Chapter 9: Three Years Still

A thousand days. 

Or something like it. 

All of it was enough to smear together, one day blending into the next, in a long quiet period with no sharp edges to it. 

The him that had been carried into this place, the tiny terrified twelve-year-old, was long-gone. 

In that boy’s place was a fifteen-year-old, still thin, but taller now; built no different than a thick stick someone forgot to throw on the fire. Shoulders that had grown used to a hunch were relaxed now, and much broader, no longer tense from the fear of a rock or a fist. The messy tangle of his hair had grown out, something he’d since tamed into long, dark locs now tied back in a messy ponytail.

The scent of brewing tea, bitter and earthy on the morning breeze, tangled with the sharp citrus of sun-petal blossoms laid out to dry on a wide wicker tray. The floorboards were cool under his bare feet as he swept, his morning chores something he had long grown used to years past. Scrape-swoosh. Scrape-swoosh. 

A quiet meditation to start the day, he even looked forward to it now, the act of it enough to push back the sleeping hum of the thing in his chest. He wore a simple green tunic, the fabric softened from a hundred washes, and soft cloth shoes that made no sound. Clothes that were clean, clothes that fit, clothes that didn’t come from a mountain of junk, oversized and filled with holes.

Across the room, an old man with a big white beard and an even bigger stomach sat in his favorite chair by the roaring hearth, a heavy thing of dark, scarred wood and worn leather. Old Wei was silent as he read from a heavy, leather-bound book, the old man’s impossible purple eyes scanning the pages. 

It only took minutes for Ken to finish sweeping, practice and experience enough to quickly turn the small pile of dust and stray herb bits into a neat little mound. Smiling at his first work of the day done, Ken moved to wipe down the alchemy station. The workbench was a massive slab of dark wood, its surface covered in a geography of stains, burns, and knife-cuts from so many years of work. He ran a damp cloth over it and caught his reflection in the curved surface of a polished brass measuring cup. 

The face that stared back was his, but… not. 

The bones were sharper, the face still thin. 

But it was a different kind of thin. 

Three years of proper eating had done their part in helping him grow; Ken’s body much better off after three full meals of the old man’s delicious cooking. Anything’s better than roasted junk-rat. The nightly drink had worked its own slow magic on him too, that bitter green poison that still made him gag every time he drank it before bed. Ken could work for hours now, lifting crate after crate after heavy crate of dried herbs and plants for the cellar, up and down however many creaky sets of stairs this place had. 

Sure, he was tired at the end, a deep ache settling in his bones every evening, but it was a good ache. 

An earned ache. 

Day after day passed like this, Ken never really bored as he always had something to do, whether it was his chores, learning from Wei, or his own self-study in alchemy.

A few times, though, Ken would stare out the thick, warped glass of the front window, watching the city, watching the people; a constant endless river of them always moving somewhere. 

The world outside almost looked like the world he remembered, the world from before he woke up in the Outside Wastes. 

Sure, it was a bit more… Asian than he remembered it.

To be entirely honest, it was a lot more; the signs all in a language he was still learning to read,  and almost all the faces much paler than his but he was pretty much used to that after the first twelve years on the Outside. 

Weird how dirty it is, though. Not that he wasn’t used to dirt or anything, but he remembered cities in the old world being… neater. Maybe Wei’s shop was just in a bad part of the city, but everything he could see from outside was so cramped together and dirty, a thousand layers of grime caked on every surface. 

It wasn’t the world he saw when he closed his eyes.

But it was close enough to hurt sometimes.

It was a little, though, whenever Ken would think about the differences. Not about the old world and the new one, but the shop and the city. Real weird.

Old Wei’s apothecary was all dark wood and paper books and soft-glowing oil lamps. It looked nothing at all like the grimy dirty concrete and neon grunge that Ken blinked at every free moment he had. It wasn’t like the city was new either; some of the buildings had looked almost as beaten down and rusty as the junk-hills in the Wastes, but that only brought up more questions, like… how old is Wei’s place, then?

