Kiet’s fingers trembled. The rice cake, still warm and fragrant from Takhon’s extended hand, felt like a burning coal against his palm, yet the crude ‘Qi-Disruptor’ talisman felt even hotter. The metallic tang of fear filled his mouth. Young Master Phan’s orders were absolute, his wrath legendary. Disobeying meant an eternity in the Deep Caverns, or worse, becoming a qi-drain puppet for the Naga-crest acolytes. But Takhon’s gentle smile, his unhurried offer of simple kindness, pricked at something long-dormant within Kiet’s chest. A small, unfamiliar ache. He saw the genuine concern in Takhon’s half-lidded eyes, not the cruel amusement or dismissive disdain he usually received. He could not do it. “I… I apologize, Senior Disciple Takhon,” Kiet stammered, his voice barely a whisper. He snatched the rice cake with one hand, shoving it into his tunic, and clutched his stomach dramatically with the other. “A sudden affliction! A… a severe case of Gourd-worm’s Belly! I feel a terrible churning!” He bent over, feigning a sharp spasm, hoping Takhon’s drowsy nature would gloss over the transparent excuse. Takhon blinked, a faint crease crossing his brow. “Gourd-worm’s Belly? That sounds… inconvenient. Perhaps some ginger tea?” He offered, genuinely concerned, already rummaging for an imaginary antidote. “No, no! Just… rest! Absolute rest!” Kiet straightened, bowing low. “I must attend to myself immediately! Please excuse my sudden departure!” Without another word, he bolted, the talisman still pinched, unused, in his hand. He ran until the stir of Takhon’s stork mount faded behind him, then dropped behind a tangle of durian vines, chest heaving, the rice cake squashed against his ribs. He had chosen. And the choice felt both terrifying and impossibly light. News of Kiet’s sudden bellyache reached Young Master Phan as dawn glanced off the golden tiles of the Naga-crest hall. Phan, already fuming that Takhon had gathered monsoon qi without incident, struck his polished ebony table. A delicate jade cup shattered, its fragments skittering across the floor. “Gourd-worm’s Belly? That quivering worm couldn’t invent a proper lie if his life depended on it!” Phan snarled, his eyes narrowing to slits. “He betrayed me! That simpering coward actually defied my orders for… for that broken lout!” His tone, customarily an imperious purr, cracked under cold fury. “No matter. If my servants cannot execute a simple task, I shall attend to the matter personally.” He rose, his dark robes swirling around him. The elegant serpentine embroidery along his sleeves seemed to writhe with his anger. “Takhon. It seems your luck has not run out. But today, the pavilion will be the crucible of your ruin.” The pavilion opened wide to the morning breeze, its roof tiled with iridescent reptile plates and its pillars shaped like rearing nagas. In its center sat a dozen gleaming bronze vessels, each ringed by mortars and trays. Phan strode in, his presence immediately commanding attention. Novices, assembled for morning practice, drew back as he approached the grandest vat beneath the central rafters. “Takhon!” Phan’s voice boomed, echoing through the cavernous space. “Are your legs so worthless you cannot show proper respect to your betters, or are you still dreaming of your next nap?” Takhon, who had indeed been on the verge of dozing off against a sun-warmed pillar, stirred. He blinked, taking in Phan’s reddened face, the waiting crowd, and the bronze braziers. A faint sigh escaped his lips. “Oh. Morning already? A challenge, I presume?” Phan sneered. “Indeed. A common Jade Sprout Pellet. The ingredients are laid out. We shall each craft one. The one who crafts the cleaner medicine takes the floor. The loser apologizes on his knees, and—in your case, invalid—shovels the outer latrines for a lunar cycle!” A murmur ran through the onlookers. The Jade Sprout Pellet was tricky to balance. Shoveling nightsoil was reserved for disgraced initiates. Takhon yawned, stretching his arms above his head, the joints cracking softly. “Latrines, huh? Sounds like a lot of work. Can I just… forfeit and nap now?” “You mock me!” Phan snapped. “Take your place, or forfeit your robes on the flags!” “Right. No napping,” Takhon mumbled, ambling toward the crucible facing Phan. The ingredients were arranged on woven reed mats: jade-tinted viper leaf, dried monsoon crystals, and lotus core. He slumped onto the low stool, resting his chin on his hand, his eyes already drooping. *“Oi! You lazy sack of guts! Wake up!”