**Chapter 2: The Weight of a Wooden Bow**
The morning dew clung to the blades of the Golden Jade Spirit Rice like tiny, crystalline pearls. As the first rays of the sun breached the jagged peaks of the Azure Mist Mountains, the light caught the dew, transforming Lin Mo's two-acre field into a shimmering ocean of liquid light.
Lin Mo stood at his window, a steaming cup of dandelion tea in his hand, and watched the sunrise. The air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and the subtle, sweet fragrance of the maturing spirit rice. He took a deep breath, letting the clean air fill his lungs, feeling the ever-present, rhythmic pulsing of the Immortal Lotus within his soul.
It was a beautiful morning. Yet, as Lin Mo's gaze drifted past his own meticulously maintained fences, down the winding dirt path that led toward the neighboring plots, a solemn quiet settled over him.
The path was empty.
Old Man Xu had not returned.
Lin Mo sighed, a long, quiet sound that seemed loud in the morning stillness. He took a sip of his tea; it was bitter and grounding. He had known, with the cynical certainty of a man who had seen the world grind people to dust, that Xu's desperate gamble was doomed. The weeping willow basin was notoriously dangerous, a breeding ground for low-tier demonic beasts that thrived in the damp, shadowy environment. For an aging, exhausted Qi Condensation Level 3 cultivator, it was nothing short of a suicide mission.
Still, knowing a thing and seeing the empty path confirm it were two different matters. In the grand scheme of the cultivation world, the death of a loose cultivator was less than a drop of water in the ocean. No sect elders would mourn, no jade monuments would be erected, and within a month, the town magistrate would casually rent his plot to the next desperate soul hoping to claw their way to immortality.
"Such is the path," Lin Mo murmured, setting his empty cup on the windowsill.
He didn't dwell on the tragedy. In a world where death was as common as rain, mourning every fallen leaf would leave a man paralyzed. Instead, he dressed in his patched blue robes, tied his hair back, and stepped out into the cool morning. He had a promise to keep.
After feeding the raucous Cloud-Feather Chickens and pouring a generous mound of feed for Baozi—who offered only a sleepy groan of acknowledgment before diving snout-first into the trough—Lin Mo left his compound.
The walk to Old Man Xu's farm took about fifteen minutes. The closer Lin Mo got, the more the vibrant energy of the morning seemed to fade. Xu's plot was a stark, depressing contrast to Lin Mo's vibrant sanctuary. The wooden fence was rotting and leaning precariously in several places. The acre of spirit rice was patchy, the stalks an unhealthy, yellowish-green. Without the daily, exhausting application of the *Spring Breeze Drizzle Art* to provide pure wood-qi, the soil had become compacted and dry, suffocating the delicate crops.
Lin Mo pushed open the creaky gate and walked toward the dilapidated wooden shack that served as Xu's home. Attached to the side of the shack was a large wire-mesh coop. Inside, a dozen Spirit-Tail Doves were cooing frantically, their iridescent tail feathers dull and ruffled. They were a low-grade messenger bird, prized for their speed and homing instincts, but they required a specific diet of dried spirit-insects and pure spring water.
Seeing Lin Mo, the doves fluttered against the mesh, crying out in hunger.
"Alright, easy now. I'm here," Lin Mo said, his voice soothing.
He found a half-empty sack of feed inside Xu's dusty shed. The feed was stale, mixed with too much mortal grain and not enough spirit-insects, a clear sign of Xu's dwindling finances. Lin Mo filled their troughs and refreshed their water from the nearby well, watching as the birds descended upon the food with desperate hunger.
He lingered for a moment, looking at the silent, empty shack. The door was unlocked—there was nothing inside worth stealing. A frayed meditation mat, a cracked teapot, and a pile of debts. That was the entirety of Old Man Xu's legacy.
Lin Mo felt no urge to search the place for hidden manuals or secret stashes of spirit stones. He knew there were none. If Xu had possessed anything of value, he would have sold it to buy the Blood-Ginseng instead of risking his life.
