Chapter Nineteen: The Mediocre Warrior (Seeking Comments)

Afternoon, the sky was clear and the clouds scattered, a gentle breeze wafted through. Having regained his spirits, Chen Yu calculated that today should be a day when his fish basket would overflow. Unfortunately, a multitude of chores kept him busy; in the morning, he had unwittingly exhausted himself, and the indulgence of sleep cost him precious time. Thus, the matter of wild fishing had to be postponed once more.

Yet, the bamboo rod by the wall of the Daoist temple had already been shaped and finished, its appearance superb. Two days prior, after removing the stone pendant, he held it in his hand and found its feel excellent—he reckoned even a five-pound carp could be easily caught with it.

The prospect of improving his meals was tantalizing, and he felt eager, but months of reciting Daoist scriptures and cultivating his temperament curbed his excitement. He resolved to wait until his current tasks were handled before venturing out to display his angling prowess.

For now, he needed to decide what staple crop to plant. If it were Changbai millet, a grain that tolerated poor soil, the matter would be simple. But if it were Jinyang rice, a delicate crop that demanded rich fertilizer, he would need to deliberate carefully, lest a passing rain leave his fields unprepared.

Down the mountain, Master Liu from the grain shop had given Chen Yu four meticulously selected seeds: spring sorghum, which required diligent weeding and care; Changbai millet, which grew easily but yielded little; Jinyang rice, notoriously finicky and demanding of fertile soil; and Autumn Blade wheat, native to the northern lands under false Qi rule.

Autumn Blade wheat was sown in early summer; when mature, its grains grew long and slender, resembling blades—thus its name. According to Master Liu, the wheat yielded well and was easy to tend, but disliked rain. A single downpour could halve the harvest. The manor had grown it for years, collecting barely a thousand pounds in total. If not for its excellent flavor, it would have been abandoned long ago; even now, it was grown more for novelty than sustenance.

After much thought, Chen Yu settled on spring sorghum. He’d grown accustomed to its taste over the past months, and Master Liu assured him the yields were high, at least compared to the other varieties.

He was unconcerned about the need for careful tending. After all, he would remain on the mountain, with ample spare time to stroll through the fields, removing weeds and pests.

“Jinyang rice would work too, but it needs farmyard manure buried in the field to boost fertility.”

Yunhe Temple had neither chickens nor ducks, nor cows or sheep. Relying solely on himself, it would take forever to produce enough fertilizer for the entire field.

Besides, spring sorghum was planted in mid-spring—just the right season.

With his main crop decided, the other seeds would not be shelved. Chen Yu had plans for them as well.

The key was spiritual catalyst.

Spring sorghum needed to be eaten, so he dared not risk mishaps that might affect the autumn harvest. But the others could be experimented with.

If successful, perhaps he could cultivate a strain that yielded abundantly, tasted good, and required little care.

But not today. That morning, he had extracted three spiritual catalysts in one go. Although the spiritual liquid speeded his recovery far beyond before, his mind remained fatigued—not fit for further exertion.

He would rest a day or two, allowing the catalysts in the corner to recover. These past days of frequent mining had reduced the count from just over twenty back down to seventeen.

Not many.

Chen Yu knew that, with the nourishment of spiritual liquid, his mental strength would increase daily, and the task of extracting catalysts from the invisible web would grow easier.

One day, the pace at which he condensed catalysts in his sea of consciousness would fall far behind his mining speed.

Yet, though he understood this, the origin of the spiritual catalyst was still under investigation, and how to increase its formation remained a problem.

For the moment, Chen Yu was at a loss.

In reality, he had to farm, to consider how to boost his food supply, and now, in his sea of consciousness, he must also “farm,” seeking to increase catalyst production.

Real-world farming at least had some foundation, and the catalyst acted as a booster. But in the sea of consciousness, where to begin? He hadn’t a clue.

For now, all he could rely on was the catalyst itself. It was a force capable of triggering fundamental transformation—almost a kind of evolution. Used on humans, it might yield miraculous results. Unfortunately, at this stage, it could only be applied to plants, and even then only after dilution in soil; otherwise, the recipient could not withstand such a “great tonic.”

As for animals, Chen Yu had yet to find a way to dilute and absorb the catalyst.

Nor could they absorb spiritual energy directly.

He had tried exposing earthworms, ants, and caterpillars to spiritual energy. The result: without exception, their bodies withered, their heads swelled, and then they burst apart.

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Red, white, and green juices splattered everywhere.

There was no doubt: unlike wood or ceramics, animals could indeed touch spiritual energy, but once absorbed, irreversible swelling and death followed.

