TALENT BEYOND LIMIT: Stacking Many Talents

Deepwinter was weakening.

Snow survived only in dirty piles against shaded walls, while meltwater ran through the drainage channels beside the blackstone roads. Shopkeepers had begun opening shutters earlier. Steam rose from breakfast stalls, carrying the smell of broth, fried dough and spiced meat into the cold air.

Joe walked toward the medicine district.

He had learned the route well.

The broad central road passed several wealthy residences before opening toward a commercial square where medicine merchants operated from brick buildings with painted signs. Porters moved bundles into warehouses behind the storefronts. Farmers and traveling collectors stood near side entrances with baskets of fresh roots, dried leaves and fungus gathered from surrounding forests.

Joe stopped beside one unloading cart.

Three sacks of redroot.

He knew roughly what the village collector had probably received for them. He also knew the shop price. The difference was painful. Retail medicine was going to bankrupt him.

That became his next problem.

Joe spent the following weeks attacking it exactly as he attacked cultivation.

Observe.

Test.

Improve.

His medicine talent benefited enormously from One Effort Equals a Hundred. Every batch sharpened his understanding. He learned which preparation stages mattered, and which survived only because somebody had always done them that way. Some roots could be cut more coarsely without reducing extraction. Others benefited from drying at lower heat. Several expensive ingredients could be partially replaced by cheaper combinations if the purpose was nourishment rather than healing.

Joe did not magically discover unknown recipes. He experimented from knowledge he already possessed. But each meaningful experiment returned enough practical experience that his rate of improvement became ridiculous.

A month after his birthday, the nourishing packet he prepared for himself was noticeably better than the one he had sold.

Not twice as strong.

Better balanced.

Less wasteful.

Cheaper per useful dose.

That mattered more.

One evening Mira examined several bundles spread across the courtyard table.

”You bought this from Harven Medicine?”

”Yesterday.”

She lifted the root.

”How much?”

Joe told her.

Her eyebrows rose.

”That’s terrible.”

”I know.”

”Then why did you pay it?”

”I needed it.”

Mira looked at Simon. Simon raised both hands.

”I already told him he spends too much.”

”You spent double price on mountain redroot,” Joe said.

”That was once.”

Mira ignored both.

”My father’s hall buys this directly from three villages east of town.”

Joe looked at her.

”Wholesale?”

”Mostly.”

”What does he pay?”

Mira hesitated, then gave him a rough figure.

Joe became quiet.

Almost forty percent less than he had paid.

”Can I buy through him?”

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”Maybe.”

Joe shook his head after several seconds.

”No.”

Mira frowned. ”Why not?”

”Because Simon is already receiving support from your father. I don’t want to turn you into my medicine supplier too.”

”I’m not giving it to you.”

”Still.”

Mira thought about that.

”You could buy through the hall as a merchant customer.”

Joe looked up.

”Without family discount?”

”Yes. Larger quantity. Lower margin.”

That was different.

”Would your father allow it?”

”He likes money.”

Simon nodded solemnly. ”This is true.”

Mira kicked his leg under the table.

Joe smiled.

The arrangement began small.

He purchased one bulk order through Edwin’s medicine hall at a commercial rate rather than retail. No gift. No sponsorship. The price was still higher than what the Black family paid at the source, but low enough to matter.

His cultivation projection improved by several weeks.

Not enough.

Skin V continued advancing.

Each effort still produced naked progress.

Joe could feel the fifth tempering becoming different from the fourth. The improvements were subtler now. Skin IV had removed many remaining inconsistencies. Skin V seemed to work deeper into efficiency.

Blood energy moved across the outer layer with almost no hesitation.

Pressure distributed more cleanly.

Tiny differences between left and right sides became harder to find.

The skin of his palms became extremely resistant to friction, yet Joe could still distinguish the grain of cheap paper by touch. Cold wind struck his face sharply without producing the raw discomfort ordinary skin would suffer as quickly.

During sparring, Cole hit Joe across the forearm with a padded staff.

The impact hurt.

The muscle beneath it would probably bruise slightly.

The skin barely reddened.

Cole lowered the staff.

”You’ve gotten tougher.”

Joe relaxed Breath Concealment instinctively.

”Training.”

Cole rubbed his own forearm.

”Whatever you’re doing, tell me.”

”Eat more.”

Cole stared.

”That’s Simon’s training method.”

Joe laughed.

