The textile mill reeked of damp fabric and machine oil.
Kael stood at the entrance, studying the building's structure. Two stories, heavy industrial looms visible through gaps in the walls, the constant rhythm of machinery creating a baseline noise that masked conversation. Useful for privacy. Dangerous for awareness—an assassin could approach unheard.
He filed both observations away.
"Yin Hua works—worked—on the second floor," Chen Wei said. His voice was still shaky from the encounter with the Pale Blade. "Storage room is in the back corner.
Owner tolerates her staying there because she has nowhere else to go."
"Family?"
"Dead. Parents died in a plague five years ago. No siblings. No husband." Chen Wei paused. "She's completely alone. That's why she's still here despite the injury.
Nowhere to recover, no one to help."
Perfect. Isolation meant desperation. Desperation meant negotiating leverage.
Kael entered the mill, Chen Wei following reluctantly. Workers glanced at them but didn't stop—the mill ran on brutal efficiency, and pausing meant lost productivity meant lost wages. Bodies hunched over looms, fingers moving with mechanical precision, faces blank with exhaustion.
The storage room was exactly where Chen Wei indicated. The door was slightly ajar, revealing a small space packed with fabric bolts and broken equipment. In the corner, on a thin bedroll, sat a woman cradling her left hand.
Yin Hua was younger than Kael expected—maybe twenty-five. Her face was gaunt from pain and poor nutrition, dark circles under her eyes suggesting sleepless nights.
The injured hand was wrapped in dirty bandages that hadn't been changed recently.
Dark stains suggested infection had set in.
She looked up as Kael knocked on the door frame. Her expression cycled through confusion, fear, and resignation in rapid succession.
"If you're here to collect rent, I don't have it," she said. Her voice was hoarse. "The owner said I have three more days."
"I'm not here for rent." Kael stepped inside, keeping his movements slow, non-threatening. "I'm here about your hand."
Yin Hua's good hand instinctively covered the injured one. "It's healing. I'll be back to work soon."
"No, you won't. The infection's progressing. I can smell it from here—necrotic tissue, probably spreading into the wrist. You have maybe a week before it reaches the point where amputation is the only option. Two weeks before sepsis kills you."
Her face went white. "How do you—"
"I spent years reading medical texts in the sect library. Pattern recognition." Kael crouched to her eye level, maintaining non-threatening posture. "You can't afford a healer. Even a basic cleansing technique costs more than a textile worker makes in a month. So you're hoping it gets better on its own."
"It might."
"It won't. Infection doesn't spontaneously reverse. It spreads until something stops it—treatment or death." Kael kept his tone clinical, factual. "I'm offering a third option."
Yin Hua's eyes narrowed, suspicion overtaking fear. "What option?"
"I can heal your hand. Not completely—the damage is too extensive. But I can stop the infection, accelerate tissue recovery, restore maybe seventy percent function. Enough that you can work again."
"How? You're not a cultivator. I can tell—you have no spiritual pressure."
"I have other methods." Kael raised his marked hand, letting her see the black lines. "Unconventional, but effective. I've done it before."
Yin Hua stared at the marks. "Those look like—like curse marks. Like something from the forbidden texts."
"They are. But they work." Kael lowered his hand. "The question isn't whether I can heal you. The question is whether you're willing to pay the price."
"What price?"
"Four months of service. You work for me—not physically demanding labor, your hand needs recovery time. Information gathering, message running, observation tasks. Things that require intelligence, not strength."
Yin Hua's jaw tightened. "You want to own me."
"I want to employ you. There's a distinction. In four months, the contract ends. You're free to leave, no further obligation. And you'll have a functional hand, which means you can return to work, earn wages, survive."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you lose the hand. Possibly your life. And I find someone else." Kael stood, preparing to leave. "I'm not asking you to decide based on trust. I'm asking you to decide based on mathematics. Four months of service versus permanent disability. The calculation is straightforward."
Yin Hua stared at her injured hand, at the bandages that couldn't hide the swelling, at the discoloration spreading up her wrist. Tears tracked down her face—not from emotional distress, Kael noted, but from pain. The hand hurt constantly.
"If you heal me and it doesn't work, what happens?"
"The contract includes performance clauses. If I don't deliver functional recovery, you owe me nothing. The risk is entirely mine." Kael paused. "Which should tell you I'm confident in the outcome."
More silence. Kael could see the calculation happening—desperation against suspicion, survival against pride. The same mathematics that played out in every contract negotiation.
Finally, Yin Hua nodded. "Four months. But I need specifics. What kind of work? Where? What hours?"
"Information gathering in the outer district. Observing merchant activities, listening to conversations, reporting patterns. Flexible hours—you work when opportunities arise. Location varies based on need." Kael extended his hand. "Standard employment terms, just with unconventional binding."
Yin Hua hesitated, then reached out with her good hand.
The moment their hands touched, Kael felt the contract form. This one was more complex than the previous ones—detailed terms, conditional clauses, performance requirements. The Pathway accepted the structure, chains manifesting as thin threads that wrapped around Yin Hua's wrist.
