“And then you stalled,” Director Yong finished.
“And then I stalled,” Cha Ming admitted. “My inheritance can take me no further. All I can do is trudge away like I used to, riding mad moments of inspiration until I’ve accumulated enough knowledge to progress. It’s both invigorating and frustrating.”
“You know what you’re building is unstable,” Director Yong said. “Your base isn’t as solid as people think, and any basis for advancing to late-grade grandmaster will also be unstable.”
Cha Ming shrugged. “What else can I do? I value freedom. Pardon me for being rude, but I rather hate working for others. Wherever I go, I open my own smithy. It might be expensive, but I hate being bound by employment contracts.” Absently, he scratched at his forehead, hinting at what could have been there in the past.
Director Yong nodded understandingly.
“About this blade,” Director Yong said. “The usual market price for such a weapon is five thousand top-grade spirit stones. Of course, those weapons are made from more expensive materials…”
Cha Ming shrugged. “It’s not the material of a weapon that matters but its effect.”
“Spoken like a true innovator,” Director Yong said. “Therefore, I’m willing to offer you twice its price.”
Cha Ming frowned.
“Not for free, of course. I want you to do two things in exchange. I want you to pen your thought process in creating it, write down the exact process you used to smith it, then sell that knowledge to our Blackthorn Conglomerate. I’ll also need a copy of the imaging orb you undoubtedly had recording just in case you had a mad moment of inspiration you wanted to review.”
“Hmm…” Cha Ming said. “Money is good and all, but knowledge is priceless. Could I instead exchange knowledge for other knowledge?”
“I’m afraid not,” Director Yong said. “Our hoarded knowledge is available only to employees, and on a strictly confidential basis. It’s not that I want to be black-hearted, but the family rules are strict for a reason. Knowledge is power.”
Cha Ming sighed. “Such strict terms. I really can’t understand why anyone would want to be bound by them. I don’t believe a lifetime of servitude to one company is a fair price for the knowledge to advance.”
“It’s not like their freedom can’t be bought out,” Director Yong said. “Some even manage it within fifty years. Besides, you might not know this, but our Blackthorn group has a few types of employment contracts. We have standard contracts, where freedom can be bought out. Assuming a person is of average productivity among those we hire, they’ll be free within a hundred years. If they’re above average, they can buy out their contract in the minimum of fifty years.”
“That’s too long,” Cha Ming said, shaking his head. “I’d never consider a contract like this.” Contractual terms aside, he would also be considered a normal worker. His level would never be high enough to accomplish what he wanted in the Wang family’s Southern operations.
“That’s a standard contract,” Director Yong said. “It’s not for creative individuals like you. For one like yourself, who desires knowledge and seeks it at every turn… we have something called a development contract.”
“A development contract?” Cha Ming asked, frowning. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Another lie.
“For premium producers, we typically set production quotas, with normal rewards and bonuses for extra production,” Director Yong said. “The contract is stable, but the information they have access to is limited. We give them a clear path for success, and many continue to work with us even after they’ve bought out their employment contract. Rewards are based on production.
“For innovators, however, we have a different path. You see, innovators hate to be bogged down by production quotas; they like access to premium information. As such, it’s not fitting to have them on a standard production quota; not only would their time be wasted producing normal things and occasionally producing masterworks, they wouldn’t have much time for their research.
“A development contract is therefore more appropriate. We grant full access to knowledge, but normal work doesn’t result in any significant reward. Material costs are footed by the company instead of the employee, but there is no corresponding reward, as we expect these employees to waste more material than others.”
“Then how do they pay off their employment contracts?” Cha Ming asked, frowning. He served another cup of tea, which Director Yong took eagerly.
