Chapter 34: 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 his feet harder against the pedals, and the wheels spun faster, instantly increasing his speed.

“Boss, how far is it to the next stop?”

Arriving at the stall, Feng Xue didn’t dismount, merely pulled out a few copper coins and slapped them on the table. The young owner, who had been half-asleep, glanced up and replied offhandedly:

“Thirty or so li to Lucheng. 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.”

Feng Xue smiled pleasantly and asked casually:

“Aren’t you closing up this late?”

“Close up this early?” The owner waved his hand, clearly annoyed. “The railway doesn’t stop until nine. I’ve got to wait here till half past eight so I can head back with them. Don’t even think about hitching a ride—we’re going straight to the military camp…”

Here the owner began muttering again, sounding like he was complaining about how boring and tedious his job was—but Feng Xue couldn’t help but think he was 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 owner for a pot of hot tea.

They exchanged a few more casual words, then Feng Xue took his leave under the pretext of needing to press on.

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

He hesitated for a moment, then followed the owner’s directions toward the so-called village. After all, it was a settlement twenty or thirty li from the county seat—likely frequented by traveling merchants. As long as he stayed alert, it shouldn’t be too dangerous.

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

The village was small, barely twenty households. But outside it lay vast, neatly arranged fields. Though winter made them seem barren, the rolling ridges still clearly marked them as farmland.

A small stream wound around the village and fields. Except for the lack of a “back mountain,” it possessed every element of a secluded village from literary tales.

Feng Xue rode up to the village entrance and saw several old men sitting under the tree, 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 headed to Lucheng County. It’s getting dark, and I won’t make it to the gates. Can I camp overnight just outside your village? I won’t enter—I’ll set up my tent right here!”

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

“What nonsense is this? Guests are guests—how could we let you sleep outside? Even if the temperature’s fine now, once night falls…”

Before the old man finished, Feng Xue reached into his chest and pulled out several iron rods, each as long as an arm, followed by unfamiliar cloth—nothing that could possibly fit inside clothing.

The old man was no fool—he instantly understood:

“Young… cough, young sir, you’re a Daoist Master?”

At this, the men absorbed in their chess game turned their attention. Perfect—this was exactly what Feng Xue wanted. He nodded:

“Daoist Master? I dare not claim that. I’ve just begun my cultivation path—this journey is my entry into the mortal world.”

The old men erupted. The one who’d been playing chess immediately scattered his pieces, leapt up, and declared:

“Entering the mortal world means living among mortals! How can you refuse to enter our village? We regularly host passing merchants—we have guest rooms. Daoist Master, don’t refuse!”

The commotion drew the villagers’ attention. With winter offering little to do, word of a Daoist Master arriving spread instantly through the village of barely twenty households.

Yet the villagers showed restraint. Though they urged Feng Xue to rest in the guest rooms, they said not a word about anything related to “Daoist Masters.”

Though cultivation fees in this world seemed transparent, Feng Xue found it rare—even in his past life, people 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 Daoists must deal with spirits and ghosts. Entering your village risks suspicion. Besides, your village lacks local Daoists to guard it—if any conflict arises, it would bring harm to you all.”

Hearing this, the villagers stopped pressing. But 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.”

Still, villagers brought firewood from their homes. Feng Xue accepted it—but paid them at Pingan County market prices.

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. He set up a small altar on the low table he’d brought from home.

Unless engaging in spellcraft combat, an altar needn’t 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 [Spirit Control], but [Spirit Attachment].

As one of the four foundational spells, the Spirit Attachment spell’s core lies in sustaining magical energy on a specific object for an extended period—a foundational skill. Of the twelve spells he bought from Ninth Aunt, eleven required Spirit Attachment in some form.

Naturally, the Spirit Control spell he sought to learn was no exception.

He pressed both hands on the table. Magical energy surged from his mind-sea, splitting into two streams, aligned by the candle’s flame, and converged upon 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 Daoist possesses a unique hand seal—a shortcut. These seals link the ritual’s intricate steps into a single gesture, allowing the Daoist to bypass complex procedures.

Feng Xue had no such ability. He could only methodically guide his energy, evenly coating the seal’s end—the circle drawn in water.

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?”

As the sensation on the paper began to fade, Feng Xue snapped the stopwatch off—6.97 seconds. He shook his head. Just as he prepared to repeat the exercise, a flicker in his peripheral vision 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 magical energy to a target object.】

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

The protagonist is an outsider—he doesn’t know the world’s true shape, only groping 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 seen second-rate experts—he could find several Daoist masters with a single inquiry. Naturally, he assumed the world was saturated with the extraordinary. In such a world, wouldn’t a gang—especially one bold enough to rob wealthy travelers on the street—have warriors and Daoists of its own?

Now, the gang might pursue him for face—or might fear his Daoist power and hold back. Two possibilities, unknown probabilities. Could he gamble? Absolutely not.

So no matter what, he must leave.

Also, there was a detail earlier: the former owner of that house was wealthy, but his son was framed by the gang, forcing him to sell everything and flee. Though the broker claimed he feared his son’s recklessness, wealthy families like Qin’s always had second-rate warriors guarding their sons. In other words—could second-rate warriors not 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 fighters.

The protagonist considers himself a novice Daoist, with some tricks—but no resistance against multiple firearms or distant curses. Thus, he dared not even investigate—he chose flight immediately.

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(End of Chapter)