"May you find a more peaceful path in the next cycle, Senior Xu," Lin Mo whispered, offering a brief, respectful bow to the empty house.
He turned and walked away, his resolve hardening like tempered steel. He would not end up like Xu. He would not let the ticking clock of mortality drive him to madness. He would cultivate the soil, he would cultivate his soul, and he would let the world race by without him.
By mid-morning, Lin Mo decided it was time to visit Clear Water Town. He had a surplus of mortal vegetables—crisp radishes and leafy greens that grew rapidly in the soil enriched by the runoff of his spirit fields—and a basket of three dozen standard Cloud-Feather Chicken eggs.
He hitched a small, two-wheeled wooden cart to Baozi. The Earth-Burrowing Hound whined pitifully, looking at the cart as if it were a torture device, and flopped onto his belly in protest.
"None of that," Lin Mo chuckled, nudging the fat dog with his boot. "You eat enough for three hounds, you can pull a cart of radishes. It's good for your meridians. Walk."
Grumbling a series of low, vibrating growls, Baozi finally hauled himself to his feet and began the slow, lumbering trudge toward town. Lin Mo walked beside him, a simple straw hat shielding his eyes from the mounting sun.
Clear Water Town was a bustling hub situated between the mortal realm and the towering domain of the Azure Mist Sect. It was surrounded by a twenty-foot-high wall made of dark, heavy stone, patrolled by mortal martial artists whose bodies bulged with refined muscle. They were formidable against mortal bandits, but utterly useless against even the weakest cultivator.
Passing through the massive wooden gates, the noise of the town hit Lin Mo like a physical wave. The streets were packed with people. Hawkers shouted their prices from wooden stalls, blacksmiths hammered ringing iron in open-air forges, and the smell of roasting meats, pungent spices, and raw sewage mingled in the warm air.
Here, the stark divide of the world was violently apparent. The mortal merchants and laborers wore drab, sweat-stained clothes, bowing their heads respectfully whenever a cultivator walked past. The cultivators, even loose ones like Lin Mo, were easy to spot. They carried themselves with an ingrained arrogance, wearing robes of finer material, their eyes constantly scanning for opportunities, threats, or insults.
Lin Mo kept his head down, blending into the background. He had no desire to attract the attention of the arrogant young masters who occasionally descended from the Sect to slum it in the town.
He navigated the winding streets until he reached the eastern market district. He guided Baozi toward a large, sturdy stall displaying a variety of fresh produce.
"Uncle Wang!" Lin Mo called out.
A rotund, balding mortal man with a jovial face turned around from stacking cabbages. "Ah, Little Brother Lin! Punctual as always. And how is the great beast doing today?" Wang laughed, tossing a bruised apple to Baozi, who caught it lazily out of the air and swallowed it whole.
"He's as lazy as ever," Lin Mo smiled. "I brought the radishes, the greens, and three dozen eggs."
Wang inspected the goods with an expert eye. Despite being mortal crops, the proximity to Lin Mo's spiritual fields gave them a crispness and a faint, sweet vitality that made them highly sought after by wealthy mortal families in town.
"Excellent quality, as always. Your soil must be blessed by the heavens, Lin Mo," Wang praised, pulling a small leather pouch from his belt. "For the lot... I can give you twenty copper spirit coins."
In the cultivation economy, a standard low-grade Spirit Stone was the baseline currency. However, for low-level transactions, Spirit Stones were broken down into fragments, or minted by the great sects into copper, silver, and gold spirit coins. One hundred copper coins made a silver, ten silver made a gold, and ten gold coins equaled one low-grade Spirit Stone.
Twenty copper coins was a meager sum. It wouldn't even buy a single, low-grade healing pill. But to Lin Mo, it was pure profit. His living expenses were practically zero, and he had no need for expensive pills.
"Deal," Lin Mo nodded, accepting the coins and dropping them into his own modest pouch.
With his cart empty, Lin Mo let Baozi rest in the shade of an awning while he wandered deeper into the market. He enjoyed the vibrant energy of the town, even if he had no desire to participate in its cutthroat politics. He liked looking at the stalls selling strange, colorful talismans, the caged, exotic spirit beasts, and the sparkling arrays of weapons.
