Li Shen's share posted by morning.
Not shouted. Not delivered. Just written into a ledger behind a plank window while men pretended not to care and cared anyway.
The points line moved in a quiet, stubborn rhythm—boots on stone, breath in the cold, shoulders hunched to keep heat from leaving too fast. The bell had rung twice already, and the frost still held in the shade.
When his turn came, the clerk didn't look up.
"Li Shen."
Li Shen stepped forward and slid his strip onto the plank.
The clerk checked a column, tapped once with the flat of his finger, and stamped.
"Five."
No lecture. No sympathy. A number made official.
Li Shen took the strip back and stepped out of the line before anyone could decide his back was worth staring at.
Outside, the yard smelled like old oil smoke and snow that had been walked into gray. Somewhere near the wall, Bai Ren was hauling buckets with the yard crew, rope looped over his shoulder like it belonged there. He saw Li Shen and lifted two fingers in a lazy wave.
Bai Ren's mouth formed the word without sound: Five?
Li Shen didn't answer across distance. He just nodded once.
Bai Ren grinned like that settled something, then went back to hauling, laughing quietly at nothing in particular—the kind of laugh that made him look harmless.
Tired. Ignored. Alive.
Li Shen turned toward the supply window.
---
The supply window was where points stopped being abstract.
A board beside it listed today's stock in neat lines:
cloth wraps
resin ointment
whetstone slivers
low-grade qi powder
lamp oil (ration)
Men argued here the way hungry dogs argued: low, quick, already resigned to losing.
The man in front of Li Shen tried anyway.
"I was issued defective—"
"Come back with a stamp," the clerk said, already sliding the paper back.
"I can't get the stamp if—"
"Next."
The line swallowed the complaint like it had swallowed a hundred before it.
Li Shen stepped forward and placed his strip on the plank.
"Resin ointment," he said. "Cloth. Stone."
The clerk's eyes flicked to Li Shen's wrapped palm. "Clinic stamp?"
"It's rope bite," Li Shen said. "Not a fall."
"No stamp," the clerk said. "Full cost."
Li Shen didn't argue. Arguing cost more than points.
"How much."
"Two. One. One."
Four.
Five earned. Four to keep the hand from turning into a problem that would kill his work.
Li Shen held his face still and said, "Two packets of powder."
The clerk paused—just long enough to register he'd heard correctly.
"Powder's cheap," the clerk said, like that was advice. "Still costs."
"I know."
"Two packets is two points."
Li Shen nodded. "Add it."
Stamp. Scratch. Slide.
The clerk pushed the goods across: a small jar that smelled like pine resin and metal, a strip of clean cloth, a thin stone sliver wrapped in paper, and two powder packets tied shut with string.
Six spent.
Five earned.
Li Shen tucked them away without rushing, then stepped aside to clear the window.
Behind him, someone laughed—light, careless.
"One core and I'm still hungry," a young man said to his friend. "I swear the beasts are getting dirtier."
His friend snorted. "You're just getting lazier. I took one pellet last week and didn't touch powder for days."
"Must be nice."
"It's not nice," the friend said. "It's normal. You're the one acting like breathing is a hobby."
Li Shen didn't turn his head. He let the words pass through him like forge smoke—present, irritating, not worth coughing over.
He knew what "normal" looked like now.
And he knew it wasn't his.
---
He went to the wash basin before he opened the ointment.
A thin skin of ice had formed overnight. He cracked it with his knuckles and washed his palm properly, slow and thorough. Cold water burned. Good. Pain meant his hand still belonged to him.
When he unwound the wrap, the rope bite had raised angry ridges across the flesh. A shallow split ran near the thumb crease where the rope had pinched hardest.
Not catastrophic.
Just expensive if ignored.
He smeared resin ointment into the bite marks and re-wrapped the cloth tighter, then set the whetstone sliver on the basin edge.
The hand axe's blade dragged across it in controlled strokes.
Not to make it sharp.
To make it reliable.
His shoulder answered with a tight ache as he moved—an after-payment from yesterday's cut. Riving Cut always collected later if you used it clean.
