The morning began with toast, spilled tea, and a ghost yelling about medicinal roots.
Li Jian was halfway through brushing his teeth when his phone levitated three inches off the bathroom counter and announced, "Today, we hunt herbs!"
He choked on toothpaste foam.
"Grandpa, it's 7 a.m."
Elder Sheng Tai's voice echoed with righteous indignation. "The Dao never sleeps, child!"
Jian spat, rinsed, and glared at the phone. "And neither do high schoolers with insomnia."
"Silence your whining. Your Qi stagnates. It requires stimulation. Therefore, you will embark upon a sacred task."
"A quest?"
"A herb-gathering trial. You will identify, select, and offer the finest Qi-guiding flora available to you."
Jian blinked. "You do realize I live in a second-floor apartment with zero access to mountain valleys or spirit groves, right?"
"Adaptation is the mark of a true cultivator!"
"What counts as acceptable?"
"Plants of potent vibration. Seeds of latent harmony. Leaves that whisper ancient resonance."
Jian sighed, turned to the kitchen, and muttered, "Guess we're raiding the spice rack."
"Indeed!" Sheng Tai declared. "May the foraging begin!"
The phone flashed as if starting a new game level.
Li Jian stared into the kitchen cabinet like it was a dungeon loot chest.
The top shelf was home to a dusty squad of unlabeled jars, each older than his little cousin. A faint trail of turmeric dust coated the wood like golden pollen. He coughed once, waved it away, and began pulling out anything that didn't look actively moldy.
"Bay leaves. Cinnamon. Star anise. That one's… probably fennel?"
Sheng Tai's voice hummed like a tuning fork. "Good. Very good. The dry and curled leaf—'Bay'—contains remnant wind Qi. Excellent for circulation!"
Jian nodded. "Right. And cinnamon?"
"A warming bark. Stimulates yang energy. Common in the Northern Root Tribes. Often chewed by elders to ward off cold Qi and rude grandchildren."
"…You're just making up half of this, aren't you?"
"Cultivation is about confidence."
Jian snorted, pulling out more items.
Garlic powder. Dried basil. MSG.
He held up the MSG container. "So, what do you think of monosodium glutamate?"
There was a long pause. Then:
"…I sense… something. Its energy is artificial. Unnatural. A distortion."
"So, evil?"
"Not evil. Merely misunderstood."
"MSG is the misunderstood antihero of the spice realm. Got it."
Sheng Tai's voice turned contemplative. "Its vibrational field is erratic. But… potent. Perhaps dangerous if refined improperly."
Jian grinned. "I knew ramen packets were hiding forbidden power."
"Focus, disciple. Bring them all forth. We must evaluate their resonance."
He laid the items across the counter like spiritual offerings: cinnamon, bay leaves, garlic, basil, MSG, chili flakes, and a lonely stick of gum.
The gum was for later.
The array of humble kitchen spices sat like a budget altar to culinary enlightenment.
Elder Sheng Tai's translucent form hovered over the counter, his brows furrowed as he examined each item with exaggerated gravitas.
He extended one glowing finger toward the cinnamon stick. "Hmm… fire-aspect wood. Carries warmth and mild purification properties. Acceptable."
He floated to the basil jar, sniffed dramatically. "Fragrant leaf, light Qi. Improves breath flow and spirit clarity. Not useless."
Next: bay leaves. "Subtle wind Qi, yes. But dry. Weaker than I recall from the Valley of Hundred Fronds."
Jian raised an eyebrow. "You ever been to a grocery store, Grandpa?"
"Is that a sect?"
"…Kinda."
Then came the MSG.
Sheng Tai hovered above the container as if it might explode. His beard quivered. "This… is not of natural origin. Its Qi is uniform. Artificial. Too perfect."
He prodded the container with a spectral finger. It pulsed slightly.
"Dangerous."
"Dangerous how?"
"Like trying to channel thunder essence through plastic chopsticks. It may function… until it melts everything."
Jian whistled. "Spicy."
"Precisely. But not in the flavorful sense."
"Can I still eat it?"
"Only if your digestive meridians are forged in steel."
Jian chuckled, then held up the chili flakes. "What about these?"
Sheng Tai didn't even float closer. "Demonic fire shards. Leave them."
Jian smirked. "They make good popcorn."
"I said leave them!"