“By contributing knowledge to the library,” Director Yong said, his eyes twinkling. “Creating something we already know how to make is one thing, but making something new and useful? Much more valuable. Let the other monkeys copy the method. For developing a new method that leads to an increased success rate in production, we offer one hundred times the statistical savings on a piece as a monetary reward. For example, if the failure rate for a piece was thirty percent for the average smith of that grade, and you came up with a method that reduced that to twenty-eight percent, we would offer you two hundred percent of the applicable piece’s face value.”
“Such knowledge can often apply to more than one piece,” Cha Ming pointed out.
“Noted,” Director Yong said. “Therefore, the calculation is based on the most valuable increase. For example, if something is worth a thousand high-grade spirit stones, and you reduce failure by five percentage points, that’s just as valuable as reducing a five thousand high-grade-spirit-stone item by one percentage point.”
“Fair enough,” Cha Ming said. “Though failure rate isn’t the only way to create beneficial knowledge.”
“Right,” Director Yong said. “Reducing material costs, like you did with this blade, is also very valuable. Though you’ve reduced material costs substantially—likely by twenty percent, when everything is said and done—I already know the core of how savings can be accrued. For material savings, we multiply the percentage savings and materials by ten. Normally, a spiritual weapon’s materials will amount to roughly half the value of the weapon. You’ve reduced those costs by twenty percent, so I would offer you double the weapon’s value.”
“I take it there is a reason for the lower payout?” Cha Ming asked.
“Yes,” Director Yong said. “Materials are easier to emulate and copy. We can only maintain a monopoly on such things for so long before our competitors discover it.”
“Then that leaves new products,” Cha Ming said.
“Indeed,” Director Yong said. “For your own innovations, we would award you a percentage of sales. Sometimes, however, clients ask us to make something according to their specifications. In this case, it depends on a few things, like contributions to the project, material wasted, and the like, but all things said and done, it could be as much as ten percent of the project. The final design would go to the client, of course.”
“Hmm…” Cha Ming said. “Interesting. That actually doesn’t sound so bad. It seems I’ve misjudged companies.”
“I’m afraid you haven’t,” Director Yong said. “Our company is the only one who would dare do such a thing. The Blackthorn Conglomerate has substantial backing. In addition, our knowledge base is quite large. It’s difficult to innovate something that doesn’t already exist.”
Cha Ming nodded. “About this blade. I’ll accept your terms.” He took out a jade slip and poured his transcendent force into it, inscribing a full record of the technique he used. Then he took out a small orb, which he’d taken from a stand downstairs after he’d finished forging. He took out another identical-looking orb and touched them together. They glowed softly as he poured qi into them.
Then, when the glowing faded, he handed one to Director Yong, who reviewed it, nodded, and stowed it in his storage ring along with the sword. He then placed a large pile of top-grade spirit stones beside the tea table. Cha Ming swept them up quickly.
“Now that this trivial matter is behind us, Pai Xiao, I was wondering what you thought of my offer,” Director Yong sa
id.
“Offer?” Cha Ming replied.
“Don’t play coy with me,” Director Yong said. “I won’t believe for a second if you tell me you thought I’d come to buy a simple sword off of you.”
Cha Ming hesitated. “Let me think about it. It’s a big decision to make.”
“Good,” Director Yong said. He flicked his wrist, and a small black scroll appeared in his hand. “The full details of our offer are here on the scroll. If you decide to accept it, simply bind the scroll, and assuming you have no other employment marks we aren’t aware of, you’ll immediately become one of our employees. The offer is valid for three days, and we expect you in Bastion one week from acceptance.”
“I’ll think about it,” Cha Ming said once again. Pai Xiao was a careful man who had long since grown used to freedom. “Would you like more tea?”
“I’m quite all right,” Director Yong said. “I wasn’t sure if making you an offer was a good idea at first, but then you served me tea. A man with such good taste couldn’t possibly be a mediocre individual, could he?”
“I’d expect the same of an employer,” Cha Ming said. “Your offer seems good according to what we’ve discussed. Still, I like to take my time with things like this.”
