Under the flickering lamplight, Qing's Tea & Medicine Shop—a narrow room scented with ginger and dried roots—felt absurdly cramped.
Lin Qing stood stiffly behind her counter, her right hand still gripping the herbal pestle as if it were her only lifeline. Her eyes were fixed on... him.
Xiong. The Mad Bull.
The giant stood hunched in the middle of the room. He was too tall. His bald head nearly grazed the ceiling beams. His broad shoulders almost touched both walls. He looked like a grizzly bear trying to fit inside a shoebox. He carried a pungent odor—stale sweat, cheap alcohol, and the faint, coppery smell of dried blood—which was immediately at war with the shop's comforting, herbal aroma.
He, in turn, was staring around in total confusion. His small, beady eyes blinked at the rows of tiny porcelain jars, the neat wooden drawers, and the abacus lying on the counter. This place was clean. It was quiet. There was no filthy straw. No smell of vomit.
Then he looked at Lin Qing. This tiny, skinny girl. This... was 'Miss Boss'?
Ye Feng, the calm center of the storm, was the only one who looked normal. He closed and locked the door behind them, officially sealing the three of them in the small room.
"He..." Lin Qing finally found her voice, though it came out as a trembling whisper. "Where... where is he going to sleep? In the street?"
It was the first practical question that came to her panicked mind. This giant wouldn't fit anywhere.
"In the storage room," Ye Feng said flatly. "On the tea sacks. Like I did."
Xiong turned his head to Ye Feng. "A storeroom?" he grunted, his voice like grinding gravel. "With... a roof? And dry?"
"Yes," said Ye Feng.
The giant's eyes widened slightly. He had been sleeping on wet straw in the Pit's underground cell for the last three years. A dry storeroom... that was a luxury.
Lin Qing, still trembling, tried to take charge of the situation. This was her shop. She was the boss. "Alright. Listen, Mister... Mister Xiong..."
Xiong ignored her. He didn't even look at Lin Qing. He was staring only at Ye Feng. In Xiong's world, there was only one law: strength. The stronger man gave the orders. And this little girl was clearly not the strongest.
Ye Feng saw this. He stepped forward. Lin Qing felt annoyed at being ignored, but also, admittedly, relieved.
"Xiong," Ye Feng said. The giant immediately straightened, his posture attentive. "Master Feng."
"Your job is simple," Ye Feng said, his tone like a general giving daily orders. "In the morning, I will bring you a strong wooden stool. You will sit in front of this shop's door."
Xiong frowned. "...Sit?"
"You will sit there from dawn until dusk. You are the doorman. You don't need to smile. You don't need to talk. You just... exist. You may eat buns. You may drink tea. You may not get drunk."
"Just... sit?" Xiong was utterly baffled. He was being paid ten silver a month—a fortune—just to sit?
"If someone comes to buy medicine," Ye Feng continued, "you let them in. If anyone comes to make trouble... you stand up."
"Stand up?" "Stand up. Cross your arms. Stare at them." "...That's it?"
"That's it," Ye Feng said. "If they try to push past you or touch Miss Boss..." Ye Feng paused for a beat. "Perhaps you may crack a bone or two. But no killing."
"Ye Feng!" Lin Qing shrieked in horror. "We are not cracking bones!"
Ye Feng ignored her. "Killing is... messy. And Miss Boss doesn't like blood on her clean floors. Understand?"
Xiong looked at Ye Feng with something approaching religious awe. This man... Master Feng... he spoke his language. He understood. He wasn't afraid of violence. He just found it... messy.
"Understood, Master Feng!" Xiong roared, thumping his own chest, which made several jars rattle on the shelves. "No killing. Just... cracking. A little."
"Ye Feng!" Lin Qing yelled again.
"Now," Ye Feng said, turning to Lin Qing. "He's hungry."
Lin Qing looked at Ye Feng, then at the giant, who was now staring at her hopefully, like a massive guard dog waiting for dinner.
She let out a long sigh, massaging her temples. This was her new life. She had an disguised immortal emperor as a menial worker, and a fighting ogre as a doorman.
"Gruel," she said, resigned. "I only have leftover gruel."
An hour later, a surreal scene was taking place. Xiong sat on the floor (as the small stools would have broken under him), holding his fifteenth bowl of rice. He wasn't eating it savagely. He was inhaling it with profound gratitude. Lin Qing's bland gruel, seasoned with a few pickled radishes, was the most delicious and warmest meal he'd had in a year.
Ye Feng had given the pouch of ten silver to Lin Qing, who in turn had given it to Xiong. The moment Xiong held that heavy leather pouch, his salary, in advance, his loyalty was sealed for life.
He would die for this mysterious Master Feng. He would probably even die for the fierce little Miss Boss who made this delicious gruel.