As he approached a popular open-air tea house, a cluster of loose cultivators sitting at a wooden table caught his attention. They were drinking cheap spiritual tea and speaking loudly, their voices carrying over the din of the market.
"I'm telling you, the weeping willow basin is a death trap right now," a scarred man in leather armor leaned forward, his voice hushed but intense. "It wasn't just a rumor. The Blood-Ginseng was there."
Lin Mo slowed his pace, pretending to inspect a rack of cheap wooden hairpins at a nearby stall.
"So? Someone plucked it?" another cultivator asked, eyes wide with greed.
"Plucked it? Hah! The ginseng was a bait," the scarred man scoffed, taking a long sip of his tea. "A Rank 1 Peak Shadow Cat—a mutant, twice the size of a normal one—was guarding it. It used the herb to lure in loose cultivators to feed its pack. Five people went in last night. None came out. I barely escaped with my life; saw an old man get torn in half before he even drew his sword."
Lin Mo closed his eyes for a brief second. So that was it. The absolute confirmation. Old Man Xu, driven by desperation, had walked straight into the jaws of a beast, dying for a weed he never even touched.
"Fools," one of the listening cultivators muttered, shaking his head. "To risk life for a fifty-year herb... they should have known better."
"Easy to say when you're not facing the end of your lifespan," the scarred man retorted bitterly.
Lin Mo quietly walked away from the tea stall. The gossip only cemented his philosophy. The world was a trap, baited with the promise of power and longevity. The only way to win was to refuse to play the game.
However, the mention of the mutant Shadow Cat and the sheer brutality of the world reminded Lin Mo of his own vulnerability. He had the *Mountain Cleaving Saber* for close combat, but relying solely on melee against terrifying, unnaturally fast beasts was a fool's errand. He needed a way to strike from a distance, to kill before the danger ever reached his doorstep.
Spells were too slow for him to cast in an emergency, and his spiritual qi reserves were pitiful. He needed another mortal martial art. Something practical. Something deadly.
He wandered toward the edge of the market, where the stalls were smaller and the goods much cheaper. This was the junk district, where scavengers sold the broken weapons, torn manuals, and unidentifiable trinkets they found on dead cultivators in the wilderness.
Lin Mo stopped before a stall run by a wizened, one-eyed old woman. Her wares were spread out on a dirty blanket: rusted daggers, cracked jade slips, and fragments of shattered armor.
His eyes scanned the items and landed on a long, unstrung bow. It was made of dark, polished hornwood, a sturdy but mundane material. Beside it lay a thin, heavily worn paper manual, its cover stained with something suspiciously resembling dried blood.
"How much for the bow and the manual?" Lin Mo asked politely.
The old woman eyed his patched clothes, assessing his wealth in a single glance. "The bow is solid hornwood. The manual is the *Falling Leaf Archery* technique. Good for hunting mortals, useless against a cultivator's spiritual shield. Five silver spirit coins for both."
Lin Mo didn't bargain. Five silver was half of a low-grade Spirit Stone—a hefty sum for him, roughly a month's worth of vegetable sales. But he had endless time to earn it back.
He counted out the coins, handed them over, and picked up his new purchases. The bow felt heavy and reliable in his hand. He bought two dozen standard iron-tipped arrows from a neighboring fletcher for another handful of coppers, slung them in a cheap leather quiver over his shoulder, and returned to Baozi.
"Let's go home, buddy," Lin Mo said, untying the hound.
The sun was high in the sky when Lin Mo returned to his farm. The familiar, tranquil energy of his domain washed over him, dispelling the tense, greasy feeling the town always left on his skin.
He unhitched Baozi, who immediately waddled under the porch to resume his nap, and set his purchases on his wooden table. He spent the next hour reading through the *Falling Leaf Archery* manual.
