Chương 24: Chapter 23

Ling Tian moved down the mountain with the bronze weapon tucked against one shoulder, adjusting automatically whenever loose slate shifted beneath his feet. A protruding root appeared around a bend; he shortened one stride and cleared it without breaking rhythm. Farther down, the trail narrowed beside a steep drop, and he slowed just enough to keep a sensible distance from the edge. That restraint mattered. His body had improved. Gravity had not.

The narrow Earth perception he kept around his feet helped with terrain he could not see clearly. Differences in stone density, loose soil, buried roots, and abrupt changes in elevation registered faintly through the background presence of the mountain. It was not a magical map projected directly into his mind, nor did Ling Tian trust it enough to run blind. It was simply another source of information. Combined with better reflexes and stronger legs, that information made the trail dramatically easier.

Ling Tian covered ground at a pace that would have been impossible for the original body. The improvement should have felt triumphant. Instead, part of his attention remained fixed on the morning's discovery. No metabolic crash. Greater output. Possible change in energy efficiency. Possible. He kept returning to that word. Without records, the distinction between observation and theory became dangerously easy to lose.

By the time the outer edge of Hua City came into view, Ling Tian had mentally added another category to the future ledger. Confidence level. Not every observation deserved to become a conclusion. That was worth writing down too. He slowed before reaching the crumbling, vine-covered gates. There was no reason to enter a crowded city moving like someone who had just escaped a cavalry charge.

Ling Tian allowed his breathing to settle completely, shifted the bronze stick into the position of an ordinary walking aid, and joined the stream of farmers, laborers, gatherers, and traders moving through the entrance. The contrast with his previous visit became obvious almost immediately. Last time, he had entered Hua City following a near-collapse. Hunger had sharpened every food smell until the wet market felt less like a commercial district and more like psychological warfare.

Roasting pork had nearly destroyed his concentration. Fried dough had become a strategic threat. Today, breakfast remained comfortably inside him. The food stalls smelled good. That was all. Ling Tian considered this a major improvement in negotiating position. He entered the wet market.

The usual chaos surrounded him: merchants shouting prices, customers arguing back, baskets colliding in narrow lanes, chickens expressing strong opinions about captivity, and enough competing smells to make the entire district seem undecided about whether it was a market or a compost heap. Ling Tian moved through it without rushing. He had one objective. No herbs to sell. No food shortage. No reason to visit Auntie Mei. No desire to become involved in anyone else's problems. Paper. Ink. Writing instrument. Leave.

That should have been simple. Unfortunately, Ling Tian did not know where Hua City sold office supplies. The original boy had learned basic reading and writing from his parents, but the family had never possessed enough disposable money to regularly purchase new stationery. Their writing materials came from whatever could be reused, traded, inherited, or made to last far beyond reasonable service life. Still, the original memories contained enough geography to narrow the search.

Clerks worked near administrative offices. Scribes worked near merchants, guilds, medicine halls, and sect representatives. Those people required paper. Therefore, the businesses supplying them should cluster somewhere nearby. Ling Tian bypassed the butcher lanes and moved toward the quieter eastern side of the market. The environment gradually changed. Open food stalls became less common.

The muddy ground gave way to patches of uneven stone, and the buildings narrowed into deeper shopfronts protected by cloth awnings. The air smelled less of blood and frying grease and more of timber, dust, dried bamboo, and soot. Better. He found the stationery sellers in a shaded alley behind several accounting houses. Ling Tian stopped at the entrance. For the first time since arriving in Hua City, he felt almost culturally at home. Bundles of paper sat stacked beneath waterproof cloth.

Bamboo slips occupied narrow shelves. Ink stones, sealing wax, brushes, rulers, cord, ledgers, carved document boxes, and dozens of other tools filled several neighboring stalls. Nobody was screaming. The merchants spoke in ordinary voices. One man was actually reading. Civilization. Ling Tian approached the largest stationery stall. The vendor was an elderly man with carefully tied gray hair and fingers permanently stained black around the nails.

His merchandise was arranged with the kind of precision Ling Tian respected immediately. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Brushes were separated by size. Paper sat in orderly stacks according to thickness and quality. Ink stones occupied one shelf instead of being scattered across every available surface like the inventory of a normal Hua City merchant. Ling Tian's opinion of the man improved. Then he saw the brushes.

