The spirit rice fields had transformed.
Three months of careful cultivation had turned Jin's hectare from a neglected disaster into something approaching respectability. The stalks stood tall and green, their silver luminescence visible even in daylight, swaying gently in the cold morning breeze like a sea of captured starlight. New shoots had emerged among the mature plants—delicate pale green fingers pushing up through the dark soil, reaching toward a sky they would never truly touch.
Jin knelt at the edge of a row, examining the newest growth with practiced eyes. The shoots were perhaps three inches tall, their leaves still curled tight like sleeping butterflies. In another week, they would unfurl and begin the serious work of absorbing spiritual energy from the soil. But for now, they were vulnerable—tender and defenseless against the countless threats that plagued spirit agriculture.
"Time for the silver treatment," Old Shen called from the adjacent field. The old man was already at work, moving between his own rows with the easy grace of decades of practice. In his weathered hands, he carried a ceramic container that glinted with metallic sheen. "Did you collect yours from the distribution center?"
Jin held up his own container in response. The silver powder within seemed to glow with inner light, casting faint reflections across his face when he tilted it toward the sun. The sect distributed the protective substance to all spirit rice cultivators at the start of each growing cycle—one container per hectare, no exceptions, no extras.
"Sprinkle it thin and even," Old Shen continued, demonstrating with practiced flicks of his wrist. A cloud of silver dust settled over his shoots, coating each leaf with a barely visible shimmer. "Too thick and you'll burn the young leaves. Too thin and the protection won't last until the plants are strong enough to defend themselves."
Jin watched carefully, memorizing the motion, then turned to his own field. He'd learned that observation before action was the key to avoiding his natural clumsiness. Rushing led to mistakes. Patience led to progress.
He dipped his fingers into the powder. It was cool against his skin, tingling slightly with contained spiritual energy. The sensation reminded him of the spirit stone he'd absorbed two months ago—the same fundamental nature, though far weaker and more dispersed.
His first attempt was too heavy. Silver clumped on the leaves like frost, and Jin had to carefully brush away the excess before it could damage the delicate tissue beneath. His second attempt was too light—he could barely see where the powder had landed. But by the third row, he'd found the rhythm, and the silver dust flowed from his fingers in smooth, even waves.
The work was meditative. Sprinkle, move, sprinkle, move. The morning sun crept higher, burning away the last of the night's frost. Jin's back ached from constant bending, his knees protested the endless kneeling, but his mind had found a calm center that made the discomfort seem distant and unimportant.
[Azure Harmonization Method - Current Efficiency: 70%]
The tracker pulsed gently in his awareness. Seventy percent—a number that would have seemed impossible three months ago. Jin had learned to optimize every aspect of his cultivation, adjusting and readjusting until the technique felt less like a foreign practice and more like breathing.
And lately, he'd begun to feel something else. A pressure at the edges of his consciousness, like a door waiting to be opened. The bottleneck to breakthrough, he suspected—the barrier between the fist and second stages of Qi Condensation. He wasn't ready to push through it yet, but he could sense its presence, could feel himself drawing closer with each cultivation session.
Progress. Real, measurable progress.
"You missed a spot."
Jin looked up to find Lin Mei watching him from the stone wall that divided their fields. The girl had grown over the past three months—not physically, but in confidence and skill. Her own field was immaculate, the silver treatment already complete, her shoots protected and thriving.
"Where?" Jin asked, scanning his work for errors.
"Third row, near the water channel. You got distracted and skipped two plants." Lin Mei pointed with a dirt-stained finger. "See how those leaves are still pure green? No shimmer."
Jin found the missed shoots and corrected his error, applying powder with careful precision. "Thank you. I would have noticed eventually, but…"
"But I saved you the trouble. You're welcome." Lin Mei hopped down from the wall and approached, her expression shifting to something more mischievous. "Old Shen was asking about you earlier, you know. Very interested in how you've been spending your evenings."
Jin felt a flutter of confusion. "I spend my evenings cultivating. Same as always."
"Mmm. That's what I told him. But he seemed to think you've been spending more time talking with me lately." Lin Mei's grin widened. "He made some very interesting implications."
The confusion transformed into embarrassed understanding. Jin's cheeks flushed hot despite the cold air. "That's—we just talk about cultivation techniques and field management. There's nothing—"
"I know that. You know that." Lin Mei shrugged with theatrical innocence. "But Old Shen apparently has romance on his mind. Can't imagine why."