Like the *Mountain Cleaving Saber*, it was a mortal martial art. It didn't involve infusing the arrows with magical energy or firing multiple shots at once. It focused on three things: stance, draw, and release. The manual described the perfect alignment of the spine, the exact tension required in the back muscles to hold a heavy draw without trembling, and the breathing rhythm necessary to loose an arrow between heartbeats.
"Simple. Perfect," Lin Mo muttered.
He went to the back of his cabin, near his cleared dirt training ground, and dragged a heavy bale of dried, mortal wheat-straw against a large oak tree. He stepped back exactly thirty paces.
He strung the hornwood bow. It was stiff, requiring a significant amount of strength to bend the limbs. Without his recent physical improvements from a thousand saber swings, he doubted he could have strung it at all.
He took an arrow from the quiver, nocked it against the string, and raised the bow.
He planted his feet, shoulder-width apart. He raised his left arm, locking the elbow, and pulled the string back with his right hand. The resistance was immense. His shoulder muscles immediately began to burn. The rough hemp string dug painfully into the pads of his index and middle fingers.
He tried to align his sight along the shaft of the arrow, aiming for the center of the hay bale. His arms trembled violently. The tip of the arrow bobbed up and down.
*Thwack!*
He released. The arrow flew high and wide, embedding itself into the trunk of the oak tree a full three feet above the target.
Lin Mo lowered the bow, his fingers throbbing. He didn't curse. He didn't feel frustrated. He just calmly walked over, yanked the arrow from the wood, and walked back to his mark.
He nocked the arrow. He drew. He held it, fighting the agonizing tremble in his muscles, forcing his breathing to slow.
*Thwack!*
Missed again. Two feet to the left.
He retrieved it. Nocked it. Drew.
By the fiftieth shot, his fingers were bleeding. The coarse string had sliced through his skin, staining the wooden shaft of the arrows red. His back felt like it was on fire, the muscles screaming in protest against the unfamiliar, sustained tension. His aim was atrocious; out of fifty arrows, only ten had actually hit the hay bale, and none were near the center.
But as the pain reached a crescendo, the familiar, divine warmth bloomed in his chest.
The Immortal Lotus pulsed.
A wave of pure, crystalline vitality washed through his blood. The fiery agony in his back muscles vanished, replaced by a cool, soothing sensation as the micro-tears in the tissue healed instantly, knitting back together with increased density. The bleeding on his fingers stopped, the skin rapidly hardening into thick, protective calluses tailored perfectly for drawing a bowstring.
He took a deep breath, feeling fresher than when he had started.
A blue screen shimmered into his vision.
**[Falling Leaf Archery proficiency +1]**
**[Falling Leaf Archery: Beginner (1/10)]**
Lin Mo smiled, a fierce, satisfied grin that reached his eyes. This was the beauty of his existence. Pain was temporary. Progress was eternal.
He raised the bow again. His stance was slightly wider, automatically correcting the imbalance from his first fifty shots. The bow felt a fraction lighter. His draw was smoother, his fingers locking onto the string with practiced ease.
He didn't aim with his eyes this time; he aimed with the nascent muscle memory burning itself into his nerves.
*Thwack!*
The arrow buried itself deep into the outer edge of the hay bale. Better.
He shot until the sun began to dip below the horizon. He shot until the sky turned the color of bruised plums. He shot five hundred arrows.
With every hundred shots, the Lotus would pulse, washing away his fatigue and reinforcing his body. With every single shot, the blue panel ticked upward.
By the time twilight settled over the farm, his proficiency had reached *Beginner (6/10)*. His arrows were consistently hitting the target, clustering closer and closer to the center. He still lacked the devastating accuracy of a master, but he was no longer a blind man throwing sticks. If a target was within thirty paces, he would hit it.
Exhausted, but profoundly satisfied, Lin Mo unstrung the bow, wiped the blood and sweat from its polished wood, and carried his equipment inside.
He ate a simple meal of mortal vegetables and rice, too tired to even boil an egg. He sat on his porch, watching the stars prick through the darkening sky, listening to the nocturnal insects begin their symphony.
The peace was absolute.
But in the cultivation world, peace was an illusion, a fragile pane of glass waiting to be shattered.
