The evening mist rolled thick and wet off Lotus Lake, wrapping the narrow lanes of Willow Alley in a heavy, blue-grey silence. The cold dampness had a way of seeping through the brick walls of the small houses, turning the floors slick and chilling the bones of the mortal residents. Inside his run-down kitchen, Fang Lin stood near the low brick stove, watching the small flames lick the bottom of a blackened clay pot.
He was cooking the white winter radish, green onions, and wild ginger that Auntie Mei had stuffed into his pockets. He had not chopped the radish; instead, following her advice, he had simply bruised it with a clean stone, letting the white flesh crack open to release its spicy, warming juice into the boiling water. The kitchen was filled with the hot, comforting fragrance of woodsmoke and vegetable broth.
Within his chest, his meridians were experiencing a quiet, steady transformation.
Guided by his divine sense, a microscopic thread of Nether Life Spirit Qi—the cool, vibrant emerald-green energy that served as his primary regenerative power—flowed quietly from his Life Core. The green energy did not force its way through the fractured channels; instead, aligned with his new metallurgical understanding of yielding, it hovered gently over the torn fibers of his upper meridians, weaving them back together with absolute patience. The dry, scraping ache in his chest was replaced by a deep, localized warmth, a steady, incremental recovery that was gradually restoring his physical strength.
Suddenly, Fang Lin's Peak-Solid Soul stirred.
His divine sense, which remained active in his mind like a deep, windless pool, detected three small, light presences just outside his courtyard wall. In the spiritual plane, their souls appeared as tiny, dim sparks, their breathing shallow and hurried. They were moving with extreme caution, climbing over the silver-grey wooden slats of his fence near the withered willow tree.
He did not call out. He did not stoke the fire. Instead, he stood in the kitchen doorway, watching the dark yard through the mist.
Three small figures dropped quietly onto the damp gravel of the yard. They wore oversized, ragged cotton coats tied at the waist with hemp ropes, their faces smeared with coal dust and dirt from the lakeside docks.
The leader was a boy of about twelve, with sharp, defensive black eyes and a jaw set in a hard, stubborn line. Behind him was a younger boy, around ten, who was broad-shouldered but shivering in the damp wind, and a small girl of no more than nine, who clung tightly to the leader's sleeve.
To a normal mortal, they were merely homeless street orphans seeking shelter or scraps. But to Fang Lin's Peak-Solid Soul, their internal state was laid bare.
All three children possessed a thin, chaotic layer of spiritual energy in their chests. Their Qi was raw, thin, and unevenly distributed, moving in fitful, jerky patterns through their pathways. This meant that they had managed to step into the Qi Conjunction realm on their own, likely using discarded scraps of incomplete manuals they had found in garbage heaps or bought for a few coppers from traveling rogue merchants. They had no masters, no formal training, and no resources, forcing them to cultivate by raw instinct alone.
"Brother Chuan," the younger boy whispered, his voice shaking from the cold as he pointed to the pile of dry firewood Uncle Zhang had left by the hearth. "There is dry wood there. And look, there is scrap iron near the fence. We can sell it to the scrap dealer for three coppers."
"Shh," the leader, Xiao Chuan, whispered back, his eyes darting toward the quiet main house. "Keep your voice down, Hu Zi. The crippled youth who lives here is weak, but the blacksmith at the corner has a heavy hammer. Grab the wood quickly. Er Ya, hold the sack open."
The small girl, Er Ya, stepped forward, her hands trembling as she opened a dirty burlap sack.
Fang Lin watched them from the recesses of the kitchen doorway, his expression calm. He did not feel anger. Looking at these children struggling to survive in a damp, lawless county, he was reminded of his own early days when he was a simple outer disciple of the Green Bamboo Sect. In those days, before he had obtained the legacy of the sovereign or the recognition of the elders, survival had been a daily struggle measured in silver coins and dry bread.
He stepped back into the kitchen, picked up a wide wooden tray, and placed three wooden bowls of hot radish soup and three yellow cornmeal buns upon it.
He walked out into the yard.