His opinion of the entire writing system deteriorated. Traditional animal-hair brushes occupied nearly half the display. Large brushes. Small brushes. Soft brushes. Stiff brushes. Brushes with polished wooden handles. Brushes whose prices apparently reflected the historical significance of whichever unfortunate animal had donated the hair. Ling Tian stared at them. A memory from the original boy supplied the basic method. Hold upright. Control pressure. Shape each stroke. Maintain proper balance. Beautiful.

Elegant. Entirely unsuitable for a man whose handwriting with a ballpoint pen had once caused a coworker to ask whether a printed number was actually a medical emergency. Ling Tian imagined documenting meridian pathways with a soft calligraphy brush. One incorrect stroke. One smudge. Three weeks later, he misread his own note, came to the wrong conclusion and did an experiment. Death by handwriting. Unacceptable. He leaned closer to the display.

There had to be something designed for clerks who valued speed more than artistic dignity. His eyes moved past the brushes. Ink stones. No. Bamboo styluses. Possibly. Charcoal. Too imprecise. Then he noticed a small wooden case sitting near the back of the table. Several narrow metal instruments rested inside. Ling Tian's attention sharpened. He stepped closer. Each instrument consisted of a simple wooden or brass body ending in a finely split metal nib. Small stoppered jars of premixed black ink sat beside them.

Not a fountain pen. Better than a brush. Much better. The elderly vendor noticed where he was looking.

"Metal nibs," he said. Ling Tian glanced up. The man's expression suggested he had already formed an opinion about anyone who purchased them.

"Are they reliable?" The vendor looked mildly offended by the question.

"They write." That was promising. Ling Tian picked one up carefully. The nib was firm. A narrow split ran through the center to hold a small amount of ink after dipping. Nothing mechanically sophisticated, but the rigid tip offered far better control than a brush. Exactly what he needed. The vendor sighed.

"Young clerks like them." The sentence contained considerable disappointment. Ling Tian rotated the pen between his fingers.

"Why?"

"Because they are impatient." Also promising.

"They scratch quickly. No discipline in the wrist. No variation in the stroke. No grace." Ling Tian nodded seriously.

"Excellent." The vendor stared at him. Ling Tian continued examining the nib.

"How often do I need to dip it?"

"Several lines, depending on the ink and paper."

"Does the line thickness remain consistent?"

"If your hand does."

"Does it smear easily?"

"All fresh ink smears if you touch it like an idiot." Reasonable. Ling Tian placed the instrument back inside the case.

"I'll take one." The old man looked almost personally disappointed. Ling Tian pointed toward the ink.

"Two jars of that as well. Darkest mixture you have."

"You don't want to grind your own?"

"No."

"The consistency is better when prepared fresh."

"The convenience is better when it is already prepared."

"Young people." Ling Tian chose not to explain that he was technically twenty-five. The argument would not improve the purchase.

"What about paper?" The vendor gestured toward several stacks. Ling Tian examined them. Cheap sheets were thin and slightly rough, intended for ordinary notes or correspondence. Better-quality paper was thicker and more tightly pressed. A third stack had been treated with something that made the surface slightly smoother and less eager to absorb moisture from the humid air. Ling Tian touched the edge.

"Does this keep well?"

"If it stays dry."

"That condition applies to most paper." The vendor gave him a look. Ling Tian continued.

"I live on Crimson Peak. Damp air. Cold nights. Bad walls."

"That changes things." The old man crouched behind the table and produced a thicker roll wrapped in protective cloth.

"This is treated writing paper. Merchant ledgers use it when records need to survive travel. More expensive." Ling Tian unrolled the first few inches. The material was not luxurious. Good. Luxury was wasted on him. It was simply dense, smooth enough for the metal nib, and thick enough that writing on one side would not immediately destroy the other. He nodded.

"This." The vendor began assembling the purchase. One metal-nib pen. Two sealed jars of ink. One substantial roll of treated paper. A small wrapped packet of spare nibs joined the bundle after Ling Tian realized that depending on one tiny metal point for the entirety of his cultivation records would violate every principle of redundancy he possessed. Then came the price. Ling Tian's face remained neutral. Internally, the old version of himself suffered. Good stationery was expensive. Not silver expensive.