“Don’t take too long,” Director Yong said, pulling open the door. “The world is changing. There are great works under way. If you’re late, you’ll miss them and regret it for the rest of your life.” He then headed down the stone steps, shutting the door behind him as he exited the building.
Once he confirmed Director Yong was gone, Cha Ming inspected the contract. As he’d expected, the contract was onerous but not unreasonable. It had clearly been crafted assuming Cha Ming would make a breakthrough to peak-grandmaster rank. Two million top-grade spirit stones might seem like a ridiculous sum to others, but to someone who’d just made ten thousand of them as a mid-grade smith in a single afternoon, it wasn’t an unbearable one.
The main restrictions in the contract was that an employee couldn’t work for another and couldn’t share knowledge obtained during his employment with the Blackthorn Conglomerate. Should he pay off his debt, however, he could use the knowledge gained for his own benefit but couldn’t disseminate it for ten years, unless he paid a penalty ten times larger than his initial contract value. Dissemination included inscribing it on any medium or transferring to another individual. Cha Ming was surprised by how thorough it was in eliminating any avenues knowledge might be transferred.
That aside, his work hours would be very flexible, and he would gain full access to their libraries. The only exception, however, was that twenty-five percent of his time, at the minimum, would be allocated to “special projects,” for which he would be duly compensated.
One of these special projects must be the one Wang Jun noted in the folio, Cha Ming thought. Zhou Li’s pet project.
What should have taken him over a decade to accomplish, according to Wang Jun’s plan, had only taken him about half a year. Now, all he had to do was wait.
A small hand knocked on Cha Ming’s office door. “Master, you wanted to see me?” a feminine voice said from behind it.
“Come in,” Cha Ming said.
Mo Ling walked into the dimly lit room.
“Take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair in front of him. The girl was nervous—as she should be. Over the past few days, Cha Ming had relieved those in his smithy from their duties, severing their contracts with generous compensation for the inconvenience. He’d also put the smithy up for sale, equipment and all, through the Greenwind Pavilion. The smithy would have a new owner, and he’d want to select his own staff. Many of the old staff would likely be snapped up by the new owner.
Cha Ming sighed, put his hands to his face, and pressed them together while looking her straight in the eyes. “I’ll need to terminate your employment contract as well,” he said. “I’m going to Bastion, and I can’t take you with me.”
Mo Ling looked down. He saw sadness in her eyes but not the shock he’d expected. Instead, there was disappointment.
“It’s not that I don’t want to keep you with me,” Cha Ming continued. “You’re hardworking, and you’re very good with books, finances, and administration. You’ve made this smithy run like clockwork. I’ll be honest with you, technically speaking, I’m allowed to hire you under the employment contract I signed just this morning.”
“Then why?” Mo Ling said, her eyes tearing up. “I don’t know anyone here. I had to leave my family back in Liaoning, and now that things are comfortable again, you’re leaving me.”
Cha Ming knew he was being unreasonable from her point of view. That was what made it all the more difficult.
“But do you know what the worst part is?” Mo Ling said. “The worst part is knowing that you’ve been up to something this entire time. The people around you change too fast. They’re too familiar with you. We’ve barely been here for six months, but everyone talks to you like they’ve known you for years.
“I overheard a conversation on the other side of the city. They were talking about how great it was that you came from Liaoning five years ago. They remember me from five years ago, even though I wasn’t there. No one thinks it’s strange, but I remember you, and I remember being in Liaoning five years ago. Tell me, Pai Xiao, are those memories real? Or are theirs the ones that are fake?”
At some point in the conversation, her tone had shifted from an aggrieved little girl to that of an angry, confused woman.
Cha Ming sighed and closed his eyes. He’d ran this risk when he’d asked Sun Wukong to spare her memories. Asking her to just accept that her memories were incongruent with other people’s might have been too much for her to handle. Unfortunately, he’d felt guilty for what had happened, guilty for not doing more for the villagers of Liaoning, guilty for the future that was now lost to her. Tampering with her memories a second time had seemed far too cruel.
