Lin Xiu’s hand sewing the clothes paused, the tip of the needle suspended in midair.
She looked at her son sitting on the threshold, her throat tightening.
Lu Yuan didn’t look up.
The piece of charcoal in his hand drew the final symbol on the stone slate.
He blew away the loose dust and turned the slate toward his father.
“In the southeast corner of the backyard, three Green-veined Stones are buried.” He pointed at the triangular mark on the diagram.
“Remember the position well.
Water this middle patch of ground once every three days.” Lu Qinghe put down his bundle of firewood and leaned in to look.
He didn’t recognize many words, but he could understand diagrams.
“Growing grass?” he asked.
“Soul-Gathering Grass,” Lu Yuan wiped away the charcoal marks.
“The stones can gather spirit power.
It’s very slow, but enough.
When the grass grows to three inches, pinch off the tips, dry them, and grind them into powder—don’t exceed five leaves.” Lu Qinghe stared at the diagram and didn’t speak for a long while.
The yard was so quiet that they could hear the rustle of the needle and thread passing through the coarse cloth.
Lu Yuan stood up and brought out his straw-paper notebook from the house.
Flipping to the middle, he pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“The formula for the Energy Elixir.” He unfolded the paper.
“Its effect is thirty percent stronger than what we have now, but it tastes bitter and has a darker color.” Lu Qinghe took the paper.
His fingers rubbed against its rough surface; he had heard of most of the herb names written on it.
“At most three bowls a day,” Lu Yuan said in a flat tone.
“Tell Shopkeeper Liu that the new formula requires more ingredients, so we can’t make too much.” “What if he asks why it turned bitter?” “Just tell him we added ingredients to strengthen his foundation,” Lu Yuan paused.
“It doesn’t matter whether he believes it or not.
What matters is that the quantity must be strictly controlled.” Lu Qinghe folded the paper and tucked it into his shirt.
He suddenly looked up.
“What about you?” Lu Yuan was taken aback for a moment.
“What will you rely on out there?” Lu Qinghe’s voice was raspy.
“The academy costs money, and so do food and drink.
You’re leaving the formulas at home, so you won’t be able to use them yourself.” Lu Yuan smiled slightly.
He pulled out another piece of paper.
This one was even more yellowed, its corners peppered with tiny wormholes.
An outline of a human figure was drawn on it, covered in dots and lines, with short sentences written next to them.
“A breathing method,” he explained.
“I simplified it, removing everything that could go wrong.
Guide your energy according to the diagram twice a day, once in the morning and once at night.
Each session must not exceed seven or eight minutes.” Lu Qinghe stared at the diagram, his throat twitching.
“Is this…
also from that old book?” “Yes,” Lu Yuan replied without changing his expression.
“There were only a few torn pages, and I copied them all down.” This was the truth.
He had drawn the most basic and safest spirit power guidance model from his past life’s memories in a way this world could comprehend.
He had stripped away the theoretical derivations, leaving only the results: a safe path for spirit power circulation, twelve key nodes, and three breathing cadences.
It was safe, though its efficiency was compromised.
For his father, it was enough.
Lu Qinghe had only just broken through to Rank 20; his spirit power was unstable, and he needed consolidation, not risks.
“You should only practice this method yourself,” Lu Yuan lowered his voice.
“Don’t share it with others.
It’s not that I’m stingy; I just want to avoid trouble.” Lu Qinghe nodded heavily.
He gripped the paper, his knuckles turning white.
After a long moment, he looked up, his eyes slightly red.
“Xiao Yuan,” he called his son’s name.
“Dad…
Dad is useless.
I can’t give you anything.” Lu Yuan shook his head.
“You fed me for six years,” he said very slowly.
“You didn’t let me starve, and you didn’t let me freeze.
That is enough.” Lin Xiu’s needle and thread stopped.
She lowered her head, a tear dropping onto the coarse indigo cloth, spreading into a small, dark circle.
Lu Yuan walked over and squatted down.
He picked up the cloth, feeling the dense, fine stitching on it.
“Mom, you don’t need to make the clothes too thick,” he said.
“The academy has official robes.” “You still need them,” Lin Xiu wiped her eyes, her voice sounding muffled.
“Robes are robes, but this is made by your mother.” She snatched the cloth back and continued sewing.
