Coffin Shop of the Destiny Ruler

Bab 5

The heavy broadsword clattered against the cobblestones, the sound echoing through the cramped, sawdust-laden shop like a funeral knell. Ulricar’s hand didn't just tremble; it buckled, his fingers spasming as if the nerves were being systematically unraveled by an invisible hand.

He didn't wait for an explanation. With a sudden, violent grunt of exertion, Ulricar seized the porcelain tea cup and hurled it against the far wall. It didn't just shatter. Where the amber liquid splashed against the stone, a thick, acrid grey smoke billowed upward. The stone hissed, bubbling and dissolving into a jagged, corrosive pit. Silver-melting poison. A concoction designed specifically to bypass the reinforced meridians of a Foundation Establishment cultivator by liquefying the very Qi that protected them.

"Raelith," Ulricar wheezed, his voice cracking like dry parchment.

The subordinate, a woman with sharp features and eyes that had always seemed a bit too cold, didn't bother with a denial. The moment the cup hit the wall, her posture shifted. The subservient hunch of a junior officer vanished, replaced by the coiled tension of a viper. She didn't go for her sword; she went for the dagger hidden in her sleeve, the blade coated in a dull, matte black film.

"You should have just finished the tea, Captain," Raelith said, her voice devoid of its former respect. "It would have been cleaner."

Chen didn't move. He didn't scream, and he certainly didn't try to play the hero. Instead, he took a step back, positioning himself behind the half-finished pine coffin he had been polishing. It was solid wood, reinforced with basic iron bands, decent enough cover for a man with zero cultivation. He watched the timer over Raelith’s head: [00:04:12].

Four minutes.

"You... the Night Clan?" Ulricar growled, struggling to stand. He kicked the broadsword toward his hand, but his coordination was failing. The poison’s fumes alone were enough to make a lesser man faint.

"The Night Clan pays in spirit stones. I prefer to be paid in power," Raelith countered. She lunged.

The shop was too small for a Foundation Establishment skirmish. When Raelith’s dagger hummed through the air, it left a trail of dark energy that sliced through a stack of cedar planks as if they were wet paper. Ulricar roared, a guttural sound of primal betrayal, and caught the blade with his bare hand. Blood, bright, arterial red, sprayed across Chen’s workbench, speckling a set of precision chisels.

Chen frowned. "Watch the equipment," he muttered, though neither of them heard him.

He reached down, picked up a discarded sanding block, and began to rhythmically smooth the edge of Vaelen’s coffin. The sound of the rasping wood provided a bizarre, steady counterpoint to the grunts of pain and the crashing of furniture.

Ulricar was a seasoned warrior. Even poisoned and betrayed, his raw Qi output was staggering. He slammed a palm into Raelith’s chest, the impact sounding like a hammer hitting an anvil. The shockwave blew out the shop’s front window, sending shards of glass raining onto the street like diamonds. Raelith hit the wall, coughed a mouthful of dark blood, and grinned.

"The timer, Captain," she hissed, pointing a trembling finger at him. "You’re already dead."

Chen glanced at Ulricar’s timer. [01:02:15].

It had gone up. By saving him from the full dose of the tea, Chen had effectively bought him an hour. But the 'Internal Betrayal' status was still active. The betrayal wasn't just the poison; it was the woman currently reaching for a second, concealed vial in her belt.

Chen stopped sanding. He picked up a heavy iron mallet, the one he used for driving coffin nails, and weighed it in his hand. He wasn't a fighter, but he was a carpenter, and he knew exactly where the structural weaknesses were in any frame.

"Captain," Chen called out, his voice flat and conversational, as if he were asking about the weather. "The third rib on her left side is already cracked from your last hit. If you strike there again, you’ll collapse her lung. If you don't, she’s going to break that vial, and we’re all going to die of respiratory failure in approximately twelve seconds."

Raelith’s eyes widened. She turned her head toward Chen, a snarl forming on her lips, but that split second of distraction was all Ulricar needed. He didn't use his sword. He lunged forward, his massive shoulder connecting with the exact spot Chen had indicated.

There was a sickening crunch. Raelith’s breath left her in a violent spray of blood. She slumped against the wall, her hand frozen inches from the vial at her belt. Her timer hit zero.

