Time flowed differently in Lushun City.
In cultivation sects, years were measured in breakthroughs—names rising and falling like sparks in the dark. In the mortal world, time was measured by the wearing down of stone steps and the quiet graying of a neighbor's hair.
Wei Yuan preferred the latter.
Fifteen years had passed since he entered the Hermit's Burrow to avoid Lin Fan. To the Eastern District, Scholar Wei was no longer a newcomer—he was part of the scenery. A polite, sickly man who smelled faintly of ink and beeswax. Someone who never aged much, which people attributed to a weak spirit root and a life spent indoors.
The truth was simpler.
Wei Yuan was forty-two years old.
Foundation Establishment preserved appearances well.
[Ripple Value: 0.0001]
[Status: Deep Stillness]
[Daily Reward Pending: 20 Hours Pure Qi | +3 Months Lifespan | Essence of Earthly Veins]
Wei Yuan sat at his desk in the Eastern Archive's deepest chamber. The air was cool and dry, heavy with parchment and old wax. He claimed his rewards without ceremony.
The Essence of Earthly Veins settled into his dantian like warm soil.
A benefit of staying rooted—fifteen uninterrupted years in one location, with no ripples worth noting.
"System," he thought calmly, "report progress toward Golden Core."
[Foundation Establishment Progress: 88%]
[Estimated Time to Great Circle: 4 Years]
[Estimated Time to Core Formation Attempt: 7 Years]
Wei Yuan nodded.
Seven years.
For most cultivators, reaching Golden Core before fifty meant being hailed as a prodigy. Wei Yuan was doing it while filing tax records and correcting clerical errors.
He dipped his brush again.
Then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Sharp. Commanding.
Not the hesitant tap of a clerk.
Wei Yuan sighed, setting the brush down. He adjusted Mortal Dust Concealment, dulling his complexion, rounding his shoulders. A dry cough escaped him as he rose and opened the door.
A man in crimson silk stood outside, flanked by guards. A capital official.
Beside him—worse—a cultivator.
[Warning: New Variables Detected]
[Envoy Zhou Ming – Mortal | Royal Affiliation]
[Protector Yan – Foundation Establishment (Mid-Stage)]
[Event: The Great Inventory]
[Objective: Locate map to Sun-Swallowing Emperor's Tomb]
Options unfolded.
Option 1: Cooperate
Ripple Cost: 1,500
Result: Court entanglement, tomb hunters
Option 2: Deny and hide
Ripple Cost: 50
Risk: Qi exposure
Option 3: Bureaucratic Quagmire
Ripple Cost: 0.01
Reward: Skill Upgrade
Wei Yuan bowed deeply.
"Welcome, Envoy Zhou. Immortal Master Yan. Forgive the dust—this basement is rarely graced by such distinguished guests."
Zhou Ming wrinkled his nose.
"Archivist Wei. The Governor believes a map regarding the Northern Wastes is stored here. We will inspect every shelf. You will assist."
Protector Yan said nothing. His gaze passed over Wei Yuan like winter wind.
Wei Yuan's hands trembled convincingly as he lifted a ledger.
"Oh—of course! The Northern Wastes. A complex subject," he said eagerly. "If you'll follow me…"
He led them into the stacks.
Not to Geography.
But to Sector Seven: Historical Rainfall and Fertilizer Distribution (150–300 Years Ago).
A massive scroll came down.
Dust exploded.
"Now," Wei Yuan said brightly, "before consulting northern maps, we must cross-reference southern drought cycles. It's the Law of Geographic Reciprocity, formalized by the Third Director of Archives. Here we have turnip yields from the year 412—"
Six hours passed.
Every request for a map produced grain taxes.
Every demand for speed resulted in sewer maintenance logs.
Wei Yuan explained ink recipes. Filing codes. The litigation history of deceased merchants. The importance of preserving livestock death records.
His voice never wavered.
By the fourth hour, Zhou Ming's eyes were glassy.
By the sixth, even Protector Yan looked faintly traumatized.
"Enough!" Zhou Ming snapped. "Is there no index?!"
"There is!" Wei Yuan said cheerfully. "Written in Old Script. Currently undergoing silverfish treatment. Estimated completion… eighteen months."
Yan flared his Qi slightly.
"You're Gray-Grade," he said coldly. "Why is your spirit energy so stagnant?"
Wei Yuan clutched his chest and coughed.
"I spend all my Qi resisting the damp, Immortal Master. I am but a candle in the wind."
Yan sneered.
Contempt replaced suspicion.
To him, Wei Yuan was less than irrelevant.
"This place is a paper graveyard," Yan muttered to Zhou. "If the map exists, it's buried under trash. Let's search the Myriad Sword Gate instead."
Zhou Ming exhaled.
"Report the archives as administratively inaccessible. We're leaving."
[Event Diverted: The Great Inventory]
[Ripple Value: 0.0001 (Stable)]
[Reward: Passive Obfuscation → Veil of the Uninteresting]
The doors closed.
Wei Yuan straightened instantly.
The cough vanished.
He returned to his desk and resumed writing.
The Sun-Swallowing Emperor's Tomb, he mused.
I found that map three years ago. It's under my teapot.
The tomb was a sealed volcanic vent—anyone entering it would fuel the array keeping it dormant.
"Lin Fan would survive," Wei Yuan thought dryly. "He'd fall into lava, inherit a Fire Immortal, and gain a sword and a lover."
He sipped his tea.
"I'd just burn."
He invested Essence into Karmic Foresight.
[Myriad Sword Gate Status]
[Engaged in Three-Sect War – Central Plains]
[Projected Outcome: Sect Migration in 3 Years]
[Lushun City: Future Military Outpost]
Wei Yuan paused.
Military outpost meant cultivators everywhere.
Conscription. Martial law. Ripples.
"I have three years," he calculated. "Four until Great Circle. I need silence."
He pressed a brick.
Stone slid aside.
A hidden chamber revealed a high-grade spirit spring, nurtured for over a decade.
His emergency exit.
He began ghosting his records—slowly rewriting Scholar Wei into a man fading from health, transferring to a nonexistent sanatorium.
Then—
[Alert: Lin Fan – Golden Core Achieved]
[Title: Young Sovereign of the Myriad Swords]
[Trajectory: Southern Kingdoms]
Wei Yuan stared.
"He's coming back," he murmured. "And now he's Golden Core."
Basement concealment might not suffice.
He unfolded a map—not of treasures, but of boredom.
Spirit-poor. Luck-barren.
His finger stopped.
Dead Salt Flats.
Nothing grew there.
Nothing happened there.
Perfect.
He packed calmly.
No urgency. No regret.
As Lin Fan rode south on a golden dragon to save the world—
Wei Yuan was already becoming dust in the salt, content to wait for eras to pass without ever knowing his name.