The days in Oakhaven blurred into a sequence of calculated observations and relentless internal progress. Valerius Thorne's body, once a fragile cage, was rapidly transforming. The Aether-Weaver's Loom, his silent partner, hummed with a consistent efficiency, siphoning ambient spiritual energy and refining it into the purest essence. His Qi Condensation stage solidified with a speed that defied logic, a testament to the Loom's unparalleled foundational benefits.
He measured his growth with detached precision. Each day, his meridians felt denser, his spiritual root more vibrant. He was an anomaly, a carefully constructed secret. His physical improvements were attributed to the "potent mountain herbs" he occasionally "discovered"—a lie readily accepted by Elara and Borin, whose desperate hope clouded their judgment. Valerius noted this human susceptibility to comforting narratives. Useful.
The Daily Providence System continued its predictable pattern of delivering the utterly mundane.
Day 6: A handful of withered grass. Day 7: A single, dull copper coin, too corroded for use. Day 8: A shard of broken pottery. Day 9: A dead mouse.
Valerius examined each item with the same cold, analytical gaze he'd once reserved for complex financial models. The withered grass, upon closer inspection, contained trace elements of a common, if weak, spiritual herb. Could it be concentrated? The copper coin, though worthless as currency, was still metal. Could it be melted, reshaped? The pottery shard, sharp-edged, could serve as a rudimentary cutting tool. The dead mouse… a biological specimen. Its skeletal structure, its fur, its internal organs—all held data. Nothing was truly useless; it merely lacked immediate, obvious utility. His task was to define that utility.
His "luck," or rather, its utter absence, was a constant, almost humorous, variable in his grand equation. When he ventured into the meager forest surrounding Oakhaven, a seemingly sturdy branch would snap underfoot, sending him tumbling. A patch of ripe berries would invariably be infested with tiny, biting insects. A shortcut would lead to an unexpected, muddy bog. Valerius didn't curse. He simply adjusted, recalculating his trajectory, identifying the pattern of misfortune, and integrating it into his future plans. It was another layer of complexity, another challenge for his intellect.
He began to map Oakhaven. Not with paper and ink, but in his mind. The flow of water from the mountain spring, the most fertile patches of land, the worn paths leading to neighboring, equally insignificant villages. He observed the villagers: their routines, their disputes, their hierarchies. Old Man Silas, the village elder, held nominal authority, but true influence often lay with the strongest young men, or those with the largest harvests. A simple, predictable power structure.
One afternoon, a minor crisis gripped Oakhaven. A blight, unseen in generations, began to spread through the vital root crops that sustained the village. Panic rippled through the families. Starvation was a familiar specter in these lands.
Elara and Borin, their faces etched with despair, spoke of prayers to the Ancestors, of desperate pleas for intervention. Valerius listened, his mind dissecting the problem. The blight manifested as a black, fungal growth, consuming the roots from within. Traditional methods—crushing specific herbs and spreading them—were failing.
He walked through the fields, observing the affected plants. He noted the subtle discoloration of the soil, the way the blight seemed to thrive in areas with slightly more moisture. He recalled the properties of the "withered grass" from his daily draw. Weak, yes, but it possessed a peculiar desiccation property.
That night, under the cloak of darkness, Valerius slipped out. He didn't use cultivation. He used observation and logic. He found the source of the excess moisture—a barely perceptible seep from an underground spring, feeding the blight. He then used the rusty nail, painstakingly sharpened with a rock, to dig a small, shallow trench, diverting the seep.
Next, he took the withered grass. He didn't know how to refine it into a potent cure, but he knew its basic property. He crushed it into a fine powder, then mixed it with the ash from their cooking fire—a common, alkaline substance. He then carefully, meticulously, sprinkled this mixture around the base of the blighted plants, focusing on the most affected areas. It wasn't a cure, but a countermeasure. The ash would alter the soil's pH, making it less hospitable to the fungus, and the dried grass would absorb residual moisture.
The next morning, the villagers were still in despair. But by midday, a subtle shift was noticeable. The spread of the blight had slowed. By the following day, some of the less affected plants showed signs of recovery.
Old Man Silas, his eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and awe, approached Elara and Borin. "Your boy… he was out in the fields yesterday, wasn't he? I saw him. And now… the blight recedes! It must be the Ancestors, truly answering our prayers through him!"
Valerius, playing the part, offered a humble, slightly bewildered expression. "I just… I thought perhaps the soil needed a little something, Grandfather. I remembered seeing some dry grass that seemed to help."
He had provided a solution that was just plausible enough, just within the realm of "lucky coincidence," to be accepted. He had used his "useless" items, his keen observation, and his understanding of basic environmental principles to solve a problem that stumped the entire village. His dominance wasn't overt; it was the quiet, undeniable proof of superior intellect.
The limitations of Oakhaven are becoming increasingly apparent, Valerius mused later that night, cultivating diligently with the Loom. The village was a sandbox, useful for honing his nascent abilities and testing his strategic mind against minor challenges. But it was too small. The resources were too meager. The challenges, too trivial.
His Qi Condensation was nearing its peak. Foundation Establishment, the true gateway to power, beckoned. He needed cultivation manuals, rare herbs, perhaps even a sect's resources. Oakhaven offered none of these.
He looked out at the silent, sleeping village. A cage, indeed. But a cage with a door. And Valerius Thorne, the architect of ashes, was already planning his exit. The next phase of his grand design required a larger stage.