[Death Confirmed: Internal Hemorrhage / Ruptured Lung.]

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of Ulricar’s ragged, wheezing breaths. The Captain of the Guard sank to his knees, his face a ghostly shade of grey. He looked at the corpse of his subordinate, then at the scorched stone where his tea had landed, and finally, his gaze drifted to Chen.

Chen hadn't moved from behind his coffin. He was already back to sanding, the rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh of the woodblock the only sound in the ruined shop.

"You're bleeding on my floor, Captain," Chen said, not looking up. "And you broke the window. That’s going to be a problem. The draft is bad for the wood curing process."

Ulricar didn't get angry. He couldn't. The sheer, cold logic of the situation had bypassed his pride and gone straight to his survival instinct. This man, this 'trash' disciple who had inherited a failing coffin shop, had seen a death that hadn't happened yet. He had predicted the poison, identified the traitor, and then, with the indifference of a god, provided the tactical killing blow while worrying about his 'curing process.'

Ulricar forced himself to stand, clutching his wounded hand. He stumbled toward Chen, every step a struggle against the poison circulating in his veins. When he reached the workbench, he didn't reach for his sword.

He bowed.

It wasn't a shallow bow of courtesy. It was the deep, ninety-degree bow of a subordinate to a master, or a seeker to a sage.

"Master Chen," Ulricar rasped, his forehead nearly touching the sawdust-covered floor. "I was a fool. I saw a carpenter, but I should have seen a prophet. You saved my life. My life is... I owe you a debt that cannot be measured in gold."

Chen stopped sanding and finally looked at him. He saw the sweat, the blood, and the genuine terror in the older man’s eyes. He also saw the timer: [00:58:12].

"You still owe me for the window," Chen said, setting the sanding block down. "And the debt you owe isn't to me. It's to the Ledger. Life and death are a balance, Captain. You were supposed to die today. The fact that you didn't means the universe is currently out of alignment. That’s a very dangerous place for a man to be."

Ulricar shivered. "Tell me... tell me what I must do. I saw what happened to Vaelen. I saw what just happened to Raelith. You see the threads of fate, don't you?"

Chen leaned back against the coffin, crossing his arms. He looked out through the shattered window at the townspeople beginning to gather outside, their faces pale with awe and fear. Word would spread fast. The 'Crazy Coffin Maker' wasn't just crazy; he was dangerous.

"I don't just see them, Captain. I document them," Chen said. He reached onto his shelf and pulled out a fresh ledger, the leather cover cracked and ancient. He opened it to a blank page and dipped a quill into a bottle of ink. "But my time is expensive. My 'Destiny Readings' aren't a public service. They are a specialized consultation."

Ulricar nodded frantically. "Whatever the price. Name it. The Guard’s treasury, my own personal savings—"

"I don't want your treasury," Chen interrupted. He tapped the quill against his chin, calculating. He needed better wood. He needed tools. He needed the 'system' to recognize a significant transaction to unlock the next tier of the Ledger. More importantly, he needed to establish a precedent. If he was going to be the man who sold life to those meant for death, he couldn't be cheap.

"Five thousand spirit stones," Chen said, his voice as casual as if he were pricing a footstool.

Ulricar choked, his eyes bulging. "Five... five thousand? Master Chen, that is... that is the annual budget for the entire town guard! I would have to sell my estate, my weapons, even my—"

"Then I suppose you have fifty-seven minutes to start liquidating your assets," Chen said, glancing at the timer floating over Ulricar's head. "Because that’s how long it’s going to take for the residual poison in your system to reach your heart. I can stop it, but only after the contract is signed."

Chen turned the ledger toward Ulricar. At the top of the page, in elegant, flowing script that seemed to shimmer with a faint, ghostly light, were the words: Life-Extension Consultation – Ulricar Wolf.

Below it, the price was clearly marked.

Ulricar looked at the timer that only he seemed to feel ticking in his bones, then at the blood-stained floor, and finally at Chen’s unblinking, analytical eyes. He realized then that he wasn't bargaining with a man. He was bargaining with his own grave.

Slowly, his hand shaking, Ulricar reached for the quill. "I'll pay," he whispered. "I'll pay."