"You sleep in the storage room," Lin Qing said, finally accepting her fate. "And tomorrow... please try not to scare my regular customers to death."
Xiong just grunted his assent, his mouth full of gruel.
Day Three of Seven.
Dawn broke over Spring Cloud City.
In front of "Qing's Tea & Medicine Shop," a new sight greeted the townsfolk. Xiong, The Mad Bull, was sitting on an enormous, freshly-made wooden stool (one that Ye Feng had constructed in five minutes from leftover firewood).
He sat there, as silent as a mountain. His massive hands, the size of dinner plates, were crossed over his barrel chest. He did nothing. He just... sat.
Grandma Li was the first to arrive, her shopping basket on her arm. "Morning, Nona Lin! I need..." She saw Xiong. She stopped dead in her tracks.
Xiong looked at her. He remembered Master Feng's order: "If someone comes to buy medicine, let them in." He grunted softly, as a form of... greeting?
Grandma Li stared at the giant. "By... by the Kitchen God's merciful name," she whispered. "Nona Lin... did you... did you hire an ogre?"
Lin Qing stepped out the door, carrying a tray with a steaming cup of tea. "Morning, Grandma Li. He's... new staff. Xiong, our doorman. He's harmless."
"Harmless?!" Grandma Li eyed Xiong's muscles, which were larger than her head.
Lin Qing handed the cup of tea to Xiong (who took it with two fingers, the cup looking like a tiny toy). "Please come in, Grandma Li. We have a fresh batch... of the ointment."
The name snapped Grandma Li out of her shock. She scurried inside. The sight created a ripple. The Mad Bull—the most terrifying fighter in the city—was now the doorman for the little herb shop. And he was drinking tea.
The news spread faster than fire.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, in the opulent Zhao Residence, Young Master Zhao was raging.
"HE WHAT?!"
A porcelain vase worth fifty silver pieces shattered against the wall. A terrified thug trembled before him. "It's true, Young Master. The Mad Bull... he's working for them. He's been sitting in front of their door. Since dawn."
"BOS TIE!" Zhao Feng roared. "That traitor! He sold his best fighter to... to that herb girl?! How dare he!"
He knew what this meant. His original plan—to send a dozen thugs tonight to smash the shop and steal the ointment money—had just gone up in flames. His thugs were many, but they were cowards. They would not, under any circumstance, go up against The Mad Bull. That wasn't a fight; it was a slaughter.
"Young Master... Young Master..." His mother, Madam Zhao, swept into the room. And she looked... radiant. Her face, usually pale and strained, was smooth. The lines around her eyes were gone. She looked ten years younger. The ointment was truly magic.
"Zhao Feng!" she said in her shrill voice. "What are you doing?! Such a racket!" "Mother! I'm in the middle..."
"Forget your business!" Madam Zhao snapped. "My ointment is gone! I need more! And Madam Wei called, she needs more too! You said you were handling that shop! What is this I hear about evicting them?! You must... secure my supply! I don't care how!"
Young Master Zhao was trapped. He couldn't destroy the shop (his mother, and more importantly, the magistrate's wife, would kill him). He couldn't let Lin Qing win. And now, he couldn't use common violence because of that giant doorman.
He looked at the trembling thug. "Get out!" The thug scrambled away.
Zhao Feng paced, his wine-addled brain working furiously. He couldn't attack physically. He couldn't attack legally (for now). But he still held a trump card. The one Ye Feng and Lin Qing knew about: his father's debt. "Fine," he hissed. "If they want to play business... we'll play."
He called for his personal attendant. "Ready my fastest horse. You are riding to the Provincial Capital." "Young Master?" "You will carry a letter from me to the office of the Golden Dragon Syndicate," Zhao said. "Tell them... my father has found a new, highly profitable investor in Spring Cloud City." He smiled, a vicious, ugly expression. "Tell them that a small herb shop called 'Qing's Shop' just made... let's say... a hundred silver in a single day. Tell them they might want to come and... discuss the investment."
He couldn't attack Lin Qing. But he could aim a much larger, hungrier wolf in her direction. Bos Tie might be watching, but he was nothing compared to the Golden Dragon Syndicate.
"Hurry!" he ordered. "And send a message to Liu's Shop. Tell him I want to talk. If we can't stop her supply, we'll... poison her market."
At the exact same time, Lin Qing and Ye Feng had arrived at Warehouse Number Seven on the docks.
It was an old, dusty building, smelling of old burlap and sea salt. But it was large, and it was hidden.
Inside, five people were already waiting. Mrs. Chen (a thin widow whose cough Lin Qing's grandmother had cured). Old Man Wu (who walked with a limp, his leg saved by Lin Qing's grandmother). And three other widows from their old neighborhood. They all looked nervous, but there was a fierce determination in their eyes.
