Chapter 3: Chapter Three: Borrowing Fox Grain at a Desolate Mountain Grave

“I need to buy some clean clothes to change into. Though my Foundation Establishment body is naturally pure and rarely sweats or gets dirty, I still haven’t cultivated magic power yet, so I can’t use spells to cleanse dirt or protect my clothes from soiling. Besides, this outfit is far too conspicuous—brocade and silk are unsuitable for travel, and this body is still young… it’ll only invite trouble.”

“Better prepare a few plain blue Daoist robes and ordinary civilian clothes.”

“And the Reincarnation Mission in three days—no telling what state it’ll be in. I should prepare a few alternate outfits…” Thinking of this, Qian Chen chuckled to himself: “This body has red lips and white teeth—perfect for disguising as a maid or young lady. With my past-life illusion makeup techniques, I could match the disguise arts of ancient martial novels.”

“I also need a meditation cushion. Daily cultivation requires discipline, but out here in the wilds there are no chairs or stools—I’d end up with a sore backside if I sat too long.”

“And bowls, chopsticks, pots, fire-starting tools, bedding and a sleeping mat—since the Qiankun Bag has plenty of space, I might as well pack more. Though I can use the magical items inside to cast spells, those things are too eye-catching. Often they’re inconvenient; they’re my trump cards, so I should keep them hidden.”

Qian Chen circled the small county town, confirmed the location of the local market, and headed straight for the Eastern Market.

His attire was indeed conspicuous, drawing attention along the way, causing Qian Chen to frown inwardly. He first entered a cloth shop. The current Great Jin was a standard ancient dynasty: men tilled, women wove, rising with the sun and resting at dusk. Even in cities, commerce was modest, and in this remote county, it was even more subdued.

The shop sold only bolts of cloth—no ready-made garments.

Fortunately, the shop had a tailor who could take measurements and custom-sew clothes. While sewing rough linen robes at home was fine, finer garments required a professional tailor. The shopkeeper, seeing Qian Chen as a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy traveling alone, was somewhat surprised—but Qian Chen’s brocade robes suggested he could afford to pay, so he greeted him warmly.

Qian Chen asked how long custom garments took. He learned it ranged from seven to eight days to a full month. Seeing Qian Chen’s impatience, the shopkeeper smiled amiably: “Young master, if you’re in a hurry, I can rush it—three or five days should do, though there’ll be an extra fee.”

“Money’s no problem…” Qian Chen didn’t care: “But I won’t stay in this county more than two days—I can’t wait.”

“Do you have any garments already made for other customers? Find one with a similar build—I’ll pay extra to buy it.”

“Just make new ones. What’s the harm if they wait two more days?” Qian Chen pulled a small piece of gold from his robe and placed it on the table: “Is this enough?”

The shopkeeper’s face lit up. He took the gold, bowing repeatedly: “More than enough! More than enough!”

Qian Chen wasn’t truly impatient—he was alone, a weak-looking boy. If he didn’t act like a wealthy young master, spending lavishly, he’d invite trouble.

Perhaps because of the gold, or perhaps because Qian Chen’s act of a rich young master was convincing, the shopkeeper brought out every suitable garment in the shop. Qian Chen picked two scholar’s robes, planning to pose as a wandering student. Though still imperfect, it was far better than his current glaring appearance.

He also chose two sets of coarse cotton tunics. He wanted more outfits for different identities, but the shop’s selection was limited—even the Daoist robes he most desired were absent. He bought what he could, then ordered two Daoist robes from the shop, paying extra for rush work and round-the-clock sewing.

He sent the shop’s apprentice out to buy other necessities. The apprentice scoured the entire market and finally gathered everything. Qian Chen paid, but couldn’t use the Qiankun Bag to carry the items away, so he instructed the shopkeeper to deliver them to his temporary lodging—a remote, abandoned courtyard.

The apprentice hesitated: “That place… isn’t it abandoned? They say it’s haunted…”

Qian Chen replied coldly: “I’m staying there temporarily. Just deliver the goods.”

The shopkeeper’s face darkened. He scolded: “Do as the master says.”

Qian Chen didn’t care what they speculated. This small county had no one who could threaten him. These precautions were merely his usual caution.

He next visited a grain shop—but this time, he was disappointed.

The best rice they had was merely local glutinous rice. No spiritual energy at all, barely even water-grain essence. Eating it would force Qian Chen to expend effort to purify its impurities.

