The morning sun had barely crested the jagged peaks surrounding Oakhaven when Vince forced his eyes open.
His body was a map of dull, throbbing pain. The bruises left by Garrick the previous day had deepened into a dark, angry purple across his ribs and back. His stomach growled, a hollow, scraping sensation that reminded him he hadn't eaten a proper meal in days.
In his past life as Kaelen, the Sovereign of the Azure Peak, mornings had been heralded by the chiming of jade bells and the scent of burning spiritual incense. He would wake feeling invigorated, his internal energy cycling like a roaring river. Now, he woke up feeling like a corpse that had been dragged behind a horse.
He slowly pushed himself off the dirt floor, his joints popping in the cold, damp air of the shack. Behind the frayed curtain, Maeve's breathing was shallow but steady. The mallow-leaf tea had soothed the worst of the inflammation in her throat, granting her a few hours of unbroken sleep. But Vince knew it was merely a bandage over a gaping wound. The lung rot was still there, quietly suffocating her.
Three days, Vince thought, splashing his face with freezing water from a wooden bucket. Three days to find ten copper coins for Garrick, and three days to find a way to actually cure her.
He looked at his reflection in the rippling water. The face staring back at him was gaunt, with dark circles under the eyes and a shock of messy, unkempt brown hair. It was the face of a failure.
Vince took a deep breath, letting the icy water drip from his chin. He had made a promise to himself yesterday. To reach the mythical 10-Star Master Teacher rank, to achieve the Perfect Ascension that had eluded him in his past life, he could no longer take shortcuts. He had to build his foundation stone by stone, starting from the absolute bottom of the dirt.
And in Oakhaven, the bottom of the dirt began at the local apothecary.
He left the shack quietly, making sure a cup of water was within his mother's reach. The village was already waking up. Plumes of gray smoke rose from the chimneys of the thatched-roof cottages. As Vince walked down the muddy thoroughfare, the familiar curtain of hostility descended upon him.
"Look who's awake before noon," sneered Old Man Miller, who was hauling a cart of firewood. "Heading to the Boar's Head tavern already, Vince? Or did you run out of things to steal from your dying mother?"
The old Vince would have spat back an insult or scurried away in shame. The new Vince didn't even break his stride. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, his expression neutral. He was a mountain, and the insults of villagers were merely wind. They meant nothing. What mattered was the path.
He walked past the tavern, ignoring the heavy scent of stale ale that made his stomach physically churn with the body's ingrained addiction. Instead, he headed toward the only stone building on the eastern side of the village: The Verdant Mortar.
It was the shop of Master Aris, a certified 1-Star Apothecary. To the villagers, Aris was a miracle worker, a man of immense wealth and status who occasionally traveled to the provincial city. To Kaelen's past-life standards, Aris was a hack who barely knew how to boil water without burning it.
But Vince was not Kaelen anymore. He was a boy with no cultivation, no money, and no credibility. To him, Master Aris was the gatekeeper to his future.
Vince pushed open the heavy wooden door. A brass bell chimed brightly overhead.
The inside of The Verdant Mortar smelled intensely of dried lavender, crushed mint, and the sharp tang of sulfur. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling rafters like macabre chandeliers. Behind a long, polished oak counter stood Master Aris—a tall, painfully thin man with a receding hairline and a permanent scowl etched into his features. His robes, though simple, were spotlessly clean.
Beside him stood his apprentice, Corin. Corin was the son of the village chief, a plump, arrogant boy of seventeen who wore a linen tunic that cost more than Vince's entire shack.
The moment the bell chimed, both men looked up. The scowl on Aris's face instantly deepened into a mask of pure, unadulterated disgust.
"Get out," Aris barked, not even bothering to greet him. "I don't hand out charity to drunkards, and I certainly don't want your stench contaminating my drying racks."
Corin snickered, leaning against the counter. "Lost your way to the tavern, Vince? Or are you here to beg for rubbing alcohol to drink?"
Vince stood in the doorway, letting the heavy oak door click shut behind him. He took a steadying breath, forcefully suppressing the towering, centuries-old pride of a supreme cultivator. Humility, he reminded himself. The first lesson of the Master Teacher is to empty the cup before it can be filled.
"I am not here for charity, Master Aris," Vince said, his voice calm, clear, and completely devoid of its usual defensive tremor. "And I am not here to drink. I am here to ask for work."
Aris paused, a mortar and pestle frozen in his hands. He blinked, staring at the boy as if Vince had just announced he was a dragon in disguise. Then, Aris let out a sharp, barking laugh.
"Work? You?" Aris shook his head, returning to grinding whatever was in his bowl. "The only work you know is lifting a tankard. Leave before I call the village guard to drag you out."
"I can sweep the floors," Vince pressed on, taking one step closer to the counter, keeping his hands open and visible to show he wasn't a threat. "I can clean the slag from your boiling vats. I can scrub the mortar bowls, fetch water from the river, and chop your firewood. I ask for two copper coins a day. Nothing more."
"I wouldn't trust you around my refuse bin, let alone my ingredients," Aris sneered, his eyes flashing with irritation. "You are a thief, Vince. A known thief. Why on earth would I let a rat into my grain silo?"
"Because you are behind on your orders," Vince said simply.
The shop went dead silent. Corin's smug smile vanished.