The spectacle was so tragic that Chen Yu abandoned any hope of inhaling spiritual energy like the immortals of legend—it was pure suicide.

Though the words sounded the same, he was well aware of the difference between the spiritual energy of novels and what he had produced.

His own was more like some mysterious tonic.

A potent, extraordinary one.

...

In the kitchen, Chen Yu rolled up his sleeves and soaked the spring sorghum seeds in a water jar, wrapped in a burlap sack.

Spring sorghum must be soaked overnight before sowing; next day, it is buried in soil. The entire process lasts two days and a night, until the seeds warm enough to feel slightly hot to the touch, then they can be scattered.

This procedure wasn’t a legacy from his predecessor’s memory, but taught to him by Master Liu down the mountain—a true expert in farming.

The old man had told him that during the rainy season, one’s energy was limited. Mountain fields especially needed well-cleared ditches, lest the runoff wash away the soil and flood the land.

So preparations should be made before the rains.

When soaking was done, Chen Yu shouldered his bamboo basket and climbed the mountain once more.

Left hand, wooden rake; right hand, machete.

The weather was clear these days, perfect for chopping firewood to store, so he wouldn’t have to venture into the wet forest during the rainy season.

He didn’t return until sunset, when the sun hung low in the west.

His basket bulged, overflowing, and was dumped in a corner of the woodshed.

After wiping sweat from his brow and washing the grime from his face and neck, Chen Yu finally relaxed, heading to the herb field behind the courtyard to inspect the morning’s transplanted vegetables.

They grew far better than expected. Though a few yellowed and withered, they were few; most survived, and under the nourishment of spiritual catalyst, slowly began to change.

He estimated their growth time: the big radish and Lanting fruit were already mature plants, so they wouldn’t take long—about ten days. The others, like green vegetables and jade bugweed, would be even faster.

Perhaps in two or three days, there would be results.

He looked forward to seeing what strange and marvelous things would sprout from these plants.

In the evening, after dinner, Chen Yu leaned against his chair and quietly recited scriptures.

The book lay open on his lap as he gazed at the brightening moon, reciting each word clearly.

As he recited, he tried to grasp the ethereal and transcendent spirit described in the text.

The cool night wind, the enveloping silence, the sense of clarity—all were present, yet something seemed missing.

Gulp.

He took a sip of spiritual liquid, savoring it.

By now, he was fully accustomed to the refreshing ease it brought to his body, and could concentrate enough to memorize its flavor.

Sweet, crisp.

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Just like freshly drawn well water.

“Made yesterday, and still this cool after a day.”

He thought, though it hadn’t shown much magic, if he could carry a pouch of this always-cool, thirst-quenching spiritual liquid in the summer, it would be a fine thing.

After drinking, Chen Yu rose, removed his outer robe, and stood in the center of the courtyard to begin his nightly exercises.

Twice daily, every day since March without fail.

Clack!

Feet planted, arms stretched wide, he began his movements.

At first, they were slow—steps shifting within a small space. After a while, his cheeks flushed red, a sign of blood circulating through his body.

Then he moved with greater force.

Palms wind-whipped, fists struck in all directions.

Chen Yu stepped through Three Talents and Four Images, at times rising tall like bamboo, crouching low and swimming like a fish.

He leapt like eagle and crane, dashed like a wild horse.

His hands and feet moved tirelessly, and his breath gradually adjusted to match the method described in the Yunhe Technique.

With each breath, he exhaled like a flying dragon!

Breathing, footwork, long punches, chopping palms, legwork...

Gradually, Chen Yu felt a strange force nourishing his limbs, emerging from flesh and blood, flowing through his veins and carried by his energy to every part of his body.

Boom!

Suddenly, his body shuddered; a surge of immense power shot from his fist like a serpent, blasting the air in front of him with a resounding crack!

This was...

He paused, astonished, staring at his fist.

Strength coursed throughout, power born from within.

A sign of martial progress, a breakthrough!

Yet the joy on Chen Yu’s face quickly faded, returning to his habitual calm.

He knew his own martial aptitude well. To have achieved in three months what his predecessor failed to attain in years was only due to the spiritual liquid he had consumed.

Moreover, even with mastery of inner force, he was merely elevated from a pretender with a few tricks to a third-rate martial artist of some ability.

In the rivers and lakes below, such men were common—not so rare as to be remarkable; at most, he might attain the status of a guest or hall leader in a minor sect, nothing extraordinary.

With that thought, Chen Yu, who practiced martial arts only for interest, felt there was little future in it.

And if the spiritual liquid was so powerful, perhaps he should just pursue immortality instead?

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