Even more confusing was how the old man had electricity in here—he’d found a light switch by accident in the early days, a shocking, modern-looking thing on the ancient wall—but Wei almost never used it. 

The clothes, too. 

Plenty of people walked around outside in t-shirts and pants; ratty, patched and grimy outfits that still looked like things he remembered. But he and Wei only wore simple, loose tunics and soft cloth shoes, like something from back when people still rode horses or something.

Nothing was wrong with it, honest; he really didn’t mind. It was just… weird living in a quiet little island of the past and surrounded by a noisy, angry ocean of the future.

Still, Ken had nothing to complain about.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The afternoons usually brought a lesson. Today, a white mushroom flecked with silver streaks sat on a small, slate cutting board between them both. Ken’s eyes were on it, the thing pale enough that it almost looked like it was glowing the longer you looked at it. 

“Ahh, the Mourning Silk. Very tricky, this one.” Wei held it up between his thumb and forefinger, those twinkling purple eyes looking over at Ken. “You crush too fast, the spirit in it flees. Too slow…spoil the mix. Like telling pretty girl joke, yes?” The old man nodded with a smile on his face as he slid the slate over to Ken. “As always, the timing is everything”.

Ken blinked up at his master. “Old Wei…”

“Grind it, Kenshi.”

Ken took the mushroom, the flesh of it surprisingly firm. Memories of the dozens of texts Wei had him read were clear in his head, detailed diagrams of so many other mushrooms he’d memorized already coming to mind. …huh, I could draw this from memory. 

He bit down the smile crawling its way across his face as he felt the delicate, paper-thin gills under his fingers, well aware of the precise point of weakness at the base of the stem where the cap joined it. Pressure here… twist just so… not too much force. 

Dropping the Silk in a heavy stone mortar in front of him, Ken began to grind exactly the way he’d been taught and exactly how he’d practiced. Slow. He always started slow, careful and cautious to make sure he didn’t do anything to mess up the rare and expensive ingredients Old Wei let him touch. 

Careful. He was careful, of course, hands moving in a gentle crushing motion with the heavy pestle in his grip. It only took seconds before he started to move the stone tool faster, as the cap began to break apart; then slow again, faster, slower, and then fast again.

In no time at all, the pieces of the mushroom had crumbled into a fine powder, the grains in the bowl actually glowing now with a silvery light. 

Wei nodded slow, beard doing nothing to hide the widening smile on the old man’s face. “Good. Good. The spirit stays.”

Ken nodded back, allowing his own slow smile to spread wider as he looked his old master in the eye. “I-”

The bell over the front door, a small brass thing, jangled loud and sharp as they both looked up, Ken’s words dying on his lips and eyes going wide at the sight of someone standing in the doorway. …oh. 

Now, while a customer was not a new thing to the shop, it was a bit of an uncommon thing for Ken to see. He was busy in the back handling his chores or in his room doing self-study most of the time, his work keeping him busy while Wei handled the front, so seeing people from outside the shop’s walls was still rare to him.

Still, this customer was different from the few he’d seen before, from those he’d taken money from and sold tinctures to. Ken was used to older women, sometimes with children or babies with them. This massive frame blocking the light from outside was none of those things. Built like a wire tree, he was tan, tall and thick-muscled, all hard angles and harder scars. He was also wearing rough, patched-together black leather, from his jacket to his pants. and he was bleeding. 

A lot. 

A dark, wet stain was spreading across the side of his shirt, as he clutched at the clear wound with a hand that was missing two fingers.

“H-heard you fix people.”

Ken swallowed a mouthful of nothing at the sound of that voice, gravelly and rough; no different than flint on stone.

Wei didn’t move from his chair. His friendly, crinkly smile didn’t waver. “Sometimes,” he said, his voice still gentle, still calm. “If they in need.”

The man took a stumbling step inside, a wave of stink washing in with him—sweat, blood, and a cheap chemical smell over every inch of him. He looked from Wei to Ken, eyes narrowed as his voice came out a hiss through gritted teeth. “I got a need. I need you to fix this hole in me.”