The stitches were uneven, but she didn’t undo them.
Lu Yuan didn’t try to persuade her further.
He returned to his room and dragged a small wooden box from under his bed.
Opening it, he revealed various bits and pieces: a few stones, a bundle of dried grass stems, and that book, *Continental Spirit Beast Illustrated Guide: Junior Volume*.
The book was an old copy he had traded for using “Energy Soup” a while ago, its cover on the verge of falling off.
He opened it and pulled out a flattened leaf from the title page.
A Blue Silver Grass leaf.
Its veins were distinct, its edges dried and yellowed, while the center of the leaf still held a trace of extremely faint green.
This was the leaf that had glowed for three seconds on the day his spirit power broke through to Rank 2.
Since then, he had nourished it with spirit power every day, recording its changes like an experiment.
The leaf hadn’t died, but it hadn’t glowed again either.
Lu Yuan held it up to the light of the window.
The veins revealed a subtle texture under the light, resembling secret circuits.
He found some strips of tree bark, sandwiched the leaf between them, and tied both ends tightly with fine hemp rope.
A crude bookmark.
He slipped it back into the title page of his straw-paper notebook.
The first half of the notebook recorded all his experimental data and theoretical deductions from the past few months, while the second half remained blank.
The tip of the leaf rested at the beginning of the line that read, “Blue Silver Grass Activity Stimulation Record, Seventh Session.” Lu Yuan closed the notebook, his fingers lingering on the rough cover for a moment.
He knew that what he could leave behind at home could only be simplified to the absolute limit, prioritizing safety above all else.
The true core—his conjectures about the nature of spirit power and the structural models of spirits—could only be taken with him.
It was not a lack of trust.
It was just that those things could invite disaster on their own.
His father couldn’t protect them, and shouldn’t have to.
The sound of chopping wood came from the yard.
The axe fell, splitting the wood with a crisp crack.
Lu Yuan pushed the wooden box back under the bed and walked to the backyard.
The three Green-veined Stones had already been buried.
The ground was packed down and sprinkled with loose soil, looking no different from its surroundings.
Only he could feel that an extremely faint spirit power was slowly gathering toward the center there.
The sprouts of the Soul-Gathering Grass had not yet emerged.
But he was in no hurry.
There was still half a year.
He squatted down, pressing his palm against the soil.
Spirit power seeped from his palm, drifting into the earth in fine threads, tracing the preset path before finally dispersing.
It was not to force its growth, but to mark it.
Just like a beast leaving its scent on its territory.
This small experimental plot, enclosed by broken roof tiles, was the first “mark” he had left on this world.
Rough and crude.
But it was the starting point.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Lu Qinghe stood under the eaves, carrying firewood, watching him.
“Dad,” Lu Yuan said without turning around.
“After I leave, don’t hang around the Spirit Hall too often.
If Zhao Shi asks anything else, just blame it all on me.” “…Alright.” “Once you’ve saved enough money from the Energy Soup, go forge a good hoe.
Your spirit is an Iron Hoe; having a handy tool will make your work much easier.” Lu Qinghe didn’t say anything.
Lu Yuan stood up and patted the dirt off his hands.
He walked over to his father and looked up at this man, who was a head and a half taller than him.
“I will write back,” he said.
“The academy should have a way to send mail.
I might not be able to write every month, but…
I’ll try my best.” Lu Qinghe’s lips moved, and in the end, he only managed to utter two words: “Stay safe.” The night deepened.
Lin Xiu finished the final stitch and bit off the thread.
She shook open the indigo clothes and held them up to the oil lamp.
The stitching was crooked, one sleeve was longer than the other, and the neckline was cut slightly too wide.
As she looked, she suddenly buried her face in the clothes, her shoulders trembling slightly.
Lu Yuan stood outside the door and didn’t go in.
He looked up at the sky.
The night sky over Maple Leaf Town was grey and hazy, with very few stars.
Tonight, only a scattered few hung in the sky, their light so faint they seemed as though they might be blown out by the wind at any moment.
But he knew that the sky outside the town would surely be clearer and brighter.
He took a deep breath and turned to go back inside.
The new set of clothes with one sleeve longer than the other had already been neatly folded by his mother and placed by his pillow.