Cultivators usually weren’t this picky, but Qian Chen was at the critical stage of Foundation Establishment, and he didn’t want to waste his cultivation energy.

He returned to the cloth shop and inquired about nearby Daoist temples, monasteries, or noble families. The shopkeeper replied cautiously: “This county is remote and small. No major clans here. But at the eastern edge, there’s a small Daoist temple, officially recognized by the Daoist Academy. Still, it only has three or five Daoists who can cast talismanic water and perform a few rituals.”

“What kind of rice do they grow?” Qian Chen asked.

“The temple grows its own vegetables, but buys rice from outside.” The shopkeeper carefully watched Qian Chen’s expression. In this world, magic was real, cultivators traveled frequently, tales of swordsmen and immortals were rampant, noble families took pride in Daoist devotion, and even the imperial court had officially appointed Daoist officials with great authority.

The shopkeeper’s eyes flickered as he ventured: “Master, are you seeking out extraordinary sages or trying to befriend cultivators?”

“I don’t care if it’s a cultivator—even mountain spirits or fox spirits will do.” Qian Chen sighed inwardly. If he couldn’t buy what he needed, he’d just take it. Though the celestial qi had declined since ancient times, this world still held abundant resources. Mature huangjing and fu-ling in the mountains were decent spiritual herbs.

They weren’t as gentle as water-grain essence, but they’d suffice.

“I do know of one place. On Zuyin Mountain, near the county, they say a den of fox spirits dwells. Some have seen lanterns glowing among the hills at night—foxes feasting.”

Zuyin Mountain was a small hill near the county, rarely visited, because “Zuyin” meant ancestral burial ground—it was the family cemetery of the local elite. Legend said the fengshui was excellent, so generations of wealthy families buried their dead here. Over time, graves grew dense—five steps apart—until the elite shifted to other superior burial sites.

A grave-dwelling fox den—perfectly fitting.

Qian Chen leapt with qi, moving swiftly. In less than half an hour, he reached the mountain’s foot. The waters wound around it, clearly forming a fengshui pattern that gathered qi—but the spiritual energy was yin, unsuitable for yang dwellings.

Qian Chen headed straight for the best fengshui spot. This spiritual vein was hidden; ordinary fengshui masters needed decades of painstakingly tracing earth currents and locating dragon veins to find it. But for Qian Chen, it was simple. He glanced upward, sensed the qi’s flow, took a few steps around the mountain, and found it.

It was a burial mound—no grave mound visible, only lush vegetation and tall cypress trees.

Qian Chen found a broken stele beside a massive cypress. He read the inscription and smiled: “No wonder wild foxes dwell here. This Zuyin Mountain was the burial site of a nobleman from the previous dynasty, a thousand years ago. Beneath lies a vast underground palace, possibly with arrays and traps—now seized by this pack of wild foxes. But they’ve made enough noise that even common folk know of it. They won’t enjoy their stolen paradise much longer.”

Qian Chen tapped the broken stele: “Is the master of this place present? Hermit Qian Chen seeks an audience.”

After three calls, a thicket nearby stirred. Qian Chen saw a white-browed old fox emerge from its den. It stood upright, as large as a hunting dog, its hind legs supporting its body, almost human-like. Naturally, it carried a faint fragrance—any ordinary person who saw it would fall into illusion, perceiving a white-haired, white-browed elder.

“What brings this Daoist friend to my humble abode?”

The old fox was fearful but mustered courage to ask.

Qian Chen’s spiritual sense was sharp. He easily noticed a white shadow flickering beneath a large rock—two white-furred cubs hiding in the grass, watching. This fox family carried no malice or bloodlust; their slight yin aura was merely from long residence in the graveyard. Since they weren’t harming people, Qian Chen had no intention of exterminating them.

Even if they’d taken over an ancestral tomb—what of it? If the descendants came, they’d slaughter the foxes or drive them out.

But that was none of Qian Chen’s concern. A thousand years have passed; how many noble lineages have scattered? The descendants of that former nobleman likely forgot this place entirely.

“I’ve just arrived in your lands, traveling hastily, with little food or water. The mortal world’s turbid qi worries me—it might sully my Dao body. I seek to exchange for some spiritual grain.”

The old fox relaxed. He turned and gave a command. Soon, a mottled large fox emerged from the den, carrying a basket filled with spiritual grain. Perhaps the grain was insufficient—it also held huangjing and fu-ling, slightly young spiritual herbs. Qian Chen flipped through them slightly—he even spotted pine nuts from a hundred-year-old pine.