His boots made no sound on the wet gravel, a quiet movement he had mastered long ago. The three children were so focused on piling dry twigs into the sack that they did not notice his approach until he stood less than five paces away under the drooping branches of the willow tree.
"The wood burns better if you dry it by the hearth first," Fang Lin said softly.
The three children froze as though struck by lightning.
Hu Zi let out a small gasp, dropping the firewood he was holding, while Er Ya shrank behind Xiao Chuan, her round eyes filled with fear.
Xiao Chuan reacted instantly. He did not run. Instead, he stepped in front of the two younger children, his small fists clenching as he tried to put on a fierce, defensive face. His thin, chaotic Qi Conjunction waves rose in his chest, creating a faint, barely perceptible ripple of heat in the cold air.
"We aren't thieves!" Xiao Chuan shouted, his voice cracking slightly with youth and fear as he glared at Fang Lin. "We were just... we were just borrowing some twigs! If you call the blacksmith, I'll... I'll fight you!"
Fang Lin looked at the boy's clenched fists and the thin, shaking wave of Qi he was trying to muster. The boy's Qi circulation was completely incorrect; he was forcing the energy to gather in his knuckles without grounding his stance, a common error that would cause the force to rebound into his own wrist if he actually struck anything.
Fang Lin did not raise his voice. He did not point his splinted arm. He simply took a few steps forward and set the heavy wooden tray on the low wooden table in the center of the yard.
"The soup is hot," Fang Lin said, his voice carrying the gentle, humble tone of a mortal youth. "And the buns are fresh. If you are hungry, you should eat first. Fighting with an empty stomach only makes the ribs ache."
Xiao Chuan stared at the steaming bowls of radish soup, the fragrant scent of ginger and green onions drifting through the cold mist. His stomach let out a loud, traitorous rumble, that was clearly audible in the quiet yard.
Hu Zi swallowed his saliva, his eyes locked on the yellow cornmeal buns. "Brother Chuan... it smells really good."
"It's a trap," Xiao Chuan muttered, though his defensive stance had softened slightly, his eyes darting between Fang Lin's pale face and the steam rising from the bowls. "Cultivators don't give away food for free. You must want something from us."
"I am not a cultivator," Fang Lin replied quietly, indicating his splinted arm and his worn grey cotton coat. "My meridians are shattered, and I'm just a cripple. I copy tax scrolls for three coppers a page. I am just a mortal youth living in this alley. There is no trap here, only some hot radish broth that Auntie Mei gave me."
Xiao Chuan looked at Fang Lin's splinted arm and his pale, thin face, which carried no spiritual fluctuations or arrogant cultivator pressure. Indeed, to the children's simple Qi Conjunction senses, the youth before them looked frail and harmless, someone who could be pushed over with a single hand.
After a long moment of hesitation, Xiao Chuan slowly lowered his fists. He walked to the wooden table, his hand reaching out cautiously to take one of the wooden bowls. He did not drink it himself; instead, he handed it back to Er Ya, who took it with a small, grateful murmur and began to drink the hot broth hungrily.
Xiao Chuan took the second bowl, handing it to Hu Zi, and finally picked up the third bowl for himself, along with the yellow buns.
The three children sat on the low wooden bench in the yard, eating with a desperate, silent hunger. They did not speak, their hands shaking slightly from the cold as they tore the yellow buns and dipped them into the hot, ginger-infused soup. The warm broth immediately did its work, color returning to their pale cheeks and their shivering bodies slowly relaxing.
Fang Lin sat on the pine stool under the willow tree, watching them in silence.
Using his Peak-Solid Soul scan, he quietly observed the movement of Qi inside their bodies as they ate. The warmth of the ginger and radish was fanning their thin, raw spiritual waves. Because they had no proper guidance, their Qi was pooling in their chests, unable to flow down to their lower pathways because their breathing was too shallow.
"When you breathe," Fang Lin said softly, his voice matching the gentle patter of the lake mist, "you should let the air sink below the ribs before you release it. If you keep the breath high in the chest, the heat stays trapped in your throat, and your legs will grow cold in the mist."
