Chương 90: 89. Hello, We Have Been Trying to Reach You About Your Pressure Cooker’s Extended Warranty

She takes the dragon statue back to her quarters after our allotted two hours end. I finish putting everything away before returning to the notebook beside my elbow. Wei Chen's name appears near the top of tomorrow's training notes. He is on the verge of the Fifth Stage and recently spent a large portion of his contribution points on a pill meant to help with the final push.

If he takes it tonight, he will probably arrive at tomorrow's team exercise having broken through and find some excuse to ensure everyone notices. Mei Lin has already reached the Fifth Stage and is making steady progress toward the Sixth. Her talent keeps her ahead, but Wei Chen's persistence prevents the gap from becoming comfortable. Every time she advances, he drags himself close enough to remain visible behind her. The others have not broken through yet, though Jun appears closest.

Tomorrow's tasks already fill most of the page. Review Shen Qiao's proposed contract prices. Check Wei Zheng's progress with Frostbite. Design tomorrow's training scenario for team exercises. The list continues onto the next page. Almost a month has passed since we returned from Celestial Jade City. The sect has changed more in that time than it had during the years before my arrival in this world.

Not visibly enough to alarm anyone watching from a distance, but enough that the difference appears everywhere once one knows where to look. The library has new books sitting beside old manuals, and servants sometimes occupy the reading tables alongside disciples. The mine is no longer the only reliable source of income. Meat contracts bring regular payments from Greenstone. Pressure cookers leave the mountain in small, controlled batches.

Shen Qiao's ledgers now contain enough activity that the Finance Hall has become more than a name. The disciples have changed as well. Ling'er teaches them whenever she can. For the first time since taking control of the sect, I can look around the mountain and see more than immediate problems. There are still cracked walls, limited resources, weak disciples, and more work than people capable of doing it. But there is also momentum. The sect is no longer merely surviving from one expense to the next.

That should make it easier to rest. Instead, my brush pauses above the page. Hollow Scale remains somewhere behind us. The organization lost four agents and gained very little information in return, but ignorance does not make it harmless. Golden Vein still has its connections to Violet Sky's southern branch. Violet Sky itself remains far beyond anything the Coiling Dragon Sect can confront directly. They are distant threats. For now, they have given us time.

Perhaps Hollow Scale decided the losses were not worth the pursuit. Perhaps the burned shop, vanished hunters, and broken trail created enough uncertainty that another investigation would cost more than the information promised. Perhaps Golden Vein has not connected me to anything worth noticing.

'Perhaps none of them are thinking about us at all.' I would prefer evidence. But instead, I have quiet. Quiet is useful; it allows the sect to grow. It allows us to build income, strengthen the disciples, repair what has been neglected, and prepare for the day when someone stronger decides to ask the right questions. It does not mean the danger has gone away. Most of the sect has gone to sleep.

The mountain is quiet except for the faint winter wind outside the shutters and the occasional creak from the repaired roof. Somewhere near the storehouse, a bell sounds once, followed by the soft movement of Xiao Zei completing its evening patrol. I know what comes next. A familiar dread begins settling into my stomach. Three knocks sound against the door. The door opens before I answer, and Ling'er's head appears through the gap.

"Master," she says.

"It is time for training." I look down at the notebook. Today began before sunrise. Since then, I have reviewed ledgers, inspected construction, mediated an argument over contribution values, helped Old Zhao examine a cracked mine support, tested Frostbite, supervised disciple training, answered questions in the library, and spent two hours crafting a bird. For most mortals, eighteen hours of work would be considered enough. Unfortunately, my day is not done.

"I know," I say. Ling'er opens the door fully. We use the training yard behind the main hall. The ground there has been cleared of snow and covered with packed earth dense enough to survive repeated impact. Lanterns have been placed along the edge, though Ling'er does not require them. Neither do I, strictly speaking, but the light makes it easier to see where I am about to be struck. She waits until I remove my outer robe and stretch. Then she steps closer.

"Ready?" I sigh.

"Proceed." Her fingertips touch the first point beneath my shoulder. Pain stutters through my arm. The meridian stops carrying qi correctly for half a breath, then resumes in a violent spasm. The sensation spreads through the muscles surrounding it, like several cramps occurring at once beneath the skin. Her hand moves. A point along my ribs. Another near my hip. Two beside the spine. One along the thigh. Each touch interrupts a different part of my circulation.

By the time she steps away, my left arm feels half a breath slower than the right. My ribs tighten whenever I inhale too deeply. One leg occasionally forgets how much weight it is carrying.

