Chapter 33: Who Says Cultivation Doesn

The sun slowly sank toward the west; Feng Xue raised his hand to glance at his watch—it was already five in the afternoon. Gazing at the tea stall in the distance, he extinguished the candle on his bike's front, pressed down with his feet, and the wheels spun faster, instantly increasing his speed.

"Boss, how far is it to the next stop?"

Arriving at the stall, Feng Xue did not dismount, merely pulled out a few copper coins and slapped them on the table. The young boss, who had been half-asleep, glanced up and replied casually:

"Thirty or so li to Lu City. By the time you get there, the gates will be closed. If you don't want to sleep in the wild, follow this road west—about five li, you'll see a village."

Hearing this, Feng Xue smiled amiably and asked offhandedly:

"Boss, why aren't you packing up yet?"

"Pack up this early?" The boss waved his hand, looking annoyed. "The railway doesn't stop until nine. I've got to wait here till half past eight—those folks from over there need to come by before we head back together. Don't even think about hitching a ride; we're going straight to the military camp…"

As he spoke, the boss began muttering, sounding like he was complaining about how boring and tedious his job was—but Feng Xue couldn't help but think he was actually bragging about his brother-in-law who managed the station.

Knowing better than to provoke such a man, Feng Xue fished out a few more copper coins, pulled out his empty cup, and asked the boss for a pot of hot tea.

After a few more casual words, Feng Xue took leave under the pretense of needing to press on.

After riding two li, Feng Xue pulled out his teacup—not to drink, but to pour out the tea. The chance of contamination was minuscule, but now, he was as jumpy as a bird startled by the sound of a bow.

After a moment's hesitation, Feng Xue followed the boss's directions toward the so-called village. After all, it was a hamlet twenty or thirty li from the county seat—likely frequented by traveling merchants. As long as he stayed alert, it shouldn't be overly dangerous.

With this thought, he rode on, and half an hour later, he saw the silhouette of the village.

The village was small, no more than twenty households, but outside it stretched vast, neatly arranged fields. Though winter made them seem desolate, the rolling ridges still clearly marked them as farmland.

A small stream wound around the village and the fields; save for the absence of a "back mountain," it possessed every element of a secluded hamlet in literary tales.

Feng Xue arrived at the village entrance and saw several old men sitting under the trees, playing chess. One of the onlookers spotted him first and opened his mouth to speak—but Feng Xue beat him to it:

"Old man, I'm heading to Lu City. It's getting dark, and I won't make it to the gates—can I camp overnight here? I won't enter the village—I'll just pitch my tent at the entrance!"

The moment Feng Xue spoke, the old man's face hardened:

"What nonsense is that? Guests are guests—how could we let you sleep outside? Even if the temperature's fine now, once night falls…"

Before the elder could finish, Feng Xue reached into his chest and pulled out several iron rods, each as long as an arm, followed by unfamiliar fabrics—clearly not things that could fit inside clothing.

The old man, though rustic, had seen things—he instantly understood:

"Young… ahem, young Mr., you're a cultivator?"

The moment he spoke, the other old men, previously absorbed in their game, turned their attention. This was exactly what Feng Xue wanted. He nodded:

"I'm no cultivator—just begun on the path. This journey is part of my worldly cultivation."

At this, the elders at the village entrance erupted. The one who had been playing chess immediately scattered his pieces, stood up, and declared:

"Worldly cultivation means living among people—how can you refuse to enter the village? We regularly host passing merchants; we have dedicated guest rooms. Cultivator, don't you dare refuse!"

The elders' commotion drew the villagers' attention. With winter offering little to do, news that a cultivator had arrived spread through the village of barely twenty households in moments.

Yet the villagers were restrained: though they invited Feng Xue to rest in the guest rooms, they said not a word about anything related to "cultivators."

Though cultivation fees in this world seemed transparent, Feng Xue found it rare—even in his past life, he'd casually asked artist friends for drawings or lawyer friends for advice.