“Ahh, a hole,” Wei said, his tone still light as he finally stood up, the old man unhurried as he stepped toward the stranger. “Many men have holes. Some in body, some in soul. Which is yours?”

The rough customer just stared at the old man for a few long seconds, both fingers and lips visibly twitching, the room silent as Ken blinked back at him. Finally, he just pointed at the bloody stain on his side. “This one”.

“Apprentice,” Wei said, not looking away from the man. “Water. Clean cloths. And the silver-needle set”.

Ken quickly made his way out of the front room, doing his best to ignore the weight of the gangster’s eyes on his back as he walked around the corner; heart a steady drum against his ribs. Just another bully. 

Bigger than Joric, but the same. 

It only took him a minute or two of searching before he found what he had been sent for, and in less than half that, he was back at the front desk with the supplies. 

“Thank you, apprentice.”

Apprentice. Wei never said his name in front of customers. Ken simply bowed and took a few steps back, watching from the doorway as Wei worked. The old man was a healer as much as he was an alchemist, Ken knew that, but every time he saw the man doing his thing, it was almost like he knew other’s bodies better than he knew his own. 

With the man’s shirt and jacket off, Wei’s fingers cleaned the wound in seconds, a nasty-looking gash that was deeper than it looked, as the large man hissed and spat muttered curses through gritted teeth. Both master and apprentice were silent, though, as the old man quickly threaded a needle with thin silver wire, each movement precise and practiced. 

Soon enough, the customer, who had been a storm of angry, violent energy a minute before, was quiet now, breathing ragged and eyes wide as he watched the old man work.

“You are Junker Fist, yes?” Wei asked, his voice a soft murmur as he pushed the needle through the man’s skin. “Certainly not a Scrapper.” 

Junker Fists? Ken blinked as the man looked up at his master’s words. The hell’s that?

The man grunted, Ken unsure if it was a sound of pain or surprise. “How you know that?”

“Knot on belt,” Wei said, not looking up from his work as one finger pointed in the direction of the man’s black rope belt. “Only Junker gang tie it so. Sloppy. Easy to come off in fight.” He pulled the stitch tight with the last few words. “Loose belt can lose life”.

The gangster stood up slowly, eyes dropping down to take in the neat row of silvery stitches holding his skin together. He looked at Wei for a second longer, the man’s lip still twitching, before he reached behind him. 

With another grunt, the man tossed a small bag onto the counter, square gray coins spilling out of it. “How much?”

Wei just smiled his crinkly smile, eyes never even dropping to the money. “You pay what you feel is right. Life hard to put a price on, yes?”

The gangster grunted again, the man shaking his head. “Whatever.” He turned around, but not before jabbing a hand into the bag and grabbing a handful of the coins back. Without another word, the ‘Junker Fist’ stomped out of the shop, the bell jangling furiously behind him.

Wei looked at the remaining coins, before he glanced back up at Ken with a chuckle on his lips already, the sound low and a bit wheezy. “See, Kenshi? Power is not always in the fist. Sometimes, it is in the needle.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“What’s a Junker Fist?”

Old Wei looked up from his book, purple eyes blinking slow. 

Ken sat at the front desk, the question already out of his mouth as he looked back at his alchemy master. The gangster had left the day before, Ken having kept the question to himself since then. Curiosity about the city outside, the city inside the Wall, had been rolling around in his head the more he thought about it. 

The sigh that left the old man was heavy enough for him to feel across the room. “…bad boy follow bad man, become bad man himself. It is the way of things, Kenshi.”

Ken understood. He knew enough, enough not to ask any more questions. With another nod toward his master, he went back to the quiet rhythm of reading and managing herbs.

Things were often like that, him and Old Wei. Many days were quiet steady work; nothing but master and student learning with little to no disturbances or anything to really shake up each individual day.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t always so quiet.

