I descend the mountain with a purse full of spirit stones and a list longer than my arm. The morning sun catches the muddy streets, turning them into a patchwork of brown and gold. The town's morning market is bustling: farmers hawking vegetables, merchants calling out prices, laborers gathered near the square hoping for work. The usual crowd, going about their usual business.
I move through them with purpose, Gaze flicking across faces and goods as I pass. A bolt of cloth here—good quality, fairly priced. A pile of vegetables there—fresh, but not worth the inflated cost.
First stop: the grain merchant.
Old Zhang's shop sits at the edge of the market square, a sprawling building of weathered wood that's served the town for three generations. Grain sacks line the walls. The smell of wheat and rice fills the air. Old Zhang himself is behind the counter, a round man with thin hair and shrewd eyes.
"Old Zhang." I approach directly, no preamble. "I need bulk supplies. Rice, wheat, vegetables, preserved meat. Enough for twenty people for six months."
His eyes bug out. "Sect Leader Lu..." He trails off, doing the math in his head. "That's a lot of food. Your sect only has—"
"Growing. I'm hiring more laborers, taking on more disciples. Can you supply it?"
He blinks. Processes. Then his merchant instincts kick in, overriding his surprise. "I can. I'll need time to gather everything. Three days, maybe four. But I can do it."
He can. He does. We haggle briefly, not because I care about the price, but because not haggling would raise questions. Forty low-grade stones later, I have enough food to fill a small room. Rice in hundred-pound sacks. Wheat ground fine for porridge. Dried vegetables that will keep through winter. Preserved meat salted and smoked. Jars of oil, bags of spices, everything a growing sect needs. And more to come over the next few days.
I step into an alley, out of sight, and transfer it all to the spirit food preservation ring—the one from the tomb, still half-empty from the original rice. The ring absorbs it greedily, its storage space yawning wide.
The sect won't go hungry this winter.
Second stop: the tool merchant.
A smaller shop, cramped and cluttered, but the tools are quality. Iron picks with sharp points. Shovels with sturdy handles. Wheelbarrows that won't collapse under weight. Ropes, lanterns, buckets, all the equipment a mining operation needs.
The merchant, a wiry man named Huo, no relation to my miner, eyes me curiously as I list my needs. "Doubling your operation, Sect Leader?"
"Expanding. The vein still has some life left. Might as well get it while we can."
He nods, accepting the explanation without question. Fifteen low-grade stones change hands. I store most of the equipment in the storage ring, leaving out a few picks for show—visible proof of my investment, something for the miners to see and appreciate.
Third stop: the cloth merchant.
Winter is coming. I've felt it in the morning chill, seen it in the frost on my windows. My disciples wear robes thin as paper, patched and repatched, inadequate for the cold months ahead. The servants wear even less—rough hemp that barely counts as clothing.
The cloth merchant's name is Wei. She's a sharp woman in her fifties, with calloused fingers from decades of sewing and eyes that miss nothing. I spread my requirements across her counter: twenty bolts of thick cotton for everyday wear, ten bolts of wool for winter cloaks, needles, thread, and ready-made winter cloaks for everyone—disciples and servants both.
Wei raises an eyebrow at the quantity but says nothing. Business is business. Twelve low-grade stones later, I have enough fabric to outfit my entire sect twice over.
"Delivery to the mountain?" she asks.
"Tomorrow. I'll send someone."
Fourth stop: the medicine shop.
Not the herbalist who sells to mortals for common ailments. The real medicine shop, tucked down a side street, run by a retired cultivator who sells to minor sects and wandering practitioners. A wooden sign with a single character—"Heal"—hangs above the door.
Inside, the air smells of herbs and old qi. The proprietor is a woman named Su, ancient and wrinkled, her cultivation long since faded but her knowledge still sharp. She looks up as I enter, eyes narrowing.
"Sect Leader Lu. You don't visit often."
"I don't often have the resources." I place a list on her counter. "Basic healing supplies. Qi-regulating herbs. Wound salves. Enough for a year."
She scans the list, then looks at me. "This is... substantial. Your sect has come into money?"
"Decades of saving. Finally decided to spend it."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her eyes. But she's a businesswoman, not an investigator. Ten low-grade stones change hands, and I leave with a sack full of medicines that could save lives.
