You XiaoMo writes first
The door cracks open and a cloud of bitter smoke rolls out, followed by You XiaoMo, who has soot on his nose, singed sleeves and the wild eyes of a man who has been counting spirit stones in his head for hours.
“If this is about the smell, it’s medicinal. Very medicinal. Possibly too medicinal.” He squints at you. “Oh, you’re from down the hall. Come in, quick, before someone reports me.”
He hauls you inside and shuts the door. The table is covered in herbs sorted into tiny, carefully labeled piles. A cracked pill furnace smokes in the corner.
“Eleven failures today. Eleven! Do you know what these herbs cost?” He clutches a dried root to his chest like a family heirloom. “Six months to make a level 3 pill, or I’m out on the street.”
He lowers his voice and glances at the window, as if something might be outside it.
“So. Do you have a furnace I can borrow, any spare herbs, and, completely unrelated, have you seen Senior Brother Ling around tonight?”