"Ow," I say. Ling'er studies my posture, then she takes her stance. Her killing intent arrives before she moves. The yard does not change, but my body reacts as though something enormous has stepped out of the darkness behind her. The air feels colder. My breathing shortens. Every instinct insists that death is approaching and that remaining still will allow it to arrive more cleanly. A week ago, the sensation nearly froze my movements. Now it merely makes them worse. Ling'er advances.

Her first palm comes toward my chest. I turn, redirecting the strike with my forearm, but the interruption near my shoulder catches halfway through the movement. My arm stutters. She adjusts immediately and taps two fingers against my sternum. She attacks again. The refined Coiling Dragon forms she created do not resemble the old manual as closely as the name suggests. The original forms relied on repeated spirals, redirection, and continuous motion.

Ling'er kept those principles, removed the wasted transitions, and rebuilt the movements around the assumption that the practitioner may be injured, interrupted, or forced into an imperfect stance. It is an excellent technique, and I despise learning it. Her palm cuts toward my ribs. I shift, my right foot carrying me outside the line of attack. The meridian near my hip spasms. My balance breaks. I compensate with the opposite shoulder, turning the stumble into a rough elbow strike. Ling'er catches it.

"Better." She pushes me backward and changes styles. Her steps become heavier without becoming slow. Each foot settles before the next movement begins, rooting her through the ground. Yan Gaoque's influence. Monk-like footwork, stable posture, and strikes that carry the entire body behind them. Her fist comes forward. I block. The impact drives through my guard and into my chest. My feet slide through the packed earth. I retreat and she follows. Every few exchanges, she changes again.

A claw-like interception from Yan Ruohan's style. A low sweep derived from one of the tournament body refiners. A defensive turn from an older swordsman whose name I no longer remember. The transitions come without warning because warning would allow comfort, and comfort is the enemy of progress. This has continued every night for more than a week. The first session left me unable to rise the following morning without circulating qi through my legs for several minutes.

I canceled most of my duties and informed everyone that I needed to cultivate in seclusion. Technically, lying motionless beneath three blankets while questioning every decision that brought me to this world involved cultivation. Ling'er found me that evening and pulled the blanket away.

"We must continue while the lesson is still fresh. If we wait too long, your body will return to its old habits." She called it striking while the iron was hot. Wei Zheng would probably approve of the metaphor. I did not. On the third night, she drove me backward until I fell into the river below the mountain, then continued attacking from the bank whenever I tried to climb out. Two nights later, she chased me into the forest and gave me a full incense stick to hide before coming after me.

I spent most of the exercise fleeing between trees. There were other variations. Defending myself while carrying a sack of grain that I was forbidden to drop. Escaping a shallow pit while she steadily filled it with water. Once, she released several captured spirit beasts into the training grounds because enemies would not always wait for me to finish dealing with the first threat before introducing another.

Whenever I questioned whether any of this remained relevant to our original lessons, Ling'er gave the same answer.

"It is good training for adaptability." She said it with such complete sincerity that I could not even accuse her of enjoying herself. I was beginning to suspect that adaptability simply meant learning to accept that the next terrible thing could come from anywhere. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. A palm passes close enough to my face that the displaced air stings my cheek.

"Master," Ling'er says. I refocus.

"You are distracted."

"I was recalling your earlier cruelty."

"This isn't cruelty, Master. It's preparation!" Her next step is too fast. My body recognizes the setup before my mind does. Ling'er's palm drives toward my ribs with enough controlled force to shatter a Qi Condensation cultivator's chest. The killing intent behind it strips away the knowledge that she will stop before causing permanent harm. For one instant, there is only the strike and the certainty of what happens if it lands. I don't think.

My forearm drops across her wrist, pinning the palm below its line of power. My weight shifts before the spasm in my leg can break the stance. The other hand strikes toward her throat, changes direction when she raises her guard, then folds into an elbow aimed at the center of her chest. Ling'er blocks it, but I continue. A knee toward the hip. A palm beneath the ribs. A short hook meant to trap her retreat. The sequence is brutal, direct, and completed before I consciously recognize which movements I have chosen.

She turns through the last strike, catches my arm, and sends me past her. I recover before falling and face her again. She is smiling.

"See?" she says.

"It's becoming instinct." I flex my fingers. The disrupted meridians along my arm throb in protest. The only reason it is becoming instinct is that every failure has been sufficiently traumatic to discourage repetition. Ling'er approaches and taps one of the points near my shoulder. The blockage loosens slightly.

"At Foundation Establishment, ordinary training is not enough," she says.

