saved in 3 years. But he didn't dare show the faintest joy—more money meant more eyes watching. He split the coppers and hid them in several places, one under the bed board, one kept against his body. Until he had the stake to leave the market, he couldn't let anyone see how a Hundred Herbs pill boy had come by this much money.

But in this poor pot that was West Street, he had never been the only one fishing.

The ones who collected West Street's "dues" were Black Wind Hall's men. The one who ran this patch for the Hall was called Hu Biao, seventh layer of Qi Condensation—he'd reached the seventh layer barely past twenty, and the market said his roots ran true. Whether the rogue cultivators below believed it was another matter; in any case no one dared ask to his face.

Hu Biao also had a trade of his own in hand: the rush pill.

He sold it specially to poor rogue cultivators stuck at a barrier, said it could force a push through, 3 spirit stones apiece, a hundred times dearer than Hundred Herbs' Qi Condensation Powder. Swallow it, and the qi surged up a notch all at once, sweet relief in the moment; but once the force passed, the qi sank back, sank even lower than before. Once a poor rogue cultivator had tasted that sweetness of "surging up," he couldn't quit, buying them one after another, pouring every scrap of his cultivation stake into Hu Biao's pill pouch.

Black Wind Hall counted for nothing in the market at large, but in this little plot of dirt that was West Street, it was heaven. As for who the Hall's master was, hardly any of West Street's poor rogue cultivators had ever seen him; they knew only that the Hall kept a batch of disciples like Hu Biao, set to collecting dues, pushing rush pills, and crushing anyone who wouldn't fall in line. Lin Que had known all this from the start. He'd chosen to sell his mended pills piecemeal on West Street for a reason—West Street was poor, its people mixed, the dues collected loosely; a pill boy leaking a few pills here shouldn't have drawn an eye.

Only the mended pills worked too well, too well to hide.

The moment his mended pills surfaced, the poor pot sprang a leak. The Lai Sans had taken his revived pills, their qi mended even and steady, money saved—who would still go buy Hu Biao's rush pills that surged once and then sank?

---

On the afternoon of the seventeenth day, Lin Que had just come out of West Street when the mouth of the alley was blocked.

Hu Biao leaned sideways against the wall, a man to either side of him. He stood a head taller than Lin Que, in a short silk jacket, a bulging pill pouch hanging at his waist.

"The pill boy from Hundred Herbs?" Hu Biao sneered. "Selling pills on my West Street, and not even a word of tribute."

Lin Que kept his eyes lowered. "Master Hu jests. I patch scrap pills together any old way; they don't fetch much."

"Don't fetch much?" Hu Biao planted a foot against the wall, looking down from above. "Those few, the Lai San lot—they haven't bought my pills this whole half month. Tell me, was it you who cut off my income?"

Before Lin Que could answer, one of the men stepped up and slapped him across the face.

This slap he had known would come, days ago. Cross Hu Biao's income on West Street, and the day was bound to arrive sooner or later; only when it truly came, it was still faster than he'd thought.

Lin Que didn't dodge. He couldn't, and didn't dare—dodging would only earn him a worse beating. Half his face swelled up, burning, and he tasted the thread of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.

And in that instant his head was bowed, the spot of heat beneath his left eye stirred.

The pill pouch at Hu Biao's waist hung open at the mouth, half a pill showing. Lin Que's eye swept over it—

A rush pill. But across the face of that pill floated a faint thread of dark, a different stripe of flaw from the Death-Black Pills. This pill's qi had been forced—"driven"—out by main strength, driven to the third turn and left with a flaw there. Swallowed ordinarily, it surged a notch, sank a notch, no harm done; but eat the pill, then drive the qi hard to its peak, past that flaw at the third turn—

Backlash. Qi deviation, on the spot.

Something lit up in Lin Que's mind.

He couldn't see a living man's qi, couldn't read the truth of Hu Biao's seventh layer. But he could see this pill. This seventh layer of Hu Biao's had most likely been piled up rush pill by rush pill; his roots weren't necessarily true, his qi foundation was hollow, the whole show held up by that one "driving" force. The thing holding up the show is the thing most afraid of being poked.

His thoughts ran fast. He, a pill boy at the third layer of Qi Condensation, going head-on against Hu Biao was a dead end—couldn't win, couldn't run; on West Street, the rules were Hu Biao. But the flaw in this rush pill was a way out: he need only force Hu Biao to drive his own qi past the third turn, and that seventh layer would turn on its own owner.

The hard part was that word, "force." Hu Biao wouldn't drive his qi to its peak for no reason; he had to be left no choice, had to be struck on the very pride he guarded most.

"Master Hu," Lin Que lifted his head, cupping the swollen half of his face, his voice not trembling, "this seventh layer of yours—you climbed it in quite a hurry."

Hu Biao's face darkened. "What did you say?"

"Nothing." Lin Que lowered his head, then, as if he couldn't help himself, added, "I just see it... your qi, it's gone hollow a touch fast. Likely won't hold through the third turn."

The few poor rogue cultivators looking on around them drew a sharp breath.

To say openly that a seventh-layer cultivator was "hollow on qi, can't hold through the third turn"—that struck at the root. Hu Biao's bit of "true-rooted" dignity rested entirely on no one daring to touch it.