Across the field, Jin could hear Old Shen's distinctive cackling laugh. The old man had clearly been eavesdropping and found the situation entertaining.
"He loves to tease," Jin muttered, returning his attention to his work with renewed focus. "It's like he has nothing better to do."
"Oh, he doesn't. Not really." Lin Mei settled onto the wall, clearly planning to stay and chat. "Did I ever tell you why Old Shen is here at the sect instead of back in his village?"
Jin paused. He'd assumed Old Shen had simply been a cultivator his entire life, born to the sect or recruited young like most disciples. "I thought he grew up here."
"He did not." Lin Mei's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, though it was still loud enough for Old Shen to hear if he was listening—which he almost certainly was. "Old Shen came to the sect twenty-three years ago. He was already forty-two years old, a farmer in some village I've never heard of, with a wife and three children."
Jin's hands stilled on the powder container. "He left his family?"
"He fled his family." Lin Mei's grin was now wide enough to split her face. "Specifically, he fled his wife. Apparently, she was a woman of… strong opinions. Very strong opinions, expressed very loudly, often accompanied by thrown cookware."
"That can't be true."
"Ask him yourself if you don't believe me." Lin Mei raised her voice deliberately. "Old Shen! Wei Jin wants to know about your wife!"
There was a moment of silence from the adjacent field. Then Old Shen's voice floated over, notably less cheerful than before. "That gossiping girl should mind her own business."
"He's not denying it," Lin Mei observed with satisfaction.
Old Shen appeared at the wall, his weathered face arranged in an expression of wounded dignity. "For your information, I came to the sect to pursue cultivation opportunities that were unavailable in my village. My wife understood and supported my decision."
"Your wife chased you three villages with a cooking pot," Lin Mei countered. "I heard the story from Farmer Wong in the eastern section. He was there when you arrived at the sect gates, covered in mud and begging for sanctuary."
"Farmer Wong is a notorious liar and embellisher."
"Farmer Wong is seventy-eight years old and has no reason to invent stories about your domestic troubles."
Jin watched this exchange with growing amusement. The relationship between Old Shen and Lin Mei was something he'd come to appreciate over the past months—a constant back-and-forth of teasing and gossip that somehow functioned as genuine friendship.
"The important point," Old Shen said, clearly trying to redirect the conversation, "is that I have been a dedicated cultivator for over two decades. My past is irrelevant to my present achievements."
"Your present achievements include teasing a six-year-old about imaginary romance," Lin Mei shot back. "Very impressive. Truly the behavior of a serious cultivator."
Old Shen's eyes narrowed. "This six-year-old is nearly seven now, and he's progressing faster than most disciples twice his age. If I choose to take an interest in his social development, it's purely for his benefit."
"His social development." Lin Mei snorted. "You were making kissing faces behind my back yesterday."
"I was practicing facial cultivation exercises."
"There's no such thing as facial cultivation exercises."
Jin ducked his head to hide his smile, returning to his silver powder treatment. The bickering continued above him, Old Shen and Lin Mei trading barbs with the comfortable rhythm of long practice. It was strange, he reflected, how this had become normal. Three months ago, he'd been terrified and alone, struggling to understand his place in this new world. Now he had something that felt almost like friendship.
—————
The beetles emerged after sunset.
Jin had learned their patterns over the past months—the specific times they surfaced, the routes they followed, the sections of his field they preferred. He'd also learned to catch them, using the pit traps Lin Mei had described and a sticky rice paper technique he'd developed through trial and error.
Tonight's harvest was good. Seventeen beetles, each the size of his fist, with shells that gleamed like dark copper in the moonlight. They clicked and buzzed in the sealed container he'd prepared, their mandibles scraping uselessly against the ceramic walls.
Jin carried his catch back to the dormitory, where a small fire pit behind the building served as the unofficial cooking area for disciples who supplemented their meager sect meals with foraged food.
The beetles did taste good, he'd discovered. Lin Mei hadn't been exaggerating.
He roasted them over the coals until their shells cracked, the way Old Shen had demonstrated after Jin's first successful catch. The meat inside was white and firm, with a nutty flavor that reminded him of the chestnuts his grandmother used to roast during harvest festivals. More importantly, the beetles were rich with spiritual energy—not as concentrated as a spirit stone, but significant enough to boost his cultivation when consumed regularly.