"Your body can endure much more than a mortal or Qi Condensation cultivator. If we don't train near the point where you begin losing control, you will not learn how to recover it." She says this with the calm confidence of someone who understands exactly how much punishment my body can withstand. That is the reason she does not train the others this way. The disciples are improving quickly, but none of them could survive these sessions without lasting damage.

Even Wei Chen's body-refinement progress would not protect him from Ling'er treating his meridians like badly tuned strings. For now, this particular form of instruction belongs to me alone. She returns to her stance. I raise my hands, ignoring the ache settling through my arms and ribs. One day, one of the disciples will reach Foundation Establishment. When that happens, I will no longer suffer alone. I find the thought more comforting than it should be. Ling'er moves again, and the training continues.

The following morning, every part of my body feels bruised. There is no actual damage. Ling'er carefully restored the interrupted flow through my meridians after training, guided qi through the strained muscles, and made certain that nothing had torn, cracked, or settled incorrectly. My cultivation confirms that I am in excellent condition. My body disagrees, but I keep my expression impassive.

The disciples gather near the marked exercise boundary, unaware that their sect leader currently feels as though he was beaten with a sack of stones. Ling'er finishes correcting one of the disciples and steps inside the boundary as their opponent. Wei Chen appears particularly energetic. The pill he redeemed through the contribution system has pushed him to Fifth Stage, and he carries himself with the poorly concealed expectation that everyone will notice.

Mei Lin notices, judging by the glance she gives him, but says nothing. Today's exercise is meant to test positioning and restraint. Wei Chen holds the front. Mei Lin controls the center. Jun calls their movements from behind them, while Lian maintains a small formation boundary that narrows and shifts as the exercise progresses. Their goal is to prevent Ling'er from reaching three marked points without abandoning their assigned roles. For the first several exchanges, they perform reasonably well.

Then something silver flashes near the edge of the yard. Xiao Zei darts beneath the boundary rope. It is chasing a particularly shiny beetle. The raccoon bats it through the dirt, misses, circles behind Wei Chen, and passes directly over one of Lian's formation markers. Wei Chen sees the boundary change and assumes it is part of the exercise. He plants one foot, turns with the narrowing lane, and moves to intercept Ling'er before she can exploit what he believes is a planned complication.

Mei Lin sends water across the center at the same time. Xiao Zei catches the beetle between its paws, looks up, and darts through the stream. The water breaks around it. Mei Lin stops. It emerges on the other side with wet fur, the beetle held in its mouth, and no visible understanding of what it has interrupted. Her expression changes.

"Hold the center," Jun calls. She leaves the center. Xiao Zei sees her coming and runs. Mei Lin pursues it across the training yard, abandoning the exercise entirely. The raccoon slips beneath Wei Chen's legs. Wei Chen turns to follow the movement, leaving the front open. Lian uses her formations to try and corner Xiao Zei to no avail. Jun continues issuing instructions for several breaths after nobody remains in position to follow them. Ling'er walks through the open center and touches all three marked points.

I watch Mei Lin chase the spirit beast around a training post while Wei Chen argues with Jun over whether the raccoon was part of the scenario. Of all my disciples, Mei Lin is normally the most composed. She routinely places first in the weekly tournament, redirects opponents twice her size, and remains calm while everyone around her loses discipline. Xiao Zei requires only a wet pawprint or stolen object to reduce that composure to a distant memory. I still do not understand why.

Before I can call everyone back and reset the exercise, hurried footsteps sound from the main path. Shen Qiao enters the training yard at a run. His ledger is tucked beneath one arm. His face has gone pale. He looks from the scattered disciples to me without appearing to notice what interrupted the exercise. I straighten immediately. The soreness along my ribs becomes irrelevant.

"What happened?"

"There is a problem with the pressure cookers." The yard quiets around us. Even Mei Lin stops pursuing Xiao Zei. Shen Qiao takes a breath before continuing.

"A customer in Greenstone claims one exploded during normal use. Two kitchen workers were scalded. The cooker was destroyed, along with part of the stove and several containers nearby."

"How badly were they injured?"

"They will recover, according to the physician who examined them. One has burns along his arms and neck. The other was struck when the lid came loose." The description is enough to settle the remaining noise in the yard.

"I went to inspect the complaint myself," Shen Qiao says.

"The kitchen was damaged. I found fragments of the cooker, spilled food, broken shelving, and several servants who claim they witnessed the explosion. The owner is demanding compensation."

"You offered a replacement?"

"Yes. He refused it." Shen Qiao opens the ledger with hands that are steadier than his breathing.