Hu Biao's face flushed liver-dark. "You third-layer trash, you're fit to talk about my qi?"

He fished a rush pill from his pouch and, in front of everyone, swallowed it. His chest swelled, his momentum lurching up a notch.

"Let me show you what a seventh layer is."

He seized Lin Que by the throat, hoisted him off the ground, and poured qi into his palm.

That qi came scalding, boring in down his throat. Lin Que felt only a smothering tightness, his toes kicking at empty air. Of the rogue cultivators looking on around them, not one dared step forward—on West Street, watching Black Wind Hall's men beat some poor pill boy to death was nothing new.

Throttled, unable to draw breath, his vision going black, Lin Que stared dead at Hu Biao and forced the last three words out through his teeth:

"Past... the third turn now."

Hu Biao froze.

And in that one freeze, he reflexively pushed the qi up another fraction—he meant to prove, before everyone, that he could pass the third turn.

The qi struck that flaw.

Hu Biao let out a muffled grunt, the hand throttling Lin Que's throat suddenly going slack. He staggered back two steps, his face turning from red to ashen, a mouthful of blood spraying onto West Street's grey flagstones. The qi ran wild through his meridians, unable to run back; his whole body convulsed and he dropped to his knees, another mouthful of blood, the pill pouch at his waist breaking loose and scattering, rush pills rolling across the ground.

The 2 men were dumbstruck, scrambling to hold him up.

Lin Que dropped to sit on the ground, clutching his burning throat, gasping for breath.

All around, dead silence.

The rogue cultivators looking on glanced at Hu Biao spitting blood and convulsing, then at the pill boy sitting on the ground—a third-layer of Qi Condensation, who had just said "can't hold through the third turn," and the words were barely out before the seventh-layer Hu Biao went into deviation.

No one grasped the trick in between. In their eyes, the pill boy was uncanny—one sentence, and he'd cursed a seventh layer to the ground. But some did recall the rush pill Hu Biao had just swallowed in front of everyone, and for the first time a doubt began to drum in their hearts: that barrier-breaking rush pill—could it truly break a barrier? Or did pushing and pushing only break a man into the state Hu Biao was in now?

In the crowd, Lai San had squeezed in at the back, dragging his half-crippled leg, watching Lin Que's retreating back. He opened his mouth, but in the end didn't dare make a sound. He knew better than anyone how miraculous that pill boy's pills were—but he also knew better than anyone that a skill miraculous enough to curse a seventh layer to the ground, in this market, was hard to say whether it was a blessing or a curse.

Lin Que braced himself against the wall and climbed up. A rush pill was rolling right by his foot; he bent down, as if steadying himself against the wall to catch his breath, and in the same motion gathered the pill into his sleeve.

Keep it. The flaw in this pill—he wanted to look at it more closely.

He didn't spare Hu Biao another glance, and dragged his steps slowly out of the alley. Behind him were the cursing of the men and Hu Biao's broken, fitful groans.

At the talisman stall, Lame Yu called him over, pressed a fairly clean strip of cloth into his hand to wipe his face, and lowered his voice.

"Boy, what you've poked at today is more than Hu Biao alone." There was something hard to read in Lame Yu's eyes. "Black Wind Hall pays back every grudge, however small. Hu Biao went into deviation in front of everyone. That debt—the Hall will reckon it to your head sooner or later."

Lin Que took the cloth and pressed it to his swollen face. It burned, sharp.

"I know," he said.

He did know. Today's blow had let out a breath, and it had set a name for himself too—from now on, on West Street, no one would lightly touch his pills. But the price was that he had fallen, from a pill boy no one cared about, into Black Wind Hall's eye, become a name the Hall had marked down.

Black Wind Hall had marked his name, and over in Well-Bottom Lane someone too was looking for a man who could mend pills. The pot that was the market was closing in, inch by inch, around his neck. He was more anxious than before to leave—but leaving took a stake, and the stake had to be earned in this very pot that was closing tighter and tighter.

The rush pill in his sleeve lay against his wrist, cool. On the way back to the shop, he touched it, and there was only one thought in his mind: a seventh layer Hu Biao had piled up out of this pill—if it could be piled up, it had a flaw. In this market, those propping up a show with this sort of pill were likely more than Hu Biao alone.

---

That night, back at his rented room, he barred the window and set the rush pill under the lamp to study it closely.

His left eye warmed, and that driven-out flaw showed clear—the flaw at the third turn, its course and depth bearing some likeness to the one at the Root's position in the Death-Black Pills, as if it came of the same hand's stripe. He stared at it a long while, and some blurred thought in his mind was just taking shape: these spoiled pills in the market—could they all come from the same tampering hand...

The thought hadn't taken shape before his vision went black again; he couldn't hold it. He rubbed his eyes and pressed the suspicion down for now—as it was, he couldn't even see clearly the flaw in his own cultivation method; thinking this far was too far.

He wrapped the rush pill in oilpaper and hid it together with the string of coppers. He hadn't seen through the flaw in this pill yet—but once he did, it might be another way to make money.

【Ch. 003 End · the alley mouth on West Street → the Hundred Herbs Pill Shop】