"Fine, fine."
They narrowed it down to cinnamon, basil, and bay leaf.
"Three herbs. Not bad for a cabinet trial," Sheng Tai murmured, pleased. "You show… potential."
Jian beamed. "So I passed the test?"
"For now. But tomorrow—"
"Nope. One weird quest per day, Grandpa. It's the law."
Sheng Tai grumbled. "Fine. Then prepare. The next step will be… synthesis."
Jian groaned. "Let me guess. Rice cooker again?"
A slow smile crept onto the ghost's face.
"Oh no…"
"Oh yes."
Elder Sheng Tai drifted dramatically above the countertop, conjuring glowing sigils in the air with his fingers as he 'appraised' each humble herb like they were ancient treasures.
"Let the Grading Ritual begin!" he declared.
Jian pulled out a school notebook and a pen. "I swear, if you make me label these as 'Epic' or 'Legendary,' I'm docking your screen time."
"The tiers are as follows," Sheng Tai intoned, ignoring him:
• Mortal Trash
• Mundane Ingredient
• Entry-Level Spirit Herb
• Harmonized Herb of the Qi Flowing Path
• Ascendant Root of the Nine Gates
Jian blinked. "You skipped a few power levels there."
"We do not bother with mediocrity."
He pointed first to cinnamon. "Entry-Level Spirit Herb. Minor fire resonance. Usable in foundational recipes."
Jian jotted it down.
"Bay leaf. Harmonized Herb of the Qi Flowing Path — but weak. With proper infusion, it may be useful in wind-aligned pill bases."
Next: dried basil. Sheng Tai sniffed again.
"Mild. But surprisingly clean in Qi signature. Could amplify clarity-based effects. Entry-Level."
Then the MSG.
A long silence followed.
Jian tapped his pen. "Well?"
"…Unclassifiable," Grandpa muttered.
"Wait, really?"
"It is neither of spirit nor nature. It is the ghost of flavor, engineered by mortal hands. A shadow of what the heavens never intended."
"That's the most dramatic review of seasoning I've ever heard."
"It… unsettles me."
"You're scared of MSG."
"I am cautious."
Jian added a note: MSG – Unstable. Handle with chopsticks.
They wrapped the evaluation with ceremonial solemnity, which was mostly Sheng Tai waving his sleeves and Jian sprinkling cinnamon on toast.
"Now," Sheng Tai said, eyes glowing faintly. "You will select one and attempt a synthesis."
Jian bit into his toast. "Can we at least wait until I finish breakfast?"
The ghost sighed. "The mortal world moves so slowly."
"Good. Because the rice cooker still smells like kombucha death from last time."
"Then cleanse it. For the next trial begins at dawn."
"It is dawn."
"A cultivator's dawn. That's at 4 a.m."
"…I'm not surviving this arc, am I?"
Jian scrubbed the rice cooker with vinegar, baking soda, and regret.
"This still smells like lemon sadness," he muttered, peering into the slightly scorched pot. A stubborn streak of burnt vinegar clung to the bottom like it owed rent.
"Cleanliness is the foundation of refinement," Sheng Tai declared, arms folded across his translucent chest.
"I'm starting to believe pill refining is just glorified cooking with extra rules."
"Alchemy is the sacred culinary path of spirit and soul!"
"Yeah, but with more explosions."
Sheng Tai chose not to argue. For once.
After half an hour, Jian placed the rice cooker on the counter like a holy furnace. In front of it: a small wooden tray with three ingredients.
"Cinnamon stick. Basil leaf. Bay leaf."
He placed his hand over the tray, closed his eyes, and waited.
Nothing.
"Feel the Qi," Sheng Tai whispered. "Let your breath guide your hand. Which herb calls to your spirit first?"
Jian peeked. "Basil, because I just like how it smells."
"A fine reason."
He plucked two leaves and dropped them into the empty cooker. Then a pinch of cinnamon, just enough for color. One bay leaf for luck.
"Now… circulate your Qi," Sheng Tai said.
Jian inhaled. Exhaled. Placed both hands on the rice cooker lid.
The cooker buzzed faintly, though it wasn't plugged in.
Then: a warm pulse. A shimmer of mist. The faint smell of toast and old incense.
Inside, the herbs began to glow.
Sheng Tai smiled. "Your affinity leans toward gentle resonance. Soothing blends."
