Lingyuan City — Outer Fog District, Whispering Ridge Growers — 11:22 a.m.
The fog outside the city proper was thicker, almost alive gray tendrils curling around bamboo groves and low stone walls like ghostly fingers. The air smelled of wet earth, pine resin, and the faint metallic tang of qi that clung to everything in these marginal lands.
Zhao Ming walked the narrow dirt path alone, hands in his pockets, senses sharp.
He had left the tea shop two hours earlier with a simple plan: find the forgotten growers. The ones too small for the major clans to bother with. The ones who harvested mid-grade leaves that never made it to the elite auctions because their output was inconsistent or their qi infusion too weak to command premium prices.
He had found three names from old customer gossip and a faded notice board in the lower market: Whispering Ridge, Mist Veil Plantation, and Lone Pine Hollow.
Whispering Ridge was closest.
The entrance was unmarked just a weathered wooden gate half-hidden by vines. Beyond it, rows of tea bushes stretched up the gentle slope, their dark green leaves glistening with dew. A few workers in wide straw hats moved between the rows, clipping with small silver shears that glinted with faint protective runes.
At the center stood a modest wooden pavilion. An older woman waited there, mid-fifties, silver streaked through black hair tied in a simple knot, face lined from sun and wind but eyes sharp as a hawk.
She watched him approach without rising.
"You're not a buyer from the clans," she said before he even reached the steps. Her voice was dry, like autumn leaves. "Too young. Too hungry-looking."
Zhao Ming stopped at the bottom step and inclined his head—respectful but not submissive.
"I'm not here to buy for them," he said. "I'm here to buy for myself."
She studied him for a long moment.
"Name's Wei Lan. This is my land. Been growing tea here since before you were born. What do you want?"
"Leaves," he answered simply. "Mid-grade. Consistent batches. Ones with enough natural qi trace to give a mild circulation boost, but not so strong they attract Bureau attention."
Wei Lan's eyes narrowed.
"That's a very specific request for a boy who looks like he just walked out of the old district."
Zhao Ming met her gaze directly.
"I'm done scraping by. I want to build something. Starting with tea."
She snorted softly.
"Everyone wants to build something. Most end up broken."
"Most don't have what I have."
He held her stare.
"I remember every blend I've ever tasted. Every leaf profile. Every subtle shift in qi flow from different drying methods. I can take your leaves, your overlooked batches and turn them into something people will line up for. Something affordable. Something that actually helps."
Wei Lan leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"And what's in it for me?"
"Steady orders. Fair price better than the scrap buyers give you now. Cash up front once we agree. And a cut of the final product sales once we scale."
She laughed short, humourless.
"You think you can sell to the masses what the clans hoard?"
"I know I can," he said. "Because the clans don't bother with the masses. They think the poor can't cultivate. They're wrong. Give them even a small edge, and they'll pay for it every day."
Silence stretched between them.
Wei Lan finally stood, joints creaking faintly.
"Come."
She led him through the rows.
The bushes here were older some planted decades ago, roots deep, leaves smaller but denser with qi. She pointed to several sections.
"These are first flush spring harvest. Mild qi, clean taste. Good for daily drinkers."
She moved to another patch.
"These are summer flush. Stronger qi, but bitter if not processed right. Most buyers reject them."
Zhao Ming crouched, running his fingers lightly over the leaves.
"Summer flush is perfect," he said. "The bitterness can be balanced with careful roasting and a touch of honey-infused drying. The qi spike will be noticeable but not enough to trigger Bureau audits."
Wei Lan raised a brow.
"You talk like you've done this before."
"I've tasted enough bad tea to know what good tea should be."
She studied him again longer this time.
"How much do you need to start?"
"5 kg to begin. Enough for testing blends."
"That's not cheap."
"I have the yuan," he said. "4,000 upfront. The rest when I sell the first batch and come back for more."
Wei Lan considered.
Then she nodded once.
"Deal. But if you waste my leaves, boy, I'll find you. And I know people who make life very difficult."
Zhao Ming smiled thin, confident.
"I won't waste them."
Two hours later he left Whispering Ridge with a burlap sack slung over his shoulder five kgs of mixed-grade leaves, still damp from morning dew, wrapped carefully to preserve their qi.
The walk back to the old district took another hour. The fog grew denser as he neared the city walls, swallowing sounds and light.
When he pushed open the door to Mei's Tranquil Teas, the bell chimed softly.
The lunch crowd had thinned. Only a few stragglers remained.
Lin Mei looked up from behind the counter.
Her eyes went straight to the sack, then to his face.
She knew.
She crossed the floor quickly graceful, quiet and took the sack from his shoulder, setting it on the back counter.
"You found them," she said, voice low.
"First batch," he confirmed. "Summer flush from Whispering Ridge. Strong enough to matter, weak enough to stay under the radar."
Lin Mei's fingers brushed his arm quick, hidden by the counter.
Her touch lingered a second longer than necessary.
"I cleared the back room," she whispered. "No one will bother you while you work."
Zhao Ming caught her hand briefly, thumb stroking her wrist.
"Thank you."
She smiled small, warm, glowing.
"I'll keep the shop running. You focus on making it real."
He leaned in just enough that his lips nearly brushed her ear.
"When I succeed," he murmured, "the first thing I'll buy with the profits is a new bed. Bigger. Stronger."
Lin Mei's breath hitched. A fresh flush climbed her throat.
"You're impossible," she whispered back.
"And yours."
He released her hand and moved to the back room.
The space was small bare wooden shelves, a low table, a single lantern. Perfect for experimentation.
He set the sack down.
Rolled up his sleeves.
And began.
First: sorting. He separated the leaves by flush, by size, by faint qi signature only he could sense thanks to his photographic memory and the original body's minor cultivation sense.
Then: roasting. He built a small charcoal fire in the corner brazier, controlling the heat with meticulous care.
As the leaves curled and crackled, releasing their aroma, Zhao Ming worked blending, tasting, adjusting.
Outside, Lin Mei served customers with her usual grace.
But every so often she glanced toward the back curtain.
And smiled.
The empire was taking shape one leaf, one blend, one forbidden touch at a time.
And it was only the beginning.
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