She gasped, feeling the binding settle into place. "What did you—"
"Contract sealed. Now let me see the hand."
Yin Hua unwrapped the bandages with shaking fingers. The injury was worse than Kael had estimated from smell alone. Three fingers crushed, the palm lacerated where machinery had caught and dragged, bone visible in one section. The infection had spread into the wrist, red streaks climbing toward her elbow.
Without intervention, she had days, not weeks.
Kael placed both hands over the injury. This time, he wasn't healing through contract with the wound itself—the damage was too complex. Instead, he formed a contract with her body.
"Heal," he commanded. "Prioritize infection clearance, then tissue regeneration. I offer cultivation energy as payment."
The stolen power from Elder Shen surged through his palms. Yin Hua screamed—the process wasn't gentle. Tissue knitted rapidly, bones shifted back into alignment, infection burned away by concentrated spiritual energy. The technique was crude compared to professional healing, but it was effective.
Thirty seconds that probably felt like hours.
When it finished, Yin Hua's hand was whole. Scarred, the fingers slightly crooked, but functional. She flexed them experimentally, tears streaming freely now.
"It doesn't hurt," she whispered. "It doesn't hurt anymore."
"It will hurt tomorrow when the accelerated healing triggers muscle soreness. But the infection is gone. The function is restored." Kael felt the pressure in his meridians ease further. Another successful contract, another fraction of unstable cultivation dispersed. "Rest today. Tomorrow, you start working for me."
"What's your name?"
"Kael. Kael Yuan."
Yin Hua's eyes widened. "The one they executed?"
"The execution didn't take." Kael stood, preparing to leave. "Chen Wei will explain the details. For now, know this: I keep my contracts. You fulfill your end, I fulfill mine. Simple transaction."
He turned to go, but Yin Hua's voice stopped him.
"Thank you."
Kael paused. Tried to feel something about her gratitude. Found nothing. Just the satisfaction of a successful negotiation, a problem solved efficiently.
"It's not kindness," he said. "It's investment. You're more valuable to me functional than dead."
"Still. Thank you."
Kael didn't respond. He left the storage room, Chen Wei following silently.
Outside the mill, the morning sun had burned through the mist. The outer district was in full activity now—merchants calling out prices, laborers hauling goods, beggars positioning themselves strategically.
Chen Wei finally spoke. "She thanked you. You just bound her for four months, and she thanked you."
"Because I solved her immediate problem. The binding is abstract, future-oriented. The relief from pain is immediate and concrete. Human psychology prioritizes present relief over future cost." Kael counted mentally. "Thirty-three contracts remaining. Twenty-seven days left. The mathematics are improving."
"You don't feel anything about this, do you? About taking advantage of desperate people?"
"Advantage implies unfair exchange. I provided value—functional hand, eliminated infection, restored her ability to earn wages. She provides value—information and service. Both parties benefit." Kael's tone remained flat. "That's not exploitation. That's commerce."
"Commerce with magical chains that force obedience."
"The chains ensure compliance, but the underlying exchange is mutually beneficial. Without my intervention, she dies. Without her service, I'm less informed about outer district activities. We're both better off than before the contract."
Chen Wei shook his head. "You keep justifying it. Like if you explain the logic clearly enough, it'll make it right."
"Right and wrong are ethical frameworks. I'm operating on efficiency frameworks. Different measurement system." Kael turned down a side street. "Now take me to Mei Xing. The ambitious woman who wants to run her own operation. I need to understand her goals before approaching."
"Why not just offer her money? Why the contracts?"
"Because money can be stolen, borrowed, or lost. Contracts are absolute. Reality enforces them. And because I need people I can rely on—really rely on, not just trust. Trust requires faith in human nature. Contracts require only faith in metaphysical law."
They walked through the outer district's maze of streets, heading back toward the Iron Fist warehouse. Around them, life continued—oblivious to the contracts being formed, the chains being woven, the network Kael was building person by person.
Behind them, unseen but present, the Pale Blade watched from a rooftop.
She'd witnessed the healing. Recorded the contract. Noted the pattern.
Three contracts in three days. Liu Shen, Yin Hua, Chen Wei. All desperate, all accepting terms they didn't fully understand. All bound by chains they couldn't see but absolutely couldn't break.
Seris made notes in her jade token. Subject shows consistent pattern: identifies desperate targets, offers immediate solution to critical problem, extracts long-term service in exchange. Methodology is efficient but not overtly cruel. Subjects genuinely benefit from immediate intervention, which masks longer-term implications of binding.
Assessment: Subject is building a network. Not for power accumulation—for survival infrastructure. Threat level remains moderate but trending upward.
Recommendation: Continue observation. Intervene only if acceleration exceeds survival-driven parameters.
She sealed the report and vanished into the morning light.
Below, Kael continued walking, unaware he was being documented, analyzed, studied like an insect under glass.
Or perhaps not unaware. Perhaps calculating exactly how much threat to project, how much cooperation to demonstrate, to maintain his thirty-day window.
Perhaps playing his own game within the Chain Order's game.
The mathematics were getting more complex.
But Kael had always been good at math.