"He wants reparations for the cooker, the damaged kitchen, lost business, medical expenses, and the danger to his workers. The amount would erase much of what we have earned from the cookers so far." That is severe, but not enough by itself to explain the fear on his face.

"What else?"

"The restaurant supplies meals to merchants connected to the Gao clan. They are only a small cultivator family, but their caravans travel throughout the surrounding towns. The owner has threatened to tell every kitchen and merchant he knows that our cookers are unsafe." The business is still too young to survive that kind of reputation. Most customers purchased the first pots because Shen Qiao persuaded them to try something unfamiliar.

They have no established trust in the design, and no reason to accept our explanation over that of a wealthy restaurant owner with injured servants and a ruined kitchen. One explosion could become the story attached to every cooker we sold. I look toward Ling'er.

"Continue the exercise."

"I'll handle it, Master." I turn back to Shen Qiao.

"Lead the way." We leave the training yard immediately. The walk down the mountain is brisk. Shen Qiao spends most of it explaining what he saw in Greenstone, moving between the order of events, the customer's demands, and the names of everyone present when he inspected the kitchen.

"The cooker had been used several times before today," he says.

"They purchased it with the first order of preserved meat. The head cook claims the seal was checked before use. The pressure valve was clean. They were preparing a tough cut of boar when the lid failed."

"Was the fire unusually strong?"

"He says it was no stronger than during previous uses."

"Was the cooker altered?"

"Not that I could see. The fragments were scattered, and the owner would not allow me to remove them before compensation was settled." His words come quickly. Every few sentences, he opens the ledger to show me another note. This is the first major problem to reach him since taking charge of the Finance Hall. A spoiled package of meat could be replaced. A missed delivery could be corrected. An exploding cooker threatens the foundation beneath every contract he has negotiated.

"Were all the cookers built to the same specifications?" I ask.

"Yes. Ling'er reproduced each one from the approved model. Wei Zheng checked the valve and seal design before we began selling them. Old Chen tested several from every batch." That makes an isolated manufacturing defect unlikely. Ling'er could reproduce the dimensions and internal structure more consistently than any workshop. I would sooner believe that Wei Chen had been concealing the temperament of a patient scholar than that she had carelessly produced a flawed copy. The chance was slim, but not none.

Shen Qiao passes me the section of his ledger concerning the customer. The restaurant belongs to Han Bolin, a mortal proprietor who inherited the business from his father and expanded it by serving caravan merchants. He purchases preserved meat in moderate quantities and has enough connections to make trouble without possessing enough power to challenge a cultivator directly. The previous transactions are ordinary. He negotiated aggressively, paid on time, and placed a second meat order after receiving the first.

Nothing in the records explains why it failed. By the time Greenstone's walls come into view, Shen Qiao has repeated the most important details twice.

"We will examine the cooker before agreeing to anything," I tell him. He nods.

"He may not allow it."

"He will." The restaurant occupies a wide building near one of Greenstone's busier merchant streets. Its front doors remain closed despite the approaching midday meal, and several customers linger outside asking servants when it will reopen. Shen Qiao leads me through a side entrance. The smell reaches us before the kitchen does. Boiled meat, smoke, medicinal salve, and the sharp mineral scent of damaged metal hang together in the corridor.

A section of the rear kitchen has been cleared, though dark stains remain across the wall and ceiling. Broken jars lie stacked near the doorway. Several fragments of the pressure cooker have been arranged on a table. Two injured workers sit nearby with their arms wrapped in clean bandages. A physician's assistant tends to one of them while servants stand along the walls, watching us enter. Han Bolin waits beside the damaged stove.

He is a broad man in his late forties, dressed in layered silk appropriate for a prosperous merchant. Two rings sit prominently on one hand, and his hair is held by a polished jade clasp. He carries himself with the confidence of someone accustomed to reprimanding servants and negotiating with traders who cannot afford to offend him. His attention settles on Shen Qiao first.

"You returned," he says.

"I expected you to bring payment rather than another excuse." Then he notices me. The confidence in his posture weakens as my presence enters the room. I do not release my cultivation deliberately, but Foundation Establishment qi is difficult for a mortal to overlook at close range. The servants lower their eyes. Han Bolin's gaze flicks toward my robes, then to Shen Qiao, reassessing the relationship between the mortal trader he had confronted and the sect standing behind him.

I stop beside the table containing the fragments and offer him a courteous nod.

"Proprietor Han," I say.

"I am Lu Chen, Sect Leader of the Coiling Dragon Sect. I understand there has been an accident involving one of our products."