Chapter 14: Chapter Thirteen: Mílíxiāng

As Liu Xiaolou left the marketplace, he felt a chill—unaware he had broken into a sweat, now cooled by the breeze, his nerves eased, and he was glad to have saved two spirit stones.

Spirit pills aren’t meant for someone like me; isn’t it better to accumulate more true qi?

Feeling as if he’d just found two spirit stones, Liu Xiaolou decided to treat himself: he had a new robe tailored in town, bought oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, and herbs, spending over ten taels of silver, filling a large bamboo basket, which he slung on his back and hurried back to the mountain.

The benefits of advancing in cultivation were everywhere: the journey that once took nearly two hours now saved him about a quarter, his steps light, not a trace of fatigue.

On the way back, he caught a pheasant by chance, boiled it into a stew, and ate his fill with great satisfaction.

The great white goose squawked in the courtyard, dueling with the chickens, while Liu Xiaolou lit an oil lamp, placed a small alchemical furnace atop it, and heated it dry, covering the furnace with true qi to trap the heat, letting it grow denser and hotter.

He was no alchemist, knew nothing of pill-making, and the Three Mysteries Sect had no pill-making scripture—he cultivated the sect’s secret technique: Mílíxiāng.

When the furnace changed color, faintly reddening, signaling the fire had reached its peak, Liu Xiaolou dropped the refined pine resin inside; soon it melted into a milky-white viscous liquid, sinking to the bottom, occasionally spitting bubbles.

Simultaneously, he took the purchased tiger penis, deer antler, cinnamon, lockyang, and sheep epimedium, measured each according to the formula, crushed them into powder with true qi, and tossed them into the furnace. The pine resin was yin; these herbs were yang. Yin and yang merged instantly, blending seamlessly within the furnace, the viscous liquid now tinged faintly yellow, like amber.

Liu Xiaolou slowly lowered the furnace’s temperature with a mental technique, repeatedly injecting true qi, refining it the entire night until dawn, when he finally forged a single incense strand—over three feet long, as thin as a bamboo skewer, impervious to water and fire, supple yet resilient; at first glance, it resembled a weapon-like fine cord capable of combat, and indeed, it could be used as such, no different from a low-grade magic treasure.

But its true use was to ignite it and release its bewitching smoke: those who inhaled it would feel desire arise from within, initially unaware, gradually losing their wits, then dizzy, head-heavy, falling into deep, unawakened sleep—even cultivators, if their minds were unsteady, were easily ensnared.

The most miraculous aspect of Mílíxiāng lay in the Three Mysteries Daoist method infused within: the higher the alchemist’s cultivation base and the more solid their true qi, the deeper their Dao insight and the more skillful their technique, the stronger the bewitching effect.

For the victim, it depended on their state when inhaling the incense: if they were untouched by human desire, the incense would be useless; if they were entangled in emotion or lost in fantasy, its effect would be striking.

Regardless, after successfully refining Mílíxiāng again, Liu Xiaolou greatly strengthened his self-defense. He wrapped the incense strand around his arm using sect techniques, concealing it beneath his sleeve—able to unleash it like a weapon-cord at will, or activate it with true qi to strike with scent, perfectly controlled.

After finishing the incense strand, Liu Xiaolou wasted no time and immediately took out spirit stones to begin consuming them. For a destitute cultivator like him, spirit stones were never hoarded unless absolutely necessary. Sitting in his room, he cultivated day and night; in the blink of an eye, nearly a month passed, and the two spirit stones were reduced to dust, scattered on the muddy ground of the courtyard.

The great white goose tried several times to peck the spirit stones from his palm, failed each time, received several slaps, dazed and confused, and finally resorted to pecking up the spirit stone dust from the mud, just to soothe itself.

With the aid of these two spirit stones, Liu Xiaolou shattered the first point of the Hand Jueyin Meridian—the Tianchi Point—his spiritual power transformed into true qi, accumulating within the Tianchi Point’s primordial pool.

Calculating the days, he noticed his absorption and refinement efficiency had improved compared to his Qi Refining Second Layer: previously, one spirit stone lasted him half a month; now, it seemed he saved a day—his cultivation progress was still very clear.

Alas, the spirit stones were gone; this blissful cultivation period had to pause for now—he had to ponder his next move.

As he pondered, he suddenly slapped his forehead and set off at once, rushing to the bamboo grove, chopping two long bamboos, carrying them to the Wuchao River.

He split the bamboos into six segments, tied them tightly with long grass, hastily lashed them into a crude raft, leapt aboard, and drifted downstream.

The Eyang Mountain spirit fields should have been ready for harvest—he’d been in seclusion and forgotten this major task; he didn’t know if he’d make it in time!

Eyang Mountain belonged to the prestigious Zhanglong Sect of Xiangxi, bordering the blessed Zhanglong Mountain; a remnant vein of the sect’s spirit spring flowed through Eyang Mountain, forming a spillway. Though no spirit spring water leaked out, spiritual energy seeped through, enveloping a two-thousand-mu depression on Eyang Mountain, where the Zhanglong Sect cultivated spirit rice rich in spiritual energy.

Ling’er, the fiancée who broke off her engagement with Wei Hongqing, married Zang Qianli, an inner-disciple of the Zhanglong Sect.

And managing the Eyang Mountain spirit fields was precisely the Zang family’s duty.

Each autumn, when the Eyang Mountain spirit fields ripened, the Zang family hired a group of free cultivators to harvest them, paying them with spirit rice as wages—a decent income for many free cultivators in Xiangxi.

Between brotherly loyalty and an empty stomach, Liu Xiaolou had hesitated over whether to abandon this opportunity—but now that his brother had fled, brotherly loyalty had to wait.

Drifting down the Wuchao River, past Wuchao Town, then another ten miles, Liu Xiaolou disembarked and strode northeastward, rushing all night, crossing over a dozen mountain peaks, arriving at Eyang Mountain at dawn.

North of the depression stood dozens of houses—the Zang family’s Eyang Mountain Manor; south of the manor ran a stream a yard wide, and the two-thousand-mu paddy fields along its banks were the Eyang Mountain spirit fields.

When Liu Xiaolou arrived, he saw mist rising from the stream, drifting toward the spirit fields on both banks—the mist was the spiritual energy seeping from the spirit spring remnant, leaking with the stream, rising daily at dawn to nourish the surrounding land.

He longed to rush over and inhale deeply—but this was strictly forbidden on Eyang Mountain; if everyone came to suck up the spirit mist, what would nourish the fields? Thus, the manor had erected a long fence to protect the spirit fields.

The fence could be knocked down with a push or leapt over—but it represented the Zhanglong Sect’s authority; no one dared violate this rule, and Liu Xiaolou was no exception. He followed the fence to the manor’s front gate and requested an audience with the steward, Zang Baili.

While waiting for word, numerous free cultivators emerged from the manor, each carrying sickles and bamboo baskets, heading down to the spirit fields.

Damn, it seems I’m too late.