A messy mix—perfectly fitting the phrase “five grains and miscellaneous grains.”

The old fox chuckled: “A little food is nothing. Since we’re fellow Daoists, take this basket of spiritual grain and miscellaneous food—it’s yours.”

The white foxes beneath the rock whimpered softly, clearly distressed.

This fox family lived among tombs, their demonic aura faint—they weren’t wealthy. These items were clearly their best effort. The old fox meant to appease him, but Qian Chen appreciated his gesture. Still, the food wouldn’t last him a month. Humans eat more than foxes, and Qian Chen was at the Foundation Establishment threshold—more water-grain essence to nourish his body was beneficial.

So Qian Chen thought briefly, then smiled: “I accept your kindness. But since we agreed to exchange, taking it freely wouldn’t be right. I have one spiritual pill here—not precious, but fair for this basket.” He reached into his Qiankun Bag and withdrew a single “Yiqi Pill,” offering it to the old fox.

The white-browed fox stared at the pill, eyes wide.

He cautiously sniffed it, detecting strong medicinal fragrance. Then, involuntarily, he licked his tongue. Instantly, his demonic qi surged, eager and vibrant—he knew it was genuine. This Yiqi Pill was the weakest among the pills in Miaokong’s Qiankun Bag. Qian Chen had named it casually; after earlier analysis, he confirmed it was a pill aiding Qi Refining, packed with herbs that invigorated blood and spirit. For ordinary cultivators, it was an excellent qi-replenishing pill.

But for Qian Chen, a cultivator of superior Dao foundation, it was too impure.

But for the old fox, it was perfect. To speak bluntly, the pill’s medicinal qi was probably purer than the fox’s own demonic qi. Beings who awaken spiritual awareness are like humans who complete Foundation Establishment. In truth, this fox family’s cultivation level likely surpassed Qian Chen’s. But humans are the most spiritual of creatures; demonic beings’ intake of celestial qi is far more chaotic than humans’.

Foundation Establishment merely enables better Dao practice. If one doesn’t care about purity, bypasses Foundation Establishment, and directly absorbs celestial qi—like demons do—it’s possible. But such mixed, impure qi intake means one can never achieve superior Dao arts.

The old fox thrilled inwardly: “I thought this was a hostile visitor. I meant to appease him and avoid trouble. But instead, I meet a cultivator of noble aura, courteous and refined—likely a disciple of a great Dao sect. When he asked for food, I thought I’d misjudged him—he’s just a wandering cultivator seeking handouts from us lowly wild spirits.”

“I was willing to sacrifice a little to get rid of him.”

“But how could a true Dao sect’s refined disciple let me suffer? He offers a spiritual pill as a gift! Heaven be praised—I’ve never smelled pill qi in my life! I knew such things existed, but never seen one.”

“I wonder if this young master accepts spirit pets? I’ll offer my two daughters.”

Qian Chen bowed slightly, as if to leave. The old fox hurriedly stopped him: “Young master, please stay! This coarse grain doesn’t deserve a spiritual pill. Ah Fu, bring the finest grain from our store!”

The mottled fox yelped, dashed back into the den, and soon returned carrying an exquisite food box.

Qian Chen took it, opened it—filled entirely with spiritual grain. The fox returned again, bringing two lingzhi mushrooms. Seeing the fox about to empty its entire store, Qian Chen quickly stopped him: “This box of grain is enough for my journey. Thank you, old sir…” He gave two more pills, then turned to leave, the fox family watching him with hopeful eyes.

The old fox still regretted not daring to offer his two young daughters.

Those two cubs were snow-white and adorable. Had a female cultivator come, they’d have been easily sold. Serving a disciple of a great Dao sect meant a future—perhaps even returning to elevate their family.

“Too bad this Daoist gentleman is so proper, not the type to favor spirit pets. And he left in such haste—I could’ve treated him properly before making such a bold request…”

Qian Chen had borrowed his grain and hurried home to cook. His body had only gone two days without food, but he himself hadn’t eaten a grain in millions of years. At the Louguan Sect’s ancestor worship ceremonies, they’d place him on the altar, offering countless rare fruits and delicacies—yet Qian Chen rarely even saw them before they were removed.

Back at the abandoned courtyard, Qian Chen organized the delivered items into his Qiankun Bag, lit a fire, cooked a full meal, and only then opened the bag to carefully inventory what Miaokong had stuffed inside.