The kitchen smelled like rat droppings and stale flour.
The flint scraped the fire-stone. One weak spark bit the kindling and vanished.
I struck it again. The skin on my thumb scraped against the jagged edge of the stone. A thin line of blood welled up. It didn't hurt much, but it was annoying. It was the specific, grinding annoyance of a man who used to debug complex data architectures and was now failing to operate a rock.
"You are losing," the voice said. It didn't echo. It scraped directly against the inside of my forehead. "To a piece of flint."
I didn't answer.
I closed my eyes, digging for Wei Liang's muscle memory. The energy pathways were right there in my head. I pointed my index finger at the wood, waiting for the spark.
Nothing. Not even a breeze.
"If I placed a mortal turnip on that hearth," Old Geezer said, "it would gather more spiritual energy by accidentally existing."
I leaned against the counter. The edge dug into my hip, sticky with old grease. "Explain it to me again. Slower this time. I need to know exactly how screwed I am."
A sigh pushed against the back of my eyes.
"The array isn't a transaction," Old Geezer warned. "You can't buy it. You can't steal it. You have to earn it."
"Pretend," Old Geezer whispered, "and your spinal fluid boils. Try it. I could use the entertainment."
I pressed my thumb against my eyelid until colors popped in the dark. "So I have to actually make friends. In a world where people routinely murder each other over a glowing weed."
"You have to do more than make friends. But yes, that is the general catastrophe of your situation."
I hit the stone again. And again. On the seventh try, a miserable little flame chewed into the kindling. It smelled like burning hair and centuries of dust.
I needed a routine. Anything normal. There was a ceramic jar pushed all the way to the back of the highest shelf. Inside were dried leaves that looked like twisted silver wire. Wei Liang's memories demanded water at exact first-boil and a pot warmed by Qi. I had a rusted iron kettle and zero Qi.
I dumped a handful of the leaves into a rusted iron kettle and shoved it directly over the crackling flames.
I was a software engineer. My relationship with caffeine involved tearing open foil packets at three in the morning while staring at a glowing monitor. I didn't have the patience for a ceremony. My breaths were coming too short, catching somewhere near the top of my throat.
The water hammered the sides of the kettle. The silver leaves dissolved into something that looked like old swamp water.
I poured it into a chipped cup. It smelled like hot copper and burnt pine, but I drank it anyway.
My tongue went entirely numb. The bitterness bypassed my taste buds and struck directly at my jaw hinge. I gagged, forcing it down.
"Fascinating," Old Geezer said.
I set the cup down. "Don't."
"You possess the memories of a master who spent ten years perfecting that ceremony," Old Geezer said. "And you applied the technique of a starving animal boiling weeds. This is impressive in its specific way."
"It's hot," I choked out. "That's enough."
"Your nervous system is about to require a great deal more grounding."
I grabbed the cast-iron skillet off the table, just to test my grip. My wrist immediately shook. The metal dragged downward.
Wei Liang's muscles were built for Qi. Without it, they were just dead weight. If a blade came at my neck right now, my brain would calculate the perfect parry, and my arms wouldn't lift fast enough to stop it.
I set the skillet down. The metal clanged loudly in the quiet kitchen.
The crash vibrated through the floorboards from the front gates.
Thick wood screaming, then snapping violently. The vibration traveled through the flagstones, up my boots, and settled in my molars.
Zhou Bao's scream followed three seconds later. A sharp, breathless shriek. "Sect Master! Sect Master!"
I stared at the chipped teacup. I couldn't move my feet.
"Five of them," Old Geezer said. "Armed. Full Qi. You have a bleeding thumb and terrible tea. Good luck."
I wiped my hands on my robes. The silk was cold. My fingers were colder.
I swallowed. "Are... are any of them women?"
"All men."
"You could try asking them politely to leave."
My boots wanted to pivot toward the back door. The forest was right there. I could just run.
Instead, my spine snapped straight. My chin lifted a fraction of an inch without my permission. I adjusted my collar. I smoothed the wrinkles from the dark fabric of my sleeves.
I walked out of the kitchen and into the open corridor overlooking the central courtyard.
Five men stood in the ruins of the main gate. They wore robes of deep crimson, scaled patterns embroidered along the sleeves. Crimson Scale Sect. They carried heavy, curved broadswords unholstered. The man in the front kicked a splintered beam out of his path, not even looking down to see where it landed.
Zhou Bao was pinned against a pillar, gripping the broom handle so tight his knuckles were stark white. He was crying again.
I stood in the shadows of the corridor, out of sight.
Five of them. No Qi in my veins. Just me and a crying kid.
If they saw the software engineer behind my eyes, they'd break my legs just for the noise it made. I couldn't flinch.
I forced the muscles around my eyes to go dead. I let my hands fold neatly behind my back, hiding the bleeding thumb.
I stepped out of the shadows and walked toward the stairs. I didn't look at their swords. I didn't look at the kid. I just walked.