* Chom’s voice, a gravelly whisper only Takhon could hear, erupted in his mind. *“This ain’t no nap time! He’s trying to embarrass you! You want Sirin to see you cleaning latrines? Get your damn hands moving!”* Takhon winced, rubbing his temples. *‘Chom, must you be so loud? My head already hurts.’* *“Loud?! I’ll be louder than a thunderclap if you don’t focus! Now, the Verdant Ascent needs precise heat. Not too hot, not too cold. The Lotus Heart is delicate, you imbecile! You put that in too early, and it’s ash! Do you hear me, ash!”* Phan, meanwhile, was already a blur of motion. His spiritual roots, undeniably pure, allowed him to channel qi with impressive precision. A shimmering emerald flame roared to life under his cauldron, controlled with the flick of his wrist. He crushed the viper leaves to powder with sharp, rhythmic strokes. He knew his craft, young as he was. Takhon, prodded by Chom’s curses, took up his pestle. He didn’t seem to be paying attention. His eyelids had almost fully closed. Yet, his hands moved with an uncanny, almost preternatural grace. He didn’t just grind the leaves; he *felt* them, his fingers dancing across their surface, sensing the precise moment of readiness. He didn’t just add the Monsoon Dew crystals; he dissolved them in a faint pulse of qi, not a single drop wasted. *“Not like that, you oaf! The qi flow! It’s too… too… oh, wait. No. That’s actually… surprisingly elegant,”* Chom muttered, momentarily silenced by Takhon’s peculiar style. *“Damn it, you’re doing it right, even asleep! Now the Lotus Heart! Gently! Think of a baby stork’s first flight, you dolt!”* Takhon’s chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic pattern, his breathing deep and even. His chin tipped toward his collarbone. Yet his fingers reached into the dish, caught the dry lotus core, and flicked it clean into the simmering liquor. A scent of wet loam and crushed stems drifted up from the bronze rim. Phan watched, his brow furrowed. He had expected Takhon to fumble, to make a mess. Instead, the useless sluggard seemed to be sleeping on his stool. Phan redoubled his efforts, pushing more qi into his flame, eager to finish and declare victory. His cauldron hissed and bubbled vigorously, steam billowing out. The scent from his pot was sharp, almost acrid. Minutes later, Phan, sweat beading on his forehead, stood up, his face flushed with exertion. “Finished!” he declared, his voice ringing with triumph. He glared at Takhon, who was still slumped, seemingly oblivious. “Open your pot! Let us see your masterpiece!” Takhon stirred again, pushing himself upright with a groan. *‘Chom, is it done? Can I nap now?’* *“Just lift the lid, you slug! And keep your butterfingers steady!”* Chom hissed. Phan, with a flourish, unlatched the heavy lid of his bronze cauldron. A thick cloud of dark smoke erupted, carrying with it a pungent, burnt smell. Inside lay a crust of blackened slag. His overzealous qi manipulation, fueled by anger, had incinerated his ingredients. Phan stared, mouth hanging open. “No. Impossible!” A ripple of shocked gasps went through the onlookers. Young Master Phan, the prodigy, had failed. Takhon, with a languid motion, reached for his own cauldron. Without looking up, he nudged the cover aside. This time, no smoke, no acrid smell. A pale emerald shimmer rose into the morning light. At the bottom of the pot, resting on a bed of perfectly clear, unblemished liquid, was a single, flawless orb. It pulsed with a gentle, golden-green glow, exuding an aroma that was both invigorating and profoundly peaceful. A flawless bead, smooth as river jade. The hall went quiet, save for the faint hum vibrating from Takhon's bronze bowl. Phan’s face went from disbelief to a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, now burned with a mad, desperate light. Humiliated by a drowner of days who had slept through the work. “You… you cheated!” Phan shrieked, his voice cracking, utterly unhinged. “There’s no other explanation! You lowly worm, you dared to make a fool of me!” His hand shot to his belt pouch, not for an alchemical tool, but for something else. Something forbidden. A charm carved from scarlet bone gleamed in his fist. It pulsed with a faint, malevolent red light, and a chilling, guttural hiss seemed to emanate from its depths. Phan raised the artefact, his arm trembling with rage, and aimed it directly at Takhon’s unprotected back, where the drowsy boy had already begun to slump back into his chair, eyes half-closed once more.

Slumbering Alchemy