“They’re both fake,” Cha Ming said finally. “Pai Xiao isn’t even my real name. You haven’t known me for long, and I’m no one special to you.”
Mo Ling shuddered. She clutched her heart as though she’d been stabbed.
“The monastery?” she asked. “The things that happened there? My family? My hometown? Are they all fake as well?”
“They’re real,” Cha Ming said. “Unfortunately for you, they’re real. Your family still lives in Liaoning. The many deaths at the hands of the blood masters and my rampage through their monastery. Our journey here, and your time here. Those are real.”
“But why?” Mo Ling asked. “Why did you bother if you were just going to leave right away anyway?”
“It’s difficult to explain,” Cha Ming said softly. “Suffice to say that I have a skilled enemy. I have a goal, and to succeed, he can’t know I exist. Only Pai Xiao can exist.”
“Then why not go all the way?” Mo Ling asked. “Why not just erase yourself from my life?”
Cha Ming sighed. “If that is what you wish, I can do that. If you’re willing, it won’t take much time at all.”
She sniffed, wiping the tears from her eyes. “And is that what you want?” she asked.
“No,” Cha Ming said. “However, I won’t deny that leaving you this way is a risk. You’re a loose end I can’t bear to tie up. The more you remember, the easier I’ll be to find. You could easily be killed in the crossfire.” He shook his head. “I can take care of myself, so there’s no need to worry about me. But if you want to forget me… Well, I won’t blame you.”
Mo Ling sobbed softly when she heard these words. She began crying uncontrollably. Cha Ming could only sit and watch as she wept. Several minutes passed, and when she’d finished crying, her expression turned cold. “I want to forget. Change my memories just like the others.”
“Are you sure?” Cha Ming asked, a little bit disappointed inside.
“Yes,” Mo Ling said without any hesitation.
“All right,” Cha Ming said. He took out a treasure from his
Clear Sky World. It was the numerous bound medallions wrapped in metal wires Ling Dong had made for him. An aura of life and death pulsed through them. No, that wasn’t accurate. An aura of a lifetime ran through them. He’d discovered its use some time ago—the treasure mollified minds and helped people reconcile their lives and come to terms with their memories. In this case, he was using it to mollify her mind as Sun Wukong drifted out behind her and began working his magic.
Mo Ling’s eyes closed. The clock ticked away, and after a few minutes passed, they fluttered open. Cha Ming stowed his treasure, and Sun Wukong disappeared. Mo Ling sighed in disappointment. “But I really enjoyed working with you, Master. Couldn’t you take me to Bastion with you?”
“I’m not your master anymore,” Cha Ming said, cancelling the contract and placing a pile of spirit stones on the desk. “The bonus is for your inconvenience. I know you’ve got it harder than others since you don’t have any relatives here, so I spoke to one of the many weapons resellers in the city. She said she’d be happy to take you on as an apprentice.
“Really?” Mo Ling asked. He nodded. “If you recommend her, then I’d be happy to work for her.”
“She’s not the kindest lady, but she’s good at what she does,” Cha Ming said. “She’s also honest. You can trust her to keep her word.”
“All right,” Mo Ling said. “I’ll do as you say.”
Cha Ming nodded and wrote down an address on a piece of paper. “Go there this afternoon. She’ll have an employment contract waiting for you.”
“Thank you for everything,” Mo Ling said. She bowed in thanks to the man who’d taken her in shortly after a mysterious man rescued her from bandits years ago. Her family had died there, and she’d been alone and unemployed. Pai Xiao had taken a risk in sheltering her, so she’d worked hard to prove herself and earn her place in his shop.
“No need,” Cha Ming said, hiding away his pain. “Go ahead. She’s waiting.”
Mo Ling nodded and left. As the door closed and the last person left the building, Sun Wukong came out.
Shattered Lands: Book 8 of Painting the Mists Page 17