Vince hadn't used any magical Eye of Truth. He had just used basic observation. The drying racks were overflowing, meaning herbs weren't being processed fast enough. There were three large vats in the corner crusted with black sludge, indicating they hadn't been cleaned in days. And Aris himself had dark circles under his eyes, his fingers stained with the juice of three different herbs, suggesting he was frantically multitasking.
"I walked past the merchant wagons at the edge of the village," Vince continued, his voice steady. "They are preparing to leave for the city tomorrow. If you don't have your shipment of coagulant paste ready by sunrise, you lose the contract. You are currently trying to grind Bitter-Iron Root, but your apprentice," Vince gestured toward Corin, "is too slow."
"How dare you!" Corin sputtered, his face flushing violently red. "Master, let me throw this trash out!"
"Quiet, Corin," Aris snapped, though his eyes never left Vince. The apothecary was looking at the village drunk with a newfound, highly suspicious intensity. "How do you know what I am grinding?"
"Because I can smell the iron," Vince lied smoothly. In truth, he knew because of the distinct snapping sound the root made under the pestle. "And I know that grinding Bitter-Iron Root dry is a fool's errand. The friction heats the root, destroying the coagulant properties before it ever reaches the boiling vat. It will take you hours to grind it softly enough not to ruin it."
Aris froze. His knuckles turned white around the pestle. It was a closely guarded secret of the 1-Star Apothecary exam—a trick to test a student's fundamental understanding of temperature control.
"My... my mother," Vince added quickly, giving a plausible excuse so as not to appear magically omniscient, "used to gather weeds. She told me once that the hard, rusty roots need to be softened before you crush them."
"Softened with what?" Aris demanded, his voice dangerously low. "Water ruins the potency."
"Cold river water mixed with a pinch of white ash from a wood fire," Vince answered without hesitation. It was a peasant's trick, something high-level cultivators would laugh at because they could just use their spiritual ice energy. But for a mortal without magic, it was basic, brilliant chemistry. "The ash neutralizes the water's diluting effect and breaks down the fibrous shell of the root in minutes. You can grind it into a perfect paste without any friction heat."
Corin burst out laughing. "Ash? You want to put dirty fire ash into a medical paste? Master, he is insane. He's clearly still drunk."
But Master Aris wasn't laughing.
The apothecary stared at the stubbornly hard root in his mortar. He looked at the mountain of unprocessed herbs waiting on the tables. He looked at the clock on the wall, ticking steadily toward the merchant's deadline. Finally, he looked at Vince, his eyes narrowed into scrutinizing slits.
Aris turned on his heel, walked to the small fireplace in the corner of the shop, and pinched a small amount of white ash from the cold grate. He dropped it into a wooden bowl, poured a splash of water from his canteen, and tossed in a raw piece of Bitter-Iron Root.
For three agonizingly long minutes, the only sound in the shop was the ticking of the clock. Corin stood with his arms crossed, waiting for the moment he could physically throw Vince into the mud. Vince remained perfectly still, a statue of patient humility.
Then, Aris reached into the bowl and pulled out the root.
He placed it in a clean mortar and pressed the stone pestle against it. Instead of the usual loud, echoing crack, the root yielded immediately. It crushed into a smooth, dark-red paste with a single, effortless grind. There was no heat. The medicinal aroma was incredibly potent, filling the room instantly.
The pestle slipped from Aris's hand, clattering against the wooden counter.
"By the heavens," Aris whispered, staring at the perfectly preserved paste. He had spent two years studying in the provincial city, paying exorbitant fees to guild masters, and not one of them had ever taught him something so infuriatingly simple.
Corin's jaw dropped. "Master... was it a trick? Did he switch the root?"
"Silence, Corin," Aris commanded, his voice trembling slightly. He slowly looked up, meeting Vince's calm, unwavering gaze. The disgust in the apothecary's eyes had been replaced by a complicated mix of shock, suspicion, and undeniable pragmatism.
Aris was a proud man, but he was a businessman first. He needed hands, and he needed this shipment finished.
"Two coppers a day," Aris said, his tone clipped and professional, entirely devoid of the earlier mockery. "You will not touch the herbs. You will not speak to the customers. You will scrub the vats until my reflection shines in them, you will sweep the floors, and you will stay out of my way. If I catch you pocketing so much as a single leaf of wild mint, I will take your hand."
"Understood," Vince said, bowing his head slightly—a gesture of respect that felt incredibly alien to his soul, yet entirely necessary.
Aris reached beneath the counter and threw a stiff, bristled wooden broom at Vince. Vince caught it by the handle.
"Start with the back room," Aris ordered, turning his attention immediately back to his work, applying the ash-water trick to the rest of his roots. "And wash your hands. You still smell like the tavern."
Vince gripped the rough wooden handle of the broom. It was heavy, splintered, and mundane. In his past life, he had wielded swords forged from starlight and artifacts that could level mountains. Yet, as he looked at the dirty bristles, a small, genuine smile touched the corners of his lips.
He walked toward the back room, the sound of his worn boots quiet against the stone floor. He was a disgraced drunkard in a mud-stained village. He had no power, no magic, and a mother dying in a shack.
But as he swept the first pile of dust into a pan, Vince felt a profound sense of triumph. He had not used force. He had not used arrogance. He had used the absolute fundamentals of his craft to open a door that had been slammed in his face.
The long, grueling path of the 1-Star Master Teacher had officially begun. And the floor of The Verdant Mortar was going to be the cleanest floor in the entire Ironclad Empire.