The Herb House's door creaked open, revealing a cramped room thick with the scent of dried plants.
A massive oak table dominated the space, piled high with roots, stems, and brittle flowers, their colors faded but potent.
The air was heavy, a mix of cut grass and strange pollen that stung Song's throat.
His Tattoo of Dominion pulsed, its warmth a faint comfort against the room's oppressive aura.
Behind the table sat Senior Alchemist Eydzh, a dour man with a square jaw, his hands sorting through the pile with methodical precision.
A scroll lay before him, its edges curling, his quill scratching notes in tight, disciplined script.
Song's eyes adjusted to the dim light, taking in the room's details.
Hooks lined the walls, hung with bundles of drying herbs, their shadows swaying in the flicker of a single lantern.
A rolled blanket in the corner hinted at a makeshift bed, while a small stove by the window held a vermilion clay teapot, its warped pipe venting through the glass.
The house felt alive, its beauty rustic yet unsettling, like a trap masked by charm.
It's both home and prison, Song thought, his instincts wary.
Rill stepped forward, her voice clear.
"Good day, Senior Alchemist Eydzh. I'm Senior Attendant Rill, and this young man is a new servant wishing to become an herb gatherer."
Eydzh's gaze lifted, his expression unreadable.
He studied Rill briefly, then turned to Song, his eyes scanning him like a merchant appraising flawed goods.
No warmth, no scorn—just cold assessment.
Song's pride bristled, but he held still, his years as a slave teaching him patience under scrutiny.
Eydzh nodded, extending a hand.
Song handed over his scroll, the parchment trembling slightly in his grip.
The alchemist buried himself in it, his silence stretching, giving Song time to observe.
The room's herbs weren't random—each bundle was labeled, tied with colored thread, their scents distinct.
Some were sharp, others sickly sweet, hinting at alchemical power.
Song's tattoo pulsed, a faint rune flickering in his mind, tied to the forest beyond.
This place is connected to the Garden, he realized, his unease growing.
Eydzh finished reading, his gaze returning to Song.
Complex emotions flickered in his eyes—doubt, curiosity, perhaps pity—but they vanished as he sighed.
He opened a drawer, retrieving a small object, and twirled it before tossing it to Song.
Song caught it, his reflexes sharp despite his exhaustion.
It was a copper emblem, a leaf encircled by a ring, its surface worn but intricate.
Eydzh tucked Song's scroll into the drawer, his movements deliberate.
"Welcome, Song," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind.
"Your work instructions are in the emblem. Infuse it with a touch of your spiritual force, and you'll see. It also holds details on your housing and key locations in the servants' quarter. Start tomorrow—today, settle into your barrack and explore. That's all. You're dismissed."
He returned to his herbs, his focus absolute, signaling the conversation's end.
Song bowed, Rill following suit, and they stepped outside.
The fresh air was a shock, crisp and clean after the Herb House's stifling haze.
Song's lungs burned, the pollen's aftertaste lingering.
That place is no joke, he thought, his respect for Eydzh tinged with caution.
Rill turned to him, her smile soft but tinged with finality.
"That's it," she said.
"I've done my part, guiding you to your first job. From now on, you're on your own, Brother Song. I wish you luck and patience."
Her eyes hardened, her voice firm.
"Being a First Lord doesn't mean you're weak. Don't let anyone push you around."
Song's chest warmed, her words a spark to his resolve.
Before he could respond, Rill smiled one last time and strode toward the Magistrate, her qipao swaying.
Song watched her go, a pang of sadness hitting him.
Her kindness had been a lifeline, and her departure left him exposed.
Stay focused, he told himself, shaking off the melancholy.
He studied the emblem, its copper cool in his palm.
Closing his eyes, he reached for the spiritual force Eydzh mentioned, his tattoo guiding him.
Images flooded his mind—maps, schedules, herb lists, and a barrack's location.
Fascinating, he thought, tucking the emblem into his robes.
The path to his new home was clear, and he set off, his steps purposeful.
The servants' quarter buzzed with activity, workers returning as the day shift ended.
Song's emblem explained that herb gatherers had fixed hours, unlike clan retainers.
The Forbidden Garden grew dangerous after dark, and those below Sixth or Seventh Lord were barred from staying.
The emblem also detailed herbs—their types, values, and dangers.
Prices were abysmal, the best herbs fetching mere dozens of merit points, while a library pass cost thousands.
This won't be easy, Song thought, his resolve hardening.
Rill's novice scroll was a treasure, listing Dark Star City's powers—clans, sects, their influence, and rumored incomes.
Song skimmed it, weighing his options.
Selling to a clan could lock him into their orbit, but the Magistrate's low prices were a last resort.
I need to choose wisely, he thought, his mind racing.
Lost in thought, he nearly missed his destination—a squat, windowless building, its gray boards weathered by time.
The door was heavy, its hinges groaning as he entered.
The air inside was stifling, thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, a grim echo of the slave pens.
Song's nose wrinkled, but he pressed on, his tolerance for hardship a hard-earned trait.
Darkness swallowed him, the lack of light blinding after the bright street.
He froze, his eyes useless, his silhouette framed by the open door.
A voice cut through the gloom, mildly surprised.
"New guy?" it said, echoing from the barrack's depths.
"Been a while since they sent anyone. Come in, don't block the doorway—it's hard enough to breathe."
Song's tattoo pulsed, a faint warning.
The voice was neutral, but the barrack felt alive, its shadows hiding eyes.
His past taught him one truth: the weak were prey, and his one-stripe tattoo marked him as the weakest.
Not again, he thought, his defiance flaring.
He stepped forward, the door creaking shut, plunging him into darkness.
A shuffle of feet, a low whisper—someone was close, watching.
His emblem glowed faintly, its runes whispering of herbs, but the barrack's air carried a different promise: conflict.
Who's waiting in the shadows?
To be continued…