Chapter 9 First Sale

Old Chen’s apothecary was wedged between a formation repair shop and a tea house that had been closed for as long as Shen Wei could remember. The sign above the door read “Hundred Herbs Hall” in faded gold characters, though half the strokes had peeled away, leaving it looking more like “Hu red Ha l.” A string of dried protective talismans hung across the threshold, cheap and more decoration than function, but the gesture suggested a proprietor who valued tradition.

Shen Wei entered carrying a cloth bag with a carefully curated selection of his samples. Impressive without being extraordinary, good enough to command premium prices, but not so remarkable they would prompt questions he couldn’t answer.

Old Chen was behind his counter, grinding something in a mortar with the practiced rhythm of someone who had performed the same motion ten thousand times. Thin and stooped, with a wispy beard and eyes that moved with a sharpness his body had long since lost. He wore a traditional apothecary’s robe that might have been white decades ago and was now the colour of weak tea.

He looked up as Shen Wei entered. “Young man. What do you need?”

“I have materials to sell, Elder Chen. I was told you buy quality goods without excessive paperwork.”

Old Chen’s grinding slowed by a fraction. “Who told you that?”

“The market. Your reputation.”

“Reputation.” The old man set down his mortar and wiped his hands on his robe. “Show me.”

Shen Wei placed the cloth bag on the counter and opened it. He had arranged the samples in individual containers, each labeled with the herb’s name and a brief description. He removed the first container and set it before Old Chen.

Three-Leaf Ginseng. Six leaves, cleaned and preserved in a Qi-sealed container.

Old Chen picked up the container, held it to the light, and went very still. His hands—steady a moment ago—developed a fine tremor. He opened the container. The aroma that escaped was sharp and clean and complex in a way Shen Wei had come to associate with the other world. Old Chen’s nostrils flared. He removed a single leaf with wooden tweezers and held it beneath a jeweler’s loupe mounted on his counter.

Thirty seconds passed. A minute. Old Chen set the leaf down and looked at Shen Wei with an expression that had shed all neutrality.

“Where did you get this?”

“Ruin salvage. An old site in the lower foundations.”

“Ruin salvage.” Old Chen picked up the leaf again, turned it over, examined the stem attachment point. “Young man, I have been in this business for forty-seven years. I have handled natural-grade spirit herbs exactly three times in my career, and each time they came from sealed vaults in the upper districts with authentication documents longer than my arm. This leaf was not grown in a vault.”

Shen Wei said nothing.

“There are no natural growth sites left in Yongcheng,” Old Chen continued. “There are no natural growth sites left anywhere in Tianji that I am aware of. So I will ask you again, and I will ask politely, because the answer matters less to me than the quality: where did you get this?”

“With respect, Elder Chen, I’d rather not say.”

Old Chen studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, with the pragmatism of a man who had survived decades in the gray market by knowing when not to push.

“Fair enough. Let me see the rest.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Shen Wei laid out the remaining samples: Spirit Grass, Cloud Moss, and two containers of Qi-enriched water. Old Chen examined each with the same careful intensity, his expression cycling through disbelief, wonder, and—Shen Wei noted—calculation.

When the examination was complete, Old Chen returned to his seat and folded his hands.