Xiao Chuan paused, his mouth full of cornmeal bun. He looked at Fang Lin with a mix of surprise and suspicion. "How do you know that? You said you aren't a cultivator."
"I was a cultivator before, but I'm just a cripple now. My father taught me a few basic breathing techniques." Fang Lin lied smoothly, his expression completely calm. "He always said that mortals who live in damp regions must breathe deep to keep the water-dampness from settling into their marrow. It is just common sense."
Xiao Chuan grunted, but he secretly tried letting his breath sink deeper. Within a few moments, the raw, chaotic Qi in his chest began to spread down into his lower abdomen, and a faint, comforting warmth touched his cold feet. The boy's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but his stubborn pride prevented him from admitting it.
"We don't need health books," Xiao Chuan said, setting his empty bowl down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes returning to their guarded, defensive look. "We are rogue cultivators. Once we get enough coppers, we are going to buy a true manual from the black market and join a major sect. We don't need charity from a scribe."
"A major sect requires a clean foundation," Fang Lin remarked quietly. "If you cultivate with incorrect breathing for too long, the energy pathways will grow crooked, and no sect elder will look at you."
Xiao Chuan's face darkened slightly, a look of frustration touching his young brow. "We don't have a choice. The scrap dealers only give us one copper for five pounds of iron. And the rogue cultivators near the docks take half of what we earn just for letting us sleep in the old boat-shack. If we don't cultivate, we will be weak forever, and the bandit guilds will eventually take us as servants."
Fang Lin listened, committing the details to memory.
Lotus Lake County was indeed a harsh place for those without backing. In the cultivation world, strength was the only currency, and those who were weak were exploited by the strong. These children, despite their young age and lack of resources, were trying to climb the mountain by raw will alone, a path that was filled with pain and danger.
"If you want to earn coppers," Fang Lin said, pointing to the pile of scrap iron near the wooden fence, "I have some worn files that Uncle Zhang gave me. If you sweep the yard and scrape the rust off those scrap metal sheets every evening, I can pay you two coppers a day. And there will always be a bowl of hot soup."
Xiao Chuan looked at the scrap iron, then at Fang Lin. His pride struggled against his hunger and the practical need for coppers, but looking at Er Ya's thin, shivering frame and Hu Zi's hopeful eyes, his resolve yielded.
"Two coppers," Xiao Chuan grunted, his voice firm. "And three bowls of soup. We don't sweep for less."
"Deal," Fang Lin said with a gentle nod.
"I am Xiao Chuan," the boy said, standing up and crossing his arms in a mock show of cultivator dignity. "This is Hu Zi, and this is Er Ya. We will be here tomorrow evening. Don't forget the coppers."
"I will have them ready," Fang Lin promised.
Xiao Chuan picked up the burlap sack, which was still empty of wood, and led the other two children toward the gate. They did not climb the wall this time; they walked out through the creaking wooden gate, their footsteps fading into the foggy alley within seconds.
Fang Lin picked up the empty wooden bowls and the tray, walking back into his quiet kitchen.
Within his spiritual sea, the Dark Flame Spirit was watching him, her mental voice carrying a soft, thoughtful sigh. "Those kids are very dirty. And their Qi is so thin it looks like water threads. Why are you helping them? You are faking being a mortal, not a savior."
"I am not a savior," Fang Lin replied in his thoughts, fanning the embers of his stove. "But a yard is easier to sweep with help. And watching their raw, simple Qi reminds me of the foundation of cultivation. When you look at the mountain peak, you often forget the shape of the stones at the bottom."
"Hmph," the spirit snorted, though she did not argue. She curled up in the Spatial Furnace, her flame flickering gently in the warmth of the stove.
Fang Lin sat by the hearth, eating his own simple bowl of radish soup. The rain began to fall again outside, pattering softly against the paper windows and the silvery leaves of the willow tree, wrapping the small courtyard in deep, peaceful silence as he continued his slow, day-by-day recovery.
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