Wei dropped from his tree and landed with barely a sound.

  His back was stiff. The Oak was sturdy, but it lacked the Qi-infused wood of the Sect's Spirit Grooves.

  "I am going to need to find more permanent accommodations," Wei muttered, rubbing his neck. "And perhaps a pillow."

  He adjusted his robes, which were starting to look less like "mystical garb" and more like "homeless chic," and proceeded to the clearing.

  Along the way, he found a discarded plastic bucket. It was bright yellow and had once held joint compound.

  *A collection vessel,* Wei decided. *Crude, but functional.*

  He arrived at the clearing.

  A crowd was already waiting.

  Yesterday, there had been three stressed businessmen. Today, there were twenty.

  Word had spread. The "Magic Yoga Guy" in the park. The man who could catch frisbees with his eyes closed. The man whose presence made your migraine go away.

  Wei set the bucket down in the center of the grass.

  "Tuition," Wei announced, pointing to the bucket. "Ten dollars. Cash."

  He didn't wait for them to pay. He assumed the stance.

  He began his morning session of "Tai Chi," as the locals insisted on calling it.

  It was actually the *Azure Cloud Foundation Form*, designed to scrub impurities from the marrow.

  Wei moved. The crowd moved with him. They were clumsy. They had no foundation. But as they mimicked his breathing, the localized Qi field expanded.

  For an hour, the clearing was the most peaceful place in New York City. Taxi horns sounded distant. The smog felt less choking.

  Wei led them through the forms. He didn't speak. He simply nodded to the bucket when a new student arrived late.

  *Clink. Rustle. Clink.*

  The bucket filled.

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  "Class dismissed," Wei announced as the sun hit the top of the skyline. "Go and drink water. Your toxins are loose."

  The crowd applauded (which was weird for a cultivation session) and dispersed, leaving bills and coins in the yellow bucket.

  Wei approached his earnings.

  A young teenage girl was standing by his bucket.

  She was wearing a denim jacket, a plaid skirt, and combat boots. Her hair was dyed a neon pink that rivaled the toxic flora of the Poison Swamp.

  She was barely fourteen, but her eyes held the cynical weight of a Sect Elder.

  She quickly emptied the bucket onto the grass. Her hands moved with terrifying speed.

  *Sort. Stack. Count.*

  She organized the bills by denomination. She rolled the coins.

  Wei watched, fascinated.

  *The Dao of Calculation,* Wei observed. *She is efficient.*

  She finished. She snapped a rubber band around the stack of bills.

  "Three hundred and forty dollars," she announced. "Plus forty-five cents in change which I'm taking as a processing fee."

  She stood up and handed the stack to Wei.

  "Hi," she said, popping a bubble of gum. "I'm Sarah. I'm your new manager."

  Wei looked at the girl. He looked at the neatly organized money.

  He had planned to count it himself, which would have taken ten minutes. She had done it in thirty seconds.

  In the Cultivation World, you didn't question talent when it arrived at your doorstep. You recruited it.

  "Manager," Wei tested the word. "Like the Alchemist at the coffee shop?"

  "Better," Sarah corrected. "He pays you wages. I get you profits."

  She looked him up and down.

  "First order of business: We need to get you a permit before the cops shut this down. Second: You need to wash those robes. You smell like a tree."

  Wei bowed.

  "Acceptable terms, Manager Sarah."

  He tucked the money into his sleeve.

  "Do you know where we can get breakfast?"

  Sarah rolled her eyes. "Follow me, Bruce Lee. I know a bagel place."