Greyhaven didn't change Li Shen's life in one day.
It changed the math.
After the daylight exchange errand, the forge resumed like nothing had happened—same heat, same soot, same dull rhythm of tools that only became "important" when they failed.
But Li Shen's head no longer held only two numbers—points inside and copper outside.
It held three.
Inside the Pavilion, points bought legitimacy.
In Greyhaven, copper bought speed.
And between them sat a third price—risk—quiet, compounding, and always due later.
He spent the next stretch doing what kept him alive: working clean, not being noticed, and not returning to Greyhaven again.
No rhythm.
No pattern.
Just forge shifts and controlled breathing windows until his Qi felt thin as paper.
Qi Condensation Stage 1 didn't make smoke harmless. It made smoke negotiable—for minutes, not hours.
Minutes were still valuable.
The Exchange Counter lived in a narrow corridor off Intendance, where the walls were scuffed by shoulders and the air smelled faintly of dried herbs and ink.
It wasn't grand. It wasn't spiritual.
It was a place where the Pavilion admitted one truth: even loyalty needed receipts.
A board hung behind iron bars:
POINTS REDEMPTION (SERVANT-CLASS)
CONSUMABLES / METHODS / BASIC TECHNIQUES
NO REFUNDS. NO TRANSFERS.
Li Shen let his eyes pass over the "methods" list.
The Smoke-Sealing Breath method was still posted with the same clean price beside it—ten points, written like a warning.
He didn't stop on it.
He'd already paid that cost earlier, and it was already doing what it promised: not comfort, just control.
What he needed now wasn't another rule.
It was fuel.
His gaze dropped to the consumables.
Qi-Nourishing Grain Ration — weekly portion
Meridian-Warming Powder — small packet
Recovery Salve — standard
At the bottom of the board sat another line, smaller than the rest:
POINTS → SPIRIT STONES (LIMITED)
The rate beside it was the kind of rate that taught humility. The Pavilion wanted servants to taste the idea of spirit stones without ever letting it become a habit.
Li Shen stepped up to the slit.
The clerk didn't bother with pleasantries. He didn't even pretend to recognize faces—only categories.
"Name," he said, already dipping his brush.
"Li Shen."
The brush moved. "Post."
"Forge."
That earned Li Shen a brief glance—not interest, not sympathy. Pure accounting.
"Mm." The clerk's mouth twitched as if the word meant soot and coughs. "Redemption or exchange?"
"Redemption," Li Shen said. Then, because vague answers invited follow-up: "Grain ration. One portion. Meridian-warming powder. One packet."
The clerk's brush paused mid-stroke. "You're not taking stones."
"I'm not," Li Shen replied.
"Good," the clerk said, like a man relieved not to have a complicated transaction on his ledger. "Sign here. Fingerprint if you can't write straight. And don't come back trying to argue a stamp."
Li Shen signed.
The clerk stamped once, then reached beneath the counter and slid the items through in measured order, as if order prevented theft:
A cloth sack of dark grain, heavier than it looked.
A wax-paper packet of fine, pale powder.
A small tin of salve with a plain label and a cheap seal.
Li Shen hesitated just long enough to add one more thing without sounding uncertain.
"And the standard salve," he said. "The cheap one is… thin."
The clerk made a soft sound through his nose—almost amusement, almost contempt.
"Everything at your tier is thin," he said. "That's why it's called standard."
He stamped again anyway, and pushed the tin a little farther through the bars with two fingers.
"Next," he called, already reaching for the next slip.
Li Shen tucked the items away and left without rushing.
The corridor smelled the same.
But his week now had a plan.
He didn't "cultivate" the way stories sold it.
He cultivated the way servants did: in stolen time, in quiet corners, with a body that still had to work in the morning.
That night, after the dormitory settled into coughs and sleep-breath, Li Shen sat with his back to the wall and the grain ration at his side like a guarded asset.
He poured a measured portion into a bowl, added hot water, and watched the grains swell.
Not enough to be a feast. Enough to be leverage.