It happened just past midnight.
Lin Mo was sitting in the center of his cabin, cultivating the *Azure Wood Breathing Art*, slowly drawing the thin ambient qi into his dantian. The Lotus was spinning lazily, filtering the energy.
Suddenly, a low, rumbling growl shattered his concentration.
It wasn't Baozi's lazy grumble. It was a vicious, throat-tearing snarl that vibrated with killing intent.
Lin Mo's eyes snapped open. He instantly ceased his breathing art, the spiritual energy settling calmly into his dantian without backlash. He stood up silently, his heart rate remaining steady.
He heard a frantic, terrified clucking from the coop, followed by the sound of splintering wood.
Trouble had found his garden.
Lin Mo didn't panic. He moved with the practiced efficiency of a man who knew exactly where everything was in the dark. He strapped the iron-tipped saber to his waist and grabbed the hornwood bow and his quiver of arrows.
He pushed the wooden door of his cabin open. The hinges were well-oiled; they made no sound.
The moon was full, casting harsh, silver light across the farm. Lin Mo stepped onto the porch and immediately assessed the situation.
Near the chicken coop, the wooden fence had been violently smashed inward. Standing amidst the splintered wood was a creature of nightmare.
It was a Shadow Cat, but it was massive, the size of a grown leopard. Its fur was pitch black, seeming to absorb the moonlight rather than reflect it. Its eyes glowed with a sickly, malevolent yellow light, and its claws, which were currently buried in the dirt, were the length of a man's fingers and metallic gray.
It was wounded. A long, jagged gash ran down its flank, oozing black, foul-smelling blood that sizzled faintly when it hit the soil. It was likely a survivor of the skirmish at the weeping willow basin, driven out by the mutant leader and desperate for an easy meal.
Unfortunately for the cat, it had chosen Lin Mo's farm.
The cat had its back to Lin Mo, its yellow eyes fixated on the terrified chickens huddled in the corner of their coop. Baozi was standing between the cat and the coop, his fur standing on end, unleashing a series of deep, booming barks. The hound was terrified, trembling violently, but he held his ground, defending his flock.
"Good boy, Baozi," Lin Mo whispered, his voice cold.
He raised the hornwood bow. He didn't have time to overthink it. He fell into the stance he had practiced five hundred times that afternoon. Feet planted. Left arm locked. Right hand drawing the heavy string back to his cheek.
The movement caught the beast's attention. The Shadow Cat whipped its head around, its yellow eyes locking onto Lin Mo. It hissed, a sound like tearing metal, and abandoned the coop. It bunched its powerful hind legs, preparing to leap the thirty paces to the porch in a single bound.
Lin Mo breathed out.
*Thwack!*
The arrow released.
Because of the cat's sudden movement, and Lin Mo's still-imperfect aim, the shot wasn't fatal. The iron-tipped arrow slammed into the beast's thick front shoulder, sinking deep into the muscle.
The cat shrieked in agony, the leap disrupted. It tumbled into the dirt, rolling violently before scrambling back to its feet. The arrow was snapped in half against the ground, the jagged shaft sticking out of its flesh.
The pain didn't deter the beast; it drove it into a berserk frenzy. Its yellow eyes burned with pure, murderous hatred. It locked onto Lin Mo, its muscles bulging beneath its dark fur.
Lin Mo dropped the bow. It was useless now. At this speed, he wouldn't have time to nock another arrow.
The Shadow Cat charged. It moved impossibly fast, a blur of black fur and lethal claws. In the blink of an eye, it closed the distance, launching itself through the air, jaws snapping toward Lin Mo's throat.
Lin Mo didn't try to dodge. His body was that of a normal mortal; he couldn't outrun a demonic beast.
Instead, he drew his saber.
The heavy iron blade hissed as it left the scabbard. He dropped into the horse stance. The memory of a thousand grueling swings surged through his arms, dictating the angle, the grip, the exact tension required.
*Mountain Cleaving Saber: First Stance. Splitting the Peak.*
Lin Mo swung the blade upward, a brutal, two-handed arc designed to intercept a falling object.