"I'm a tea guy," Jian muttered. "Not a fireball hurling grandmaster."
"Do not belittle tea. The right cup can calm armies."
Jian watched the swirling herbs float mid-air inside the pot. It looked like a potion commercial crossed with a cooking show.
When the light dimmed, a drop of amber liquid formed at the bottom.
He scooped it out with a spoon. Sipped.
Warm. Sweet. Slightly spicy.
His chest felt lighter. His shoulders relaxed.
He smiled.
"Did I just… make Qi tea?"
Sheng Tai nodded. "Not a pill. But a tonic. Crude. Imperfect. But effective."
Jian grinned. "And no side effects this time."
"Progress. Always mild at first."
Then his stomach rumbled.
"…Mostly mild."
Jian leaned against the counter, still holding the spoon from his herbal tonic triumph.
"I know you said chili flakes are off-limits…"
Sheng Tai immediately looked suspicious. "You will not tempt demonic fire, boy."
Jian held up the small red bottle. "But look at this packaging! It has a little flame icon and everything. That's gotta be auspicious."
"Those are mortal warning glyphs!"
"Or modern spirit seals," Jian countered, shaking the bottle gently.
Sheng Tai squinted. "Do not jest. Chili Qi is volatile. It lacks refinement, balance, moderation. The last time I used it in a flame-forging technique, my eyebrows disintegrated. Permanently."
"You're a spirit. You don't even have eyebrows anymore."
"Exactly."
Jian opened the bottle, leaned in, and inhaled cautiously.
Then coughed violently. "Yeah, that's got some kick."
"Your sinuses are not meridians."
"Worth a shot," Jian muttered. "I just wanna see what happens if we add a pinch."
Sheng Tai narrowed his eyes. "A pinch. No more."
Jian sprinkled just a few grains of the fiery flakes into a separate, clean teacup. Then he added a drop of his earlier Qi tea.
The moment the chili flakes touched the tonic, the mixture shimmered red. Steam hissed upward, smelling vaguely of spicy incense and alarm.
Both watched it closely.
Then the mixture sparked — just once — and settled into a slow, pulsing glow.
Jian blinked. "Whoa."
Sheng Tai floated slightly higher. "This… may be a fusion element. Not pure fire. More like… awakened yang volatility."
"So… not a total disaster?"
Sheng Tai didn't answer right away. He stroked his translucent beard. "Store it. Mark it dangerous. Use only in moments of great need."
Jian pulled out an old jam jar, poured the glowing liquid inside, and labeled it with a sticker:
'🔥Spicy Juice – Do Not Sip'
He grinned. "I call it 'Red Ember Tonic.'"
"I call it a mistake waiting to happen."
"Same thing."
The kitchen looked like the aftermath of a small potion war — empty spice jars, spoon trails, glowing teacups, and one very suspicious rice cooker.
Jian sat cross-legged on the floor, sipping warm water to soothe his spicy aftertaste. His phone rested nearby, Sheng Tai's ghostly form faint but content.
"You did well today," the old spirit said.
Jian raised an eyebrow. "Did I? Because I feel like I invented cursed soup."
"Progress, my disciple, rarely looks glorious at the beginning. It often smells like vinegar and disappointment."
"Poetic," Jian muttered. "Still smells like kombucha in here, though."
He leaned back against the fridge, feeling strangely at ease. His chest no longer buzzed with anxiety. His shoulders weren't hunched. And despite the chaos, he felt… satisfied.
"Was this… actual cultivation?" he asked softly.
Sheng Tai nodded. "You attuned your breath. Chose your herbs with intention. Aligned ingredients through instinct. That is the path."
Jian looked at his hands. "So I'm not just the guy who boils tea weird anymore."
"You are still very much that guy," Sheng Tai said. "But now you are my guy who boils tea weird. A disciple."
"…Huh."
A long silence followed.
Then, Jian whispered, "Grandpa?"
"Yes?"
"Think we could try coffee next time?"
The spirit paused. "Coffee?"
"It's basically roasted bean fire essence, right?"
"…This may require… deeper meditation."
Jian chuckled, then closed his eyes.
The hum of the fridge. The scent of basil and spice. The soft warmth in his chest.
Maybe, just maybe, cultivation wasn't as unreachable as he thought.
Especially if it started with tea and a talking phone.