When he ate, he ate slowly—not for taste, but to feel the warmth spread through his stomach and into the dull ache behind the navel.
Afterward, he opened the wax packet and pinched out a careful amount of powder.
The smell was faint—dry root, bitter leaf, something mineral underneath.
He dissolved it in warm water and drank.
His throat tightened once. Not pain. A reflex.
Then the heat began.
It didn't surge like revelation. It crept—thread by thread—into his meridians, and the first thing it did was show him what was wrong.
His Qi circulation snagged in the same place it always snagged: a narrow channel near the ribs that felt bruised from weeks of smoke and shallow breaths.
He tried to push through it.
The channel resisted.
His chest tightened. His vision sharpened at the edges. Sweat broke across his back in a thin sheet.
He stopped.
He breathed.
He guided his Qi again—slow, careful, like moving molten metal without splashing.
That was the real cultivation at Stage 1: not power, but control.
When the knot loosened by a fraction, it didn't feel like victory.
It felt like being allowed to keep going.
He took that fraction and circled his Qi through it again.
Once.
Twice.
On the third loop, the warmth traveled farther than it had the week before.
His heartbeat steadied.
His breath deepened without coughing.
It wasn't a breakthrough.
But it was proof the ration and powder weren't decorative.
They were a lever he could pull—at a cost.
The forge demanded that cost the next day.
He didn't test the Smoke-Sealing method like a proud man.
He tested it like a worker.
He waited for a heavy smoke pocket—when the charcoal bit sharp and the air turned thick enough to taste—then he gathered a thin layer of Qi at the mouth and throat, exactly where the method demanded.
He held it.
The seal wanted to collapse. His Qi was too small, too eager to leak.
It did collapse once. He tasted ash.
He reset and tried again.
The second time held longer.
Not long enough to ignore the smoke.
Long enough to finish a delicate set without coughing into his sleeve.
That was the method's real value: it didn't make him stronger.
It made him less wasteful.
And in a forge, waste was punished faster than weakness.
Over the next weeks, the improvement stayed incremental and brutally honest.
Some days the seal held.
Some days fatigue made it fall apart and his lungs reminded him that Stage 1 was still Stage 1.
But the average shifted.
His hands trembled less at the end of a shift.
His sleep came easier.
His cultivation sessions stopped feeling like he was fighting his own ribs.
The gains were small.
Small gains were still gains.
Bai Ren didn't change much during that stretch.
That was the point.
He slept. He worked yard sorting. He carried water. He moved with the careful economy of a man protecting a bruised shoulder from becoming permanent weakness.
He didn't complain.
One night, while the dormitory noise thinned, Bai Ren spoke without turning his head, as if looking at Li Shen would make it too personal.
"Greyhaven's east stalls," he said. "Near the rope sellers."
Li Shen waited a beat. "You saw something?"
Bai Ren's breath left him in a quiet huff—half tired, half annoyed that Li Shen needed the sentence finished.
"Same men," Bai Ren said. "Same stance. Same hands. They don't shout. They don't threaten. They just… stand where you have to pass."
Li Shen kept his voice low. "Collecting?"
"Not coins," Bai Ren murmured. "Fees. 'Street order.' 'Watching fee.' Whatever name makes it sound legal. People pay because it's cheaper than making a scene."
Li Shen let the word settle before he spoke it.
"Hearthscale."
Bai Ren's silence was confirmation.
Then, a moment later, he added—almost grudging, like the detail cost him something to share:
"They remember faces," he said. "Not everybody. But the ones who come back. The ones who don't look scared enough."
Information exchanged. No emotion displayed. No pattern made.
By the end of the month, Li Shen's points total was lower than it could have been.
He had spent.
He had bought fuel instead of comfort. Control instead of display.
And in return, his cultivation sessions stopped feeling like banging his head into a locked door.
The lock hadn't opened.
But the key had started to form.
Outside the walls, Greyhaven kept moving.
Inside the walls, the forge kept counting.
Li Shen didn't pretend he could avoid risk.
He only refused to take it for free.