"Beetle night again?"
Fan appeared from the darkness, his nervous twitch visible even in the firelight. The older boy had become something of an ally over the past months—not quite a friend, but someone who shared information and watched Jin's back when possible.
"They keep eating my crops," Jin said, using a stick to roll a particularly large beetle closer to the coals. "Seems fair that I eat them back."
Fan settled onto a nearby log, his hands wrapped around a cup of what smelled like ginger tea. "Your efficiency with the traps has improved. I saw your morning count on the terrace reporting board. Highest beetle catch in our section for the third week running."
Jin hadn't realized his catch rates were being tracked publicly, but he supposed it made sense. The sect measured everything.
"Once I understood their movement routes, setting traps became much easier."
"Mmm." Fan sipped his tea, his eyes distant. "You've adapted well, Wei Jin. Better than most new disciples. Certainly better than I did in my first months."
"You've been helpful. You and Lin Mei and Old Shen." Jin pulled a cracked beetle from the fire and began extracting the meat. "I couldn't have done it alone."
"No one does it alone. That's one of the lessons that takes longest to learn." Fan's twitch became more pronounced. "Speaking of which—Wen Changpu has been asking about you."
Jin's hands stilled. The bully from two months ago had kept his distance since their initial confrontation, but Jin hadn't forgotten Fan's warning. Some bullies respected resistance. Others saw it as a challenge.
"Asking what?"
"About your progress. Your cultivation speed. Your field management scores." Fan's expression was troubled. "He seemed… interested. Not angry, but interested. I'm not sure which is worse."
Jin considered this as he ate. The beetle meat was warm and satisfying, its spiritual energy spreading through his meridians with pleasant warmth. "What should I do?"
"Nothing, for now. Just be aware. Wen Changpu is dangerous because he's smart—smart enough to wait, to plan, to strike when you least expect it. If he's taking interest in you now, it means he's considering you worth the effort."
"Worth what effort?"
"That's what worries me." Fan finished his tea and rose to leave. "Be careful, Wei Jin. You're doing well—maybe too well. Success attracts attention, and not all attention is welcome."
He disappeared into the darkness, leaving Jin alone with his beetles and his thoughts.
—————
The next morning brought a development Jin hadn't anticipated.
He was finishing his dawn cultivation session, the efficiency tracker pulsing steadily at 70%, when Old Shen appeared at the dormitory door with an expression Jin had never seen before—serious, thoughtful, without a trace of his usual mischief.
"Walk with me," the old man said. "There's something you should see."
They left the dormitory complex and took a path Jin had never traveled before, winding upward through increasingly cultivated terraces toward the boundary between the agricultural division and the inner sect. The quality of the fields improved as they climbed—the plants larger, more luminous, tended by disciples whose robes bore marks of seniority.
"Where are we going?" Jin asked.
"Patience." Old Shen's pace was unhurried but purposeful. "You've been progressing quickly. Too quickly, some might say. It's time you understood what that progress means—and what it costs."
They crested a ridge and stopped at a stone overlook that offered a view of the entire agricultural terrace. Jin's breath caught at the sight.
From here, he could see the full scope of the sect's farming operations. Terraces upon terraces of spirit crops, stretching from the valley floor to the ridgeline. Thousands of disciples moving between rows like ants in a colony. Irrigation channels gleaming like silver threads in the morning light.
And beyond it all, rising from the valley's heart, the towers of the inner sect. White and black stone spiraling toward the heavens, connected by bridges of crystallized light. The home of cultivators who had advanced beyond the agricultural division's humble bounds.
"I started on the lowest terrace," Old Shen said quietly. "Twenty-three years ago, with nothing but determination and a desperate desire to escape my old life. I worked my way up, level by level, field by field. It took me fifteen years to reach where you are now."
Jin looked at the old man with new understanding. "Fifteen years?"
"I had no special talent. My spiritual roots are four-colored, lower grade than yours. My efficiency with the cultivation technique never rose above thirty percent." Old Shen's voice held no bitterness, only acceptance. "I progressed through sheer stubbornness, refusing to give up when smarter disciples would have accepted their limits."
"But you're at the peak of Qi Condensation now," Jin said. "Lin Mei mentioned it. That's impressive, isn't it?"