Fifth stop: the village head.
A necessary evil. The village head—a bureaucrat named Guo, round and oily—has the power to make my life difficult if he chooses. Questions about sudden wealth could reach ears I don't want listening.
I find him in his office, a modest building near the town center. He's reviewing tax records, or pretending to. His eyes light up when I enter; cultivators don't visit him often, and when they do, it usually means trouble or profit.
"Sect Leader Lu! What an honor." He rises, bowing slightly. "How can I assist the Coiling Dragon Sect today?"
I place two low-grade stones on his desk. Small, gleaming, worth more than he makes in a month.
"A gift," I say. "For the town. My sect has been saving for years, and we're finally able to invest in our people. I wanted you to know, in case anyone asks questions."
He looks at the stones. Looks at me. Smiles.
"I understand completely, Sect Leader. The Coiling Dragon Sect has always been a pillar of this community. Any investments you make are, of course, entirely your own business."
He believes me. Or pretends to. Either way, the stones buy his silence.
Total Spent: 79 low-grade stones
Remaining: 2,788 low-grade, 432 middle-grade, 17 high-grade
I walk back up the mountain as the sun sets, my storage ring heavy with supplies, my mind already planning the next steps. Food for winter. Tools for expansion. Clothes for warmth. Medicine for emergencies. A bureaucrat bribed into silence.
Worth every stone.
Over the next five days. The sect shifts.
Old Zhao proves invaluable.
Within a day of arriving, he's mapped the existing tunnels, identifying every twist and turn with the confidence of someone who's spent decades underground. Within two days, he's pointed out three promising locations for new shafts—places where the rock sounds different, where his instincts whisper of hidden wealth. Within three days, he's trained my new laborers in proper technique, correcting their swings, teaching them to read the stone.
The Gaze was right about him. His stone resonance is uncanny. I watch him tap a wall with his pick, ear pressed close, eyes half-closed, listening to echoes that normal ears can't hear. Then he nods, satisfied, and tells you exactly what's behind it. Granite. Iron trace. Empty space. Water seepage. He's never wrong.
Chen Jiang, the miner with trace earth affinity, works beside him like a student with a master. He absorbs everything, asking questions, practicing techniques, his natural talent sharpening under Old Zhao's guidance. Together, they're a formidable team: Old Zhao's experience combined with Chen Jiang's innate sensitivity.
By the twelfth day, we've dug two new side tunnels. Nothing major yet—a few trace minerals, some iron deposits that might be worth extracting eventually. But I'm not here for iron. I'm here for what the Gaze might find.
I wait until the laborers break for lunch, then walk deeper into the new tunnel, out of sight. I activate the Gaze and sweep it across the walls, floor, ceiling.
Potential Spirit Stone Vein (Undiscovered) - Grade: C (Average)
Type: Resource Deposit
Depth: 40-50 feet below current tunnel
Estimated Yield: 20-30 low-grade stones per month
Quality: Moderate
Access Difficulty: Hard — granite layer requires 2 weeks of focused digging
Verdict: Modest but reliable. Will not make you rich. Will keep the lights on. Dig if you have nothing better to do.
A C-grade vein. Not rich, not poor. Twenty to thirty stones per month—enough to sustain my sect indefinitely. Enough to cover our basic expenses, to provide for disciples, to build a foundation. Something that just months ago, would’ve been a boon for our declining sect.
But now? It was enough to explain my sudden wealth, if I'm careful.
We found a new vein. We've been saving for years. We finally hit paydirt.
The story writes itself. And unlike the tomb wealth, this vein is real. Sustainable. Something I can show, can point to, can use to deflect questions.
I invest in better tools—stronger picks, sharper shovels, more lanterns for the darkness. I hire four more laborers, all vetted by the Gaze for honesty and work ethic, all grateful for steady work. I set Old Zhao to overseeing the excavation, with a bonus promised when they break through.
By the fourteenth day, the tunnel is half-dug. The laborers work in shifts, around the clock, their motivation high. A new vein means prosperity. Means job security. Means bonuses and better lives.
The sect buzzes with quiet excitement.
And during this same timespan, the extra food arrives quietly.