He accepted that. Payment was better than surprise.
When the edge felt consistent, he slid the axe back into his belt and stood for a breath with his eyes closed.
Not cultivation yet.
Just breath.
---
The forge bell rang.
Heat hit him as soon as he crossed the corridor threshold—thick, dirty warmth that smelled of scale and oil. Line Three was already moving: links and clasps, tight tolerance, no room for hands that drifted.
Meng was there, standing where he could see the whole line without looking like he was watching anyone in particular.
His gaze dropped to Li Shen's wrapped palm, then to the axe at his belt.
"You got paid," Meng said, voice flat.
Li Shen set his kit down. "I got credited."
Meng's mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost not. "How much stayed in your pocket."
Li Shen didn't pretend. "Less than half."
Meng grunted once, like that was a familiar number. "Maintenance eats profit."
That was the entire sermon. Four words. True.
Li Shen worked.
Pulse. Shape. Dip. Lift. Cool.
He used Iron Grip only when the metal demanded steadiness—short clamps, clean releases. No extra.
When his throat began to dry, he didn't force Smoke-Sealing just because he could. He waited until dryness became a risk of cough, then used one controlled hold and released before it turned into sand.
Entry work, done like work.
At mid-shift, Meng leaned close enough that it looked like he was checking alignment, not talking.
"You're burning hotter than the others," Meng said.
Li Shen kept his eyes on the clasp mouth. "I'm keeping up."
"That's not what I mean."
Li Shen tested the next piece with the jig. Good. He set it aside.
Meng's voice stayed low. "Same climb. More fuel."
Li Shen didn't answer quickly. He didn't like hearing truths he already carried.
"Half again," Li Shen said at last.
Meng's eyes flicked once. Not surprise. Confirmation that Li Shen wasn't guessing.
"You measure," Meng said.
"I don't have the luxury not to."
Meng exhaled through his nose, then pointed with his chin toward the oil bucket and dip rack.
"Don't let your math make you greedy," he said. "Greedy hands slip."
Then he stepped away.
Li Shen kept forging.
Not faster. Cleaner.
---
Night came early.
When shift ended, the cold grabbed him the moment he left the forge corridor, biting through the heat he'd borrowed. He didn't go straight to the dorm.
He went behind the storeroom where the wall cut the wind and sat on a low stone that didn't look like a seat.
He pulled his ledger out.
He didn't write to vent.
He wrote because numbers didn't lie when people did.
He kept it short.
Storeroom wall — day after payout
Fact: +5 points share.
Cost: -6 (ointment, wrap, stone, powder x2). Net -1.
Action: powder stays daily; reduce waste, not maintenance.
He closed the ledger and let the cold work on his fingers until it forced him to move.
---
Bai Ren was at the dorm doorway again, like he'd taken it upon himself to be the first warm thing Li Shen saw at night.
He held out a small bowl. "Not stolen," Bai Ren said, dead serious. "Rescued. Big difference."
It was thin porridge. Still warm. Not much.
More than nothing.
Li Shen took it and ate without ceremony.
Bai Ren watched for a moment, then said casually, "They're talking in the yard."
Li Shen kept eating.
"Not loud talking," Bai Ren added. "The kind where they don't say names, but they keep looking toward the places where names usually stand."
Li Shen swallowed. "About what."
"About seals," Bai Ren said, still light. "About how certain people keep ruining perfectly good games by writing the right thing on the right tag."
His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened.
"Good news," Bai Ren said. "You're annoying."
Li Shen looked at him.
Bai Ren shrugged like it was nothing. "Problems get moved. Tired people get ignored."
He nodded toward Li Shen's wrapped hand. "So we'll make you look tired. And we'll keep you boring."
Li Shen finished the porridge and handed the bowl back.
He didn't thank him.
He didn't need to.
He lay down, stared into the dark, and let the day's math settle where it always settled.
Five credited.
Six spent.
A loss.
And still—his hand trembled later than it would have last winter.
His breath held cleaner before it turned rough.
His work stayed true under heat.
The numbers were ugly.
But they were moving.
That was enough to keep him from breaking.
For now.