On one side of the warehouse, stacked high, were the hundreds of jars and containers Lin Qing had bought. On the other side, stacked in large sacks, were the Silver Moon Flowers (low-quality) and other herbs from Liu's Shop.
Lin Qing stepped forward. This was her team. This was her army. "Friends," she said, her voice echoing in the empty warehouse. "My grandmother... always believed in you. Today, I need your help to save her legacy. And to build something new."
She explained the plan. Not the details, but the work. "We will be making an ointment. This work is secret. What happens in this warehouse, stays here. For this work, I will pay you each..." she took a deep breath, "...fifty copper coins per day."
There was a collective gasp. Fifty coppers. That was the wage of a strong dockhand. For them, it was a week's wages.
Old Man Wu's eyes watered. "Miss Lin... you don't have to..." "I do," Lin Qing said firmly. "I need your loyalty. And I will pay for it."
And then, Ye Feng took over. He didn't talk about loyalty. He talked about efficiency. His imperial mind, used to organizing millions of soldiers, saw this as a simple logistics problem.
"You," he said, pointing to Old Man Wu and a strong widow. "You are Station One." He showed them how to pound the (low-quality) Silver Moon Flowers into a rough powder. "Only this. Do nothing else."
"Mrs. Chen, you are Station Two." He pointed to the Morning Mist Leaves. "Pound this. Separately."
"You three," he pointed to the other widows. "Station Three. You only boil the beeswax and honey. Keep it warm. Like this."
In fifteen minutes, Ye Feng had created the first mortal 'assembly line'. Each worker knew only one part of the process. They didn't know the ratios. They didn't know the sequence. They didn't know the secret ingredient (which Ye Feng hadn't added). The recipe was safe.
Now, for the magic. In a separate corner of the warehouse, sectioned off by a tarp, Ye Feng and Lin Qing set up the "Final Station."
The workers brought the three separate components: the blue powder (Low Quality), the green powder (Low Quality), and the beeswax base.
"Alright," Ye Feng said quietly. "Now, we make it." "But Ye Feng," Lin Qing whispered, "these are the 'garbage' ingredients from Liu's Shop. Will this even work? It doesn't smell like the flowers from the Northern Slope."
"The ingredients are trash," Ye Feng said. "Their qi is all but dead." He looked at Lin Qing. "That's what I'm for."
He took the pestle. "Watch." He took the pre-ground blue and green powders, mixing them in the correct ratio into a large bowl. Then he began to grind.
Three slow, clockwise circles. One fast, counter-clockwise circle. Three slow. One fast.
He repeated the motion. Again. And again. He wasn't just grinding. He was... infusing.
Lin Qing couldn't see it, but she could feel it. An invisible energy—a tiny, controlled thread of Ye Feng's immortal qi—was flowing from his hands, down the stone pestle, and into the dead powder.
The powder, which had been a dull, grayish-green... began to change. Slowly, it began to glow. Very faintly. The faint scent of mint and ozone—the scent of 'life'—began to fill their corner of the warehouse. He wasn't finding the essence. He was creating it.
He was turning trash... into gold.
After ten minutes, he stopped. The powder in the bowl was now vibrating with a barely perceptible energy. "Now," he said, his voice slightly strained from the concentration. "Mix it with the base."
Lin Qing, her hands trembling with awe, mixed the 'activated' powder into the warm beeswax. The result: Hundreds of pots of Morning Dew Ointment. The quality wasn't as potent as their first batch made with the 'living' flowers. It was perhaps only 30% as strong. But to a mortal... it was still magic.
Ye Feng watched the elderly workers, happily chattering as they filled the jars. Old Man Wu, who usually limped, was standing straighter, energized by having a purpose. Mrs. Chen, who usually coughed, was laughing with the other widows. They were weak. Fragile. Mortal. But they were working with purpose.
Ye Feng, the Immortal Emperor, felt a strange, new sensation in his chest. This feeling... this was more real than winning a galactic war. This was... satisfaction.
That afternoon, just as they were aboutEntry. A thin, ragged boy—one of the street urchin 'spies' Lin Qing had hired—burst in, panting.
"Miss Boss! Miss Boss!" he yelled, terrified. "News! Big news!" Lin Qing and Ye Feng spun around, the production line halting. "What is it, Rat?" Lin Qing asked.
"Young Master Zhao! I saw him!" the boy said. "He didn't send thugs! He... he just sent a rider! Not to your shop... but to the Provincial Capital!" The boy swallowed, his eyes wide with fear. "I heard the rider tell the stable master... he's carrying a letter for... the Golden Dragon Syndicate!"
A cold dread settled over the warehouse, colder than the fog on the Mist Peak. Lin Qing and Ye Feng locked eyes.
Zhao wasn't attacking them. He was attacking his creditors. He was escalating the game. Their seven-day timeline... may have just been reduced to hours.