I claim I bought it in town over the past few months, saving up, storing it for winter. I distribute it through Old Chen, who's learned not to ask questions.
The disciples eat better. The servants eat better. The morning meal now includes real rice, not thin gruel. Lunch has vegetables and sometimes meat. Dinner fills stomachs instead of merely teasing them.
Morale rises noticeably. Smiles appear where there were none. Conversations grow louder, more frequent. The sect feels... alive.
Winter cloaks appear on everyone's beds.
I distribute them at night, while everyone sleeps.
A bolt of wool here, a finished cloak there. By morning, every disciple and every servant has warm clothing for the first time in years.
Mei Lin cries when she sees hers. She's been mending the same threadbare robe for three years, patching patches, pretending the cold didn't bother her. She holds the new cloak like it's made of gold, tears streaming down her face.
Wei Chen struts around like a peacock, showing off his cloak to anyone who'll look. He's young enough to care about appearances, old enough to appreciate warmth.
Even Feng's permanent scowl softens slightly. He runs his fingers over the wool, testing its thickness, its quality. Then he looks at me with those intense eyes.
But he's been asking more pointed questions lately.
Where is all this coming from, Sect Leader? How did we afford this, Sect Leader? Why now, after twenty years of nothing, Sect Leader?
Every time, I deflect. Saved up. Careful planning. Wise investments. A new vein in the mine. The answers are plausible, consistent, boring. He accepts them. For now.
But his suspicion lingers. I can see it in his eyes.
The roof gets repaired.
I hire workers from Greenstone Town, paying in coin and rice. They spend three days patching holes, replacing rotten beams, sealing leaks. The main hall no longer lets in rain when the sky opens. The disciples can meditate without getting wet. The servants can gather without dodging drips.
Small things, but they matter.
The old Lu Chen, or is it me now? The line blurs every day—feels something stir in his chest.
Reverence, almost. His sect, this crumbling collection of buildings and failures, was becoming something more. Something worthy.
I walk through the main hall on the thirteenth day, listening to the quiet sounds of evening meditation, and for the first time since I woke up in this body, I feel at peace.
I establish a small herb garden near the mine entrance.
Nothing obvious—just a few plots of cleared ground, protected by a simple fence. I plant basic medicinal plants: qi-restoring herbs, wound-healing plants, things that will be useful for minor injuries and illnesses. The Gaze helps me choose varieties that actually grow in this soil, that won't require constant attention or spiritual energy to thrive.
Chen Jiang's wife, it turns out, knows herbs. She's been a farmer's daughter her whole life, and she volunteers to tend the garden in exchange for a share of the harvest. I agree immediately—another pair of trustworthy eyes, another connection to the mountain.
In a few months, we'll have our own supply.
And every night, Lin’g er comes to my quarters.
Each night, she comes to my quarters. Each night, I push her harder.
The Qi Condensation pills continue; one per day, every day. Her body has adapted completely. No more pain, no more fever, no more trembling. Just a warm glow that spreads through her meridians and settles somewhere deep, somewhere fundamental. She takes them now like candy, like they're nothing.
The spirit rice portions double. Then triple. She eats like a grown laborer—bowl after bowl, grain after grain—and stays thin as a reed. The energy is going somewhere, fueling something I can't see but can feel. Her presence in a room is heavier now, more substantial, like the air itself acknowledges her.
Old Chen pulls me aside on the eleventh day, his weathered face creased with concern.
"Sect Leader," he says quietly, glancing around to ensure we're alone. "I don't mean to pry, but... the food. The rice. The portions I've been preparing for you..."
I raise an eyebrow. "Yes?"
He lowers his voice further. "Are you... preparing for a breakthrough, Sect Leader? To Core Formation, perhaps? I've heard that cultivators need vast amounts of energy when attempting such things. And the amount you've been consuming..." He trails off, eyes wide with something between awe and worry.
I stare at him for a moment. Then I nod slowly, gravely.
"... You've caught me, Old Chen. I've been saving for years, gathering resources. The time is approaching. But say nothing to the others—I don't want to raise hopes prematurely."
His face lights up with pride. "Of course, Sect Leader! Your secret is safe with me. I'll prepare even more—whatever you need!"