Thankfully. But expensive enough that several days earlier he would have immediately downgraded the requirement from proper ledger to scratch things onto wood and hope for the best. Ling Tian reached into the concealed copper bundle beneath his tunic. He paid using big copper for the bulk of the purchase and small copper for the remainder. The two silver coins never appeared.

The vendor counted the money once, then wrapped the paper and ink carefully enough that Ling Tian's irritation at the price softened slightly. At least the man respected merchandise. Ling Tian tucked the metal pen and spare nibs into an inner fold of his tunic. The ink jars required more care. Glass represented an unpleasantly fragile technology to carry while running up a mountain, so he wrapped each jar separately in cloth before placing them into the center of the paper roll. The vendor watched.

"You could carry a bag." Ling Tian looked at him.

"I could also fall on the bag." The old man considered that.

"Fair." Ling Tian secured the roll tightly against his torso beneath one arm. Procurement complete. The relief was disproportionate. He owned paper. Actual paper. Ink. A rigid writing instrument. Nothing about those items should have felt extraordinary. Yet standing in the shaded alley, Ling Tian experienced something close to the comfort he had once associated with opening a clean spreadsheet. Order was possible. That mattered. He thanked the vendor and left.

The wet market received him again with immediate hostility. Someone carrying a basket nearly struck him in the head. A chicken escaped beneath a vegetable cart. Two merchants began shouting over whether a pile of onions technically belonged six inches farther to the left. Ling Tian navigated around all three problems. He did not purchase anything else. That required some discipline. Now that he possessed money, Hua City contained dozens of small improvements he could theoretically justify. Better cooking pot.

Knife. New tunic. Blanket. Storage jars. Shoes. Actual shoes would have been particularly attractive. But the two silver remained reserve funds, and the remaining copper still had to support food and ordinary expenses. Priorities. The ledger came first because it protected the cultivation process itself. Everything else could wait. Ling Tian left Hua City through the same broken outer gates.

Once the crowd thinned behind him, he adjusted the paper roll so the ink jars remained secure and began the climb toward Crimson Peak. He kept the pace deliberately slower than during the descent. Not because he needed to. Because glass was now involved. The improvement in his mobility remained obvious anyway. Steep sections that once forced repeated pauses became little more than changes in stride. His breathing deepened on the longer inclines but settled rapidly.

The tar-covered bronze weapon rode across his back while the stationery remained pinned safely against his side. Ling Tian monitored hunger as he climbed. Present. Normal. No sudden hollow weakness. No tremor. Another observation for the ledger. He almost laughed. The ledger did not exist yet and already had a backlog. By the time the shack appeared between the trees, the afternoon sun had shifted well westward. Ling Tian slowed. His breathing remained controlled.

His legs were tired enough to acknowledge the climb but nowhere near failure. The two-drop Earth Qi reserve continued its steady rotation beneath his navel. He pushed open the door. The shack smelled faintly of cold ashes and the pork stew left from breakfast. Everything appeared where he had left it. Ling Tian checked the food first. Then the hidden silver. Then the stationery. Only after all three categories passed inspection did he relax.

He crossed to the splintered table and cleared the center with one sweep of his forearm. Dust rose. Ling Tian coughed. That would require improvement. He placed the wrapped paper roll on the table. The metal pen followed. Then the ink. For several seconds, he simply looked at them. The setup would have embarrassed any proper scholar. To Ling Tian, it was beautiful. He finally possessed the tools required to turn a week of dangerous improvisation into something reproducible. There was only one remaining question.

What language was he going to write it in? Ling Tian stared at the blank paper. The local script was obviously unacceptable. Anyone who found the ledger would be able to read it. English was possible. So was Javanese. Bahasa Indonesia. Several options. Several security risks. Ling Tian pulled the rickety stool toward the table and sat down. The procurement phase was finished. Now he had to decide how to keep the most valuable information he possessed from becoming public property.

For the first time since arriving on Crimson Peak, Ling Tian had a proper desk problem. He found that deeply reassuring.