The timing was terrifyingly perfect.
The heavy iron saber met the leaping Shadow Cat mid-air. The blade bit deep into the beast's chest, right between its front legs. The sheer momentum of the cat's charge combined with the heavy upward swing of the saber created a devastating impact.
*CRUNCH.*
Ribs shattered. The iron blade forced its way upward, cleaving through muscle and bone.
But a demonic beast was not easily killed. Even as its chest was laid open, the cat's right paw lashed out in a dying spasm.
Three razor-sharp claws raked across Lin Mo's left forearm, tearing easily through his linen robes and slicing deep into his flesh.
Lin Mo grunted, the impact of the massive beast knocking him backward off the porch. He hit the dirt hard, the heavy carcass of the Shadow Cat landing on top of him, pinning him down. Hot, foul-smelling blood poured over his chest.
For a terrifying second, the world went dark.
Then, the Immortal Lotus pulsed.
It was not a gentle pulse this time. It was a torrential flood.
Pure, radiant vitality exploded from his soul, rushing through his meridians like a tidal wave. It slammed into the deep lacerations on his arm. The agonizing burning sensation vanished instantly. The torn muscle fibers knit together with terrifying speed, the skin sealing itself shut without leaving even a scar. The wind that had been knocked out of his lungs rushed back in.
Lin Mo shoved the heavy, lifeless carcass off his chest and rolled to his feet, gasping for air.
He stood in the moonlight, his clothes soaked in demonic blood, his chest heaving. He looked down at his left arm. The sleeve was shredded, soaked in his own blood, but the skin beneath was flawless, smooth, and pale.
He looked at the dead Shadow Cat at his feet. The beast's eyes were glazed over, its chest completely ruined by the heavy iron saber.
Baozi trotted over, sniffing the dead cat warily before looking up at Lin Mo and giving a soft, questioning whine.
"I'm alright, buddy," Lin Mo said, his voice shaking slightly before he forced it to steady. He reached down and wiped his bloody hand on the dog's fur, a gesture of comfort for both of them.
He looked at the saber in his right hand. The cheap iron edge was notched and dull from hitting the beast's dense bones, but it had held together. It had done its job.
A blue screen flickered into the corner of his eye.
**[Mountain Cleaving Saber proficiency +5]**
**[Falling Leaf Archery proficiency +2]**
Combat, it seemed, yielded greater proficiency than mere practice.
Lin Mo let out a long, slow breath, looking around his peaceful farm. The chickens had settled down, cooing softly in their damaged coop. The Golden Jade Spirit Rice swayed gently in the night breeze, unbothered by the violence.
His heart rate finally returned to its normal, steady rhythm. The adrenaline faded, leaving behind a profound sense of clarity.
He had chosen the path of peace. He had chosen to be a gardener in a world of warlords. But tonight had proven his core belief beyond a shadow of a doubt.
You cannot tend a garden if you cannot kill the pests.
Lin Mo knelt beside the carcass of the Shadow Cat. Demonic beast meat, even from a low-tier creature, was packed with wild, chaotic spiritual energy. It was too dense for Lin Mo to eat without spending days refining it, but for a spirit beast like Baozi, it was a delicacy that would drastically improve his coat and constitution. The thick fur could be sold to a tailor in town, and the claws and fangs would fetch a decent price from an alchemist or a low-level weapon smith.
"Looks like we have meat for the week, Baozi," Lin Mo murmured, drawing a small skinning knife from his belt.
He set to work under the moonlight, his hands steady, his mind calm. The world outside his fence was a terrifying, bloody place, filled with monsters and men who acted like them.
But inside his fence, Lin Mo was the master. He had endless time, boundless vitality, and a proficiency panel that ensured every drop of sweat was a permanent victory.
He would chop his wood, water his crops, and swing his saber. And if the world dared to cross his threshold again, they would find that the gardener was not to be trifled with.
The night deepened, silent once more, save for the quiet sound of a knife working against bone, and the rhythmic, eternal beating of a heart that refused to age.