"Impressive for an agricultural disciple, yes. Utterly insignificant compared to true cultivators." Old Shen gestured toward the inner sect towers. "The disciples up there reached my current level in years, not decades. They'll advance to Foundation Establishment while I'm still struggling against the same bottleneck I've faced for half my life."
Jin felt the weight of these words settling into his chest. He'd known, intellectually, that progress would be slow—that his three-colored spiritual roots gave him only a fifty percent chance of ever reaching Foundation Establishment. But hearing Old Shen describe twenty-three years of effort, of sacrifice, of watching others surpass him effortlessly…
"Why are you telling me this?" Jin asked.
"Because you're different." Old Shen turned to face him fully, his weathered features unusually solemn. "I've watched disciples come and go for over two decades. I know the patterns, the signs, the subtle indicators of potential. You have something, Wei Jin. Something I can't quite identify. Your progress is too fast, your adaptation too smooth. You're either blessed by heaven or cursed by it, and I honestly can't tell which."
Jin thought of the efficiency tracker, the mysterious text that guided his cultivation improvements. He'd never told anyone about it, not even Old Shen. Was that the difference the old man sensed?
"I just work hard," Jin said carefully.
"You do. But so do many others who never progress as you have." Old Shen was silent for a long moment, gazing out at the terraces below. "I'm telling you this because I want you to be prepared. Success attracts attention. Unusual success attracts unusual attention. There are those in the sect who will want to understand your progress, to control it, perhaps to exploit it."
"Wen Changpu?" Jin asked, remembering Fan's warning.
"Wen Changpu is a minor annoyance. A bully with family connections, dangerous but limited." Old Shen shook his head. "I'm talking about the inner sect. The elders. The true powers of the Dark Rose Sect. If your progress continues at this rate, they will notice. They will investigate. And what they find—or what they think they find—will determine your future here."
Jin's stomach clenched with sudden anxiety. He'd been so focused on improvement, on honoring his brother's sacrifice, that he hadn't considered the consequences of succeeding too visibly.
"What should I do?"
Old Shen's serious expression cracked into something approaching his usual grin. "For now? Nothing different. Keep working. Keep cultivating. Keep catching beetles." He patted Jin's shoulder with rough affection. "I'm not telling you this to frighten you. I'm telling you so you're not caught off guard. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say."
They began the walk back down to the agricultural terrace, the morning sun warming their backs.
"Old Shen," Jin said after a few minutes of silence. "About your wife…"
The old man groaned. "That gossiping girl has corrupted you already."
"Is the story true? Did she really chase you with a cooking pot?"
Old Shen was quiet for so long that Jin thought he wouldn't answer. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a genuine, full-bellied laugh that seemed to roll down the terraces ahead of them.
"It was a wok, actually. Cast iron. She had remarkable aim." The old man's eyes crinkled with something that might have been fondness. "My wife was a formidable woman. Strong-willed, sharp-tongued, absolutely terrifying when angry. Marrying her was the bravest thing I ever did."
"You loved her," Jin realized.
"Very much. Still do, though I haven't seen her in over two decades." Old Shen's voice softened. "I didn't leave because I was afraid of her, Wei Jin. I left because I was afraid for her seeing me week. My cultivation had gone forward late in life, and with it came… complications."
Jin absorbed this new information, seeing Old Shen in an entirely different light. Not a coward fleeing domestic troubles, but a man making a painful sacrifice to protect those he loved.
"Do they know? Your family?"
"My children know. My wife…" Old Shen sighed. "She's never forgiven me for leaving. Probably never will. But she's alive, and our children have grown up safely, and that's what matters."
They walked the rest of the way in companionable silence. Jin thought about sacrifice—his brother's, his parents', Old Shen's wife accepting a lifetime of anger in exchange for her family's prosperity. The cultivation world seemed full of such burdens, carried by those too stubborn or too loving to set them down.
The efficiency tracker pulsed in his mind:
[Azure Harmonization Method - Current Efficiency: 70%]
Seventy percent efficiency. A bottleneck approaching. A future full of uncertainty and danger.
But also friendship. Progress. The slow accumulation of skills and knowledge that might one day allow him to help his family as they had helped him.
Jin returned to his field with renewed determination. Whatever challenges lay ahead, he would face them the same way he'd faced everything else—one step at a time, one improvement at a time, one day at a time.
The silver powder caught the morning light as he resumed his work, coating the tender shoots with protective shimmer.
Small steps. Long road.
But he was walking it nonetheless.
—————
End of Chapter Five