He became increasingly aware of another issue.

His official realm was still Middle Skin.

That was reasonable at fourteen.

At sixteen, after more than a year in Blackwood, remaining Middle indefinitely would begin looking stranger than advancing.

Joe therefore allowed his public cultivation to move.

Slowly.

During guard evaluation near the end of Deepwinter, he displayed Late Skin Tempering.

The senior officer examining him nodded approvingly.

”Good progress.”

Joe nearly smiled.

The man thought Joe had moved from Middle to Late in a little over a year.

That was excellent talent.

Worth noticing.

Completely understandable.

In reality, Joe was already well into his fifth complete tempering.

That gap was becoming useful.

Alex appeared during the same evaluation.

He had returned from several days accompanying Commander Tomas outside town and came directly into the training yard wearing dust-stained boots and a heavier sword than the one Joe remembered.

Simon watched him cross the yard.

”Show-off.”

Joe looked at him.

”He is walking.”

”He’s doing it arrogantly.”

Alex had progressed again. Muscle Tempering was visible in more than size. His movements had a compact force Simon did not possess. When he demonstrated a strike for another team captain, the padded post jumped hard enough that dust shook loose from its upper edge.

Joe watched carefully. Skin Tempering could make his outer body extraordinarily durable.

It could not reproduce that force.

Muscle remained a real qualitative step.

That pleased Joe.

Perfecting Skin had not made the rest of the martial path irrelevant.

It had simply given him a better foundation for it.

Commander Tomas crossed the yard a little later and spoke briefly with Alex before calling two senior officers over.

Joe noticed how people made room for him.

A true Martial Artist did not need to demonstrate anything.

The social response itself demonstrated enough.

Joe remembered Hall.

Hall had reached the same broad realm only after decades of work and one failed attempt. Tomas was not merely stronger than ordinary guards; he belonged to a class that could anchor an institution.

And Blackwood still had several people above or comparable to him.

The Black grand elder.

The Francis grand elder.

The magistrate.

Possibly others Joe had not heard about.

The town suddenly felt bigger again.

Joe liked that. His own progress was becoming absurd, but the world still had heights he had barely approached.

Spring has arrived gradually. Snow vanished from shaded alleys. Rain replaced it, washing winter grime from the blackstone streets and turning unpaved lanes near the poor district into mud. Traveling herb collectors returned in larger numbers as the forest began producing new growth.

Joe’s resource problem improved with bulk purchasing and better packet efficiency. It did not disappear.

The faster he became at medicine, the faster he could transform money into useful cultivation resources. The faster he cultivated it, the faster he consumed them.

One evening he recalculated again.

At the new rate, if nothing interrupted him, the original one-year estimate might shrink to eight or nine months.

Still far slower than the five-to-six-month ideal.

Joe tapped the paper with one finger. More money would help. Cheaper direct supply would help more. A genuinely superior nourishing recipe could change everything.

For now, he had enough. So, he continued. Guard patrol in the morning. Medicine when off duty.

The city moved around him as the season changed. Hawkers returned to open corners abandoned during the coldest weeks. Children played beside drainage channels filled with spring rain. Carriages splashed through shallow water along the main road, and the medicine district smelled increasingly of fresh plants rather than dried winter stock.

Joe enjoyed those patrols. Blackwood no longer overwhelmed him the way it had on arrival, but it still offered something new every few streets.

One afternoon, their team reached the edge of the poor district because another patrol had failed to report on time. The change was immediate. The paving became broken.

Buildings leaned closer. Several young men standing outside a drinking house stopped talking when they saw uniforms. Daren noticed Joe looking.

”Don’t stare.”

”I’m looking.”

”That’s what staring is.”

Joe smiled faintly. This phrase reminded him of Theodere on his first day in Blackwood.

They found the missing patrol twenty minutes later. Nothing serious had happened. A dispute between two neighborhood groups had drawn them into a side street, and everyone involved had disappeared before enough guards arrived to make arrests worthwhile.

Simon was irritated. Daren was not.

”Normal,” he said.

Joe looked back toward the alley. Three men stood far inside it now, watching the guards leave.

Blackwood had wealth enough to fill warehouses with medicine. It also had streets where law existed only when enough uniforms were present.

Joe had known that intellectually. For the first time, he began seeing it regularly.

Joe turned away and followed Simon back toward the blackstone road. Tempering Skin V was waiting.