The days that followed the planting of their humble spirit field were quiet, hard, and strangely full. Each morning began the same: the air still cool, the mist clinging to the dry soil, and Lu Chenyuan crouched at the edge of the field, channeling what Wood-attribute Qi he could muster into the land. His cultivation had reached the Fourth Layer of Qi Refinement—not much, but enough to make a difference. It left him tired, but he bore it with a quiet sense of duty. This wasn't about pride anymore. It was survival.
Uncle Liu, ever the tireless steward, tended the field with the care of a man who had seen too many dreams wither before his eyes. He fetched water from the old well each day, pulled weeds the moment they dared to show, and inspected every leaf and stalk like it might hide a threat. There was no ceremony in his actions, just stubborn hope.
But it was Shen Yue who became the soul of the field.
Without being asked, she threw herself into its care. She never said much, just moved from row to row with a natural grace, her presence soft but constant. She seemed to know when the soil was too compact or when a leaf had begun to curl. Chenyuan noticed how her hands lingered on the young Iron Vigor Millet, brushing dust from its broad leaves, or gently loosening earth around the roots of Green Dew Grass. More often now, a faint green shimmer traced her fingertips when she touched the plants—a subtle, pulsing glow that only he could see through his cultivated senses and the system's heightened perception.
She didn't notice it herself. Or if she did, she passed it off as coincidence. When the seedlings flourished, she credited his "mighty cultivation" or Uncle Liu's experienced hands. Not once did she think it might be her.
And yet, the field responded.
Iron Vigor Millet, a stubborn crop even in good conditions, sprouted with such strength that even Uncle Liu raised an eyebrow. "I've seen first-rate millet," he murmured one morning, brushing his hand over the sturdy green stalks, "but not like this. Not in soil this poor."
Shen Yue didn't answer, just kept her eyes down, but Chenyuan saw the smallest shift in her posture—a pride she didn't yet recognize as her own.
Of the dozen Green Dew Grass seedlings they'd risked planting, nine survived. They were delicate, fussy things. Yet under Shen Yue's hands, they began to thrive, unfurling thin, dew-silvered leaves like they were waking from a long sleep.
This sliver of success gave Chenyuan the room to try something riskier: alchemy.
He unearthed the old pill furnace from the storage shed, brushing decades of dust and rust from its battered bronze surface. The system's formula for Qi Nourishing Pills was precise: Green Dew Grass, Three-Leaf Ginseng, Earth Spirit Root, and a handful of common herbs. The problem was, he only had one of those ingredients.
Still, he would try. He had to.
He scavenged what substitutes he could—cheap, low-grade spiritual plants like Stone Fungus and Common Sorrel—barely enough to mimic the original recipe. He knew it wouldn't produce proper pills. This was practice. Familiarization. Failure, even, if that's what it took.
He cleared out an old woodshed near the edge of the property, scrubbing soot and spiderwebs from its walls until it no longer smelled like forgotten years. He set the pill furnace on a thick stone slab and laid out the herbs beside it.
Uncle Liu stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "Young Master… you're sure about this? First attempts rarely go well."
"I'm not expecting success," Chenyuan said with a small smile. "Just understanding. I have to start somewhere."
Shen Yue lingered nearby, her hands clasped at her waist. She didn't say anything, but her eyes were wide, curious.
Chenyuan took a deep breath. He remembered the sequence from the system: the order, the heat modulation, the timing. He lit the Fire Induction Charcoal and watched the flames bloom, then fed the herbs in one by one—Stone Fungus first, then Sorrel.
The furnace was as temperamental as it looked. The heat surged and dipped, refusing to stay stable. He poured spiritual Qi into the furnace, trying to anchor the flame, but the drain was fast and relentless. Sweat pooled on his brow. The air turned thick with the sharp, clashing scents of herbs cooking—some sweet, others sharp and sour.
Finally, he added the young Green Dew Grass.
The reaction was instant. Violent.
A column of black smoke shot from the furnace with a hiss, followed by the sharp pop of something cracking inside. Chenyuan staggered back, coughing, eyes watering.
"Patriarch!" Uncle Liu cried.
"Are you all right?" Shen Yue asked, a step closer now, alarm breaking her usual calm.
The smoke cleared slowly. Chenyuan approached the furnace with a sinking heart. Inside was a charred mess—viscous, black, and utterly ruined.
He stared for a moment, then exhaled, shaking his head. "Well… that didn't go well."
"A shame," Uncle Liu said softly, peering at the scorched remains. "Even common herbs take effort to gather."
"It's not wasted," Chenyuan replied, though disappointment clung to him like the smoke. "I've learned more from this failure than I would've from blind success."
He spent the rest of the day scrubbing out the furnace, the sting of failure fresh in his mind. The system didn't grant miracles. Cultivation still demanded skill, patience, and time.
That night, the house was quiet. Shen Yue mended a robe in the corner by lamplight, her needle slipping in and out of fabric with practiced grace.
Chenyuan sat nearby, watching her for a moment. "Shen Yue," he said gently. "Can I ask you something?"
She looked up, surprised. "Of course, Patriarch Lu."
"The villagers near your old home… they said you were cursed. That misfortune followed you."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
She didn't flinch, but her eyes dropped to the fabric in her lap. "Yes. They did."
"Was it true?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "Bad things happened. People got sick. A fire once, near the drying racks. Animals acted strange. I… I never understood why. They said it was me."
Chenyuan nodded slowly. "I don't think it was a curse."
She glanced up, uncertain.
"I think it was a gift you never learned to control. You have a rare affinity for Wood Qi—for life. But without training, that kind of energy… it can be unpredictable. Maybe even dangerous."
She stared at him. The idea seemed impossible.
"You've seen it yourself," he went on. "The way the seedlings respond to you. That old herb on the windowsill—it's thriving. These aren't accidents."
"A gift?" she echoed, like she didn't quite dare believe it.
"A spiritual root. Wood-aligned. Likely awakened naturally, without guidance. That energy—when it's untrained—might've caused the incidents the villagers feared."
Shen Yue's hands trembled, still holding the robe. For years, she had lived under the weight of shame and fear. Now, he was offering her a different truth.
"You're not cursed, Shen Yue," he said. "You're talented. And if you're willing, I can teach you to control it. Not just to help the field—but for your own sake. To cultivate."
She didn't answer right away. Her expression was unreadable, caught between fear and hope.
"Me?" she finally said. "Cultivate?"
"You are the Mistress of the Azurewood Lin Clan," he said simply. "This is your birthright, too."
She looked down, then back at him. There was something in her eyes now—fragile, but bright. A spark. "If you believe it's possible… then I will try."
Chenyuan smiled, quietly. "Good. Tomorrow, I'll show you the first meditation method."
The day had brought failure. But that moment, sitting together under the glow of lamplight, felt like something else entirely. Not just the start of Shen Yue's journey—but of theirs.
The field was sprouting. And so, perhaps, was something far rarer.