I clap him on the shoulder and send him on his way, inwardly relieved. Better he thinks I'm eating for a breakthrough than wondering why a twelve-year-old kitchen girl consumes three times her body weight in spirit rice every night.
On the tenth night, I demonstrate the basic stances of the Coiling Dragon Sect.
All thirteen forms, passed down through generations, simple and crude by any real standard. The same stances I've been doing every morning with the disciples, the same movements that have trained countless mediocre cultivators over the history of the sect.
I show her once.
She copies them perfectly.
I blink. "You've seen these before?"
She nods, a little sheepish. "From morning training, Sect Leader. I watch every day, from the kitchen doorway. I've been practicing in my head, trying to remember the movements. But..." She hesitates. "They felt wrong somehow. Like they didn't quite fit."
I show her twice, this time explaining the principles behind each movement—weight distribution, energy flow, the philosophy of rooting power through the feet. She nods, absorbs, repeats.
Still perfect.
On the third repetition, she adjusts.
It's subtle. A slight shift in weight here, an extended arm there, a different angle in her stance. Someone watching casually wouldn't notice. But I'm not watching casually.
The Gaze activates:
Ling'er - Modified Coiling Dragon Stance
Type: Technique Observation (Instinctive Adaptation)
Effect: Modifications increase efficiency by 40% for her specific constitution. Would decrease efficiency for normal cultivators by 60%.
Verdict: This is not conscious improvement. Her body knows what it needs better than her mind does. Do not correct her form. Do not teach her the "proper" way. She is already beyond it.
I stare at her. She stares back, uncertain, misinterpreting my silence.
"Did I do it wrong, Sect Leader?"
"No." My voice comes out slightly strangled. "You did it... differently. Show me why."
She thinks about it, actually thinks, her brow furrowing in concentration, her eyes distant as she examines her own movements. Then she speaks.
"The stance you showed... it's for someone who draws power from the ground. Through their feet, up their legs, into their center." She gestures to her legs, her stomach. "That's how the other disciples do it. How you do it. But I..." She touches her chest, just below the throat. "I draw power from here. From the thing in my chest. And from deeper." Her hand moves lower, pressing against her sternum. "Inside my bones. So I shifted my weight to let that flow better. More room for the energy to move."
The Sacred Cosmic Bone. Teaching her without teaching her. Understanding techniques at a fundamental level, then reshaping them to fit her nature.
"Learn this."
I move to the center of the room and begin the next sequence. Twelve forms, more advanced than the basics—some I hadn't even taught Feng yet. Passed down from the previous Sect Leader to me, further refined by a decade entrenched within Foundation Establishment. Movements that require deeper understanding, greater control, more refined energy manipulation.
This is not something you'd give to a Qi Condensation disciple, much less one that had only been training for less than a month. Feng himself only learned half of these, and he's been cultivating for years.
I show her once.
She watches, eyes tracking every movement, every shift of weight, every breath.
I finish and step back.
She moves.
Twelve forms, one after another. Each one subtly altered—an arm extended differently here, a pivot adjusted there, a stance widened just slightly. The changes are small but significant, reshaping each technique to fit a body that draws power from chest and bone rather than ground and root.
The speed isn't there. The flow isn't as smooth as mine, not yet. Her muscles still struggle with movements they've never practiced. But the understanding—the comprehension of what each form does and how to make it work for her—is perfect.
She finishes, breathing hard, sweat beading on her forehead. But her eyes are bright, and her skin glows with that faint golden sheen that's become more frequent.
"How did that feel?"
"Right." She presses a hand to her chest, feeling the pulse of power beneath. "Like the first way was wearing someone else's clothes. This way fits."
I keep my face calm, but inside I'm screaming. A week and a half. Ten days. That's all it's taken for a malnourished kitchen girl to reach a level of technique comprehension that would take normal disciples years. And she's not just learning—she's improving, adapting established forms to fit a body that hasn't existed in recorded history.
The heavens are unfair.
A thought cuts through the forefront of my mind. If Feng sees Ling'er performing forms he hasn't learned yet, forms he's been struggling with for years... questions will be asked. Suspicion will grow. The careful lie of her "no advantages" training will crumble.
I file that away and turn back to her.
"Good. Rest now. Do not show these forms in practice with other disciples. Tomorrow, we continue."
“Yes, Sect Leader!”