But no matter how insistent the villagers were, Feng Xue had no intention of accepting. He said plainly:

"I deeply appreciate your kindness, but cultivators deal with spirits and ghosts. Entering the village casually invites suspicion. Besides, your village lacks local cultivators stationed here—if any clash occurs, it would bring no benefit to you."

Hearing this, the villagers ceased pressing. Yet the satisfied expressions on the old men and women's faces clearly conveyed: "We've seen something extraordinary—now we'll go brag to the folks in the next village."

Even so, villagers brought firewood from their homes. Feng Xue accepted it—but paid them according to the prices at Ping'an County's market.

After setting up his tent and confirming no one was nearby, Feng Xue took out a candle, a seal, a brush, clear water, and rice paper, and set up a small altar on the low table he'd brought from home.

Unless for combat, an altar need not be elaborate. With the brush dipped in water, Feng Xue drew a circle on the seal's surface and began his ritual.

But what he practiced now was not 【Ghost Command】, but 【Spirit Attachment】.

As one of the four foundational Cursing Methods, the core of the Spirit Attachment Cursing Method lies in sustaining one's Qi on a specific object for an extended period—a foundational skill. Of the twelve Cursing Methods he bought from Ninth Aunt, eleven required Spirit Attachment to some degree.

Naturally, the Ghost Command he intended to learn was no exception.

He placed both hands on the table. Qi surged from his mind-sea, splitting into two streams, aligned by the candle flame, converging toward the seal.

He did not "form the hand seal"—or rather, he was not yet worthy to form one.

According to the "Yi Zhuang Secret Manual," each cultivator possesses a unique hand seal—a shortcut for casting. These seals link the cultivator's ingrained rituals, allowing a simple gesture to replace complex procedures and Complete Casting.

Feng Xue had no such ability. He could only methodically guide his Qi, evenly coating the blank end of the seal and the water-drawn circle.

When the water mark faintly glowed, Feng Xue swiftly seized the seal and pressed it onto the rice paper.

A mystical sensation arose in his heart. He immediately pressed his stopwatch: 1, 2, 3…

"Only seven seconds? So my Spirit Attachment lasts at most two minutes?"

Feeling the sensation on the paper begin to fade, Feng Xue snapped the stopwatch off. The display read 6.97. He shook his head slightly—just as he prepared to repeat the training, a flicker at the corner of his eye struck him as odd.

He knew this feeling all too well. Instantly, he activated his over-the-shoulder view. As expected, a new term appeared above his head:

【Spirit Attachment: Using the seal as a medium, attach one's Qi to a designated object.】

As always: don't view from God's perspective—view from the protagonist's.

The protagonist is an outsider; he does not know the true nature of this world—he gropes like a blind man touching an elephant. The simple folk of the small county lulled him into complacency; the big city slapped him awake.

Likewise, in the small county, he'd encountered so-called second-rate experts—he could find several cultivators with a single inquiry. Naturally, he assumed the world was saturated with the extraordinary. In such a context, a gang bold enough to rob wealthy travelers on the street—wouldn't they have warriors and cultivators?

Now, the gang might pursue him for face—or might fear his cultivation and refrain. Two options, probabilities unknown. Could he gamble? Absolutely not.

So no matter what, he must leave.

Also, there was a prior detail: the original owner of that house was wealthy, yet he sold everything and fled after his son was framed by the gang. Though the broker claimed it was fear of his son's recklessness, wealthy families like Qin's always had second-rate warriors guarding their sons. In other words, could it be interpreted that even second-rate warriors couldn't protect their households?

Don't underestimate second-rate. In a typical pyramid structure, Grand Masters set the rules, First-Rate enforce them, and Second-Rate are the core fighting force.

The protagonist considers himself merely an unranked novice cultivator—he has some tricks, but lacks resistance against multiple firearms or distant Cursing Methods. Thus, he dared not even investigate—he chose flight immediately.





(End of Chapter)