It was a simple day in a quiet week, Ken perfectly fine one moment as he poured a measure of water from a clay pitcher into a beaker. 

The next, he felt it, the pitcher shuddering in his grip

No. That familiar, hated tremor as it started in his fingertips. Not now.

It didn’t matter what he wanted, the shaking growing more violent as it traveled further up his arm. The simple clay pitcher slipped from his grasp and struck the wooden floor with a sharp crack, the thing shattering into a dozen pieces.

The boy’s breath caught in his throat as the pitcher shattered loud enough to drown out the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. Ken’s mouth fell open as he looked up at his master, ready to apologize to the patient gentle man he had grown used to.

Instead, he couldn’t find the words as Wei looked at him from his chair, the alchemist’s face a hard and unfamiliar mask. Friendly crinkles around his eyes gone, those purple eyes were stone as they froze Ken in place. 

“…m-master?” 

Like it was never there at all, the look vanished, almost so fast he could believe he’d imagined it. The old man sighed, long and low, the patient gentle smile coming back as he rose from his chair.

“Boy still weak…” A laugh spilled out. “Old Wei still old.” 

The words were kind, especially kind considering Wei helped him sweep it up, but Ken couldn’t forget that look.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

A few weeks later, Wei was preparing for one of his trips. 

The old man never talked much about where he travelled to, whenever he went out for ingredients. All he said was “outside the Tower”, whenever Ken would ask.

The Tower wall that was miles and miles and miles away from the apothecary, so far that it was hard to make out in the distance through the windows of the building. It was almost impossible to believe Wei could make it all the way there and back in less than three days, but qi…

Qi was powerful, and he knew how strong it made people that had it.

Ken sighed and shook his head as he looked at Old Wei, his master packing his small dark satchel right in front of him. The reason for the trip was the same as it always was; rare ingredients, herbs and fungi that only grew in the qi-starved fields outside the Wall. 

Qi-starved… Ken wanted to frown at the thought. He couldn’t imagine the outside being starved of qi like his master had told him compared to the insides of the Tower, having seen so many of the warriors in his village using their own inner fire. ‘Little qi, but even less people,’ apparently meant that little amount of qi could go into the plants, without that many people using it. Makes sense, I guess.

He guessed, but only because he didn’t really know.

There wasn’t much he could know given that he couldn’t cultivate, he couldn’t make use of the stuff, he couldn’t “light his spirit root” like Wei said. His body might have been older, stronger, and tougher, but the core weakness, the shakes, the emptiness… it was still there. 

He was still broken.

But he had his mind.

No matter what, he had his mind. 

He could read the old, complicated diagrams in the books, the insanely complicated recipes, the intricate balances of ingredients that formed a reaction.

And all of that was because of his master.

“…those fools on high, sitting on their thrones…”

Ken blinked, eyes still on the old man as Wei added a water flask to the satchel. Old Wei was barely looking at what he was doing, the man’s eyes firmly on the window looking out onto the main street as he muttered under his breath.

“…think their games have no price… but the debt always comes due…”

Master? Ken opened his mouth to ask a question but a loud commotion from the street outside drew him to the window. His eyes widened further as he watched a parade go past him on the street full of cheering people, a river of people in bright clothes and strange masks painted half-purple and half-red, carrying colorful banners with the same colors with giant snakes painted on them. The sound of drums and horns and a strange, wailing string instrument, muffled and distorted by the thick glass, pulsed through the floor. 

“…what’s that, master?”

The old man shook his head, purple eyes looking at nothing. “A festival for a dead god. Nothing for you.” He turned his head aside, looking back at his satchel again.  “The city is a hungry beast, Kenshi. It chews up little boys with weak roots and spits out the bones. This shop… this is your sanctuary. The only one you need”.

Ken nodded back, brown eyes pulling away from the window as he gazed around the front room of the apothecary; shelves lined with jars, herb bundles hanging from the ceiling, and the gentle bubbling of a simmering tincture.

It was his whole world. 

A safe, comfortable world he had grown to love.