Chương 28: Heaven Above, That Chicken Had Potential

The mountain comes into view as the sun rises, its familiar peak cutting into the golden sky. Home. After nine days of travel, of training, of transformation—the Coiling Dragon Sect waits. Nine days since we left. Nine days that have changed everything. I walk beside Ling'er as the mountain path winds upward, her steps light despite the rigorous training, her breathing steady, her eyes taking in everything—the birds in the trees, the clouds overhead, the subtle shifts in the mountain's spiritual energy.

She notices things now that she wouldn't have two weeks ago. The Sacred Cosmic Bone is awakening, and with it, her perception of the world deepens by the day. She's still a child. Still learning. Still growing. But she's also something else. She's hope. I let my mind wander, assessing.

Ling'er - Holistic Progress Assessment Time Since Discovery: 20 days Time Since First Meditation: 19 days Time Since Qi Condensation: 5 days Starting Point: Mortal orphan, malnourished, illiterate, completely unaware of her own nature. A kitchen girl who existed on scraps and hope. Current Point: Qi Condensation (3rd Stage), literate, trained in 23 techniques, possessor of a Soul Transformation-grade cultivation method, bloodline awakening, cosmic bone resonating. A force that would terrify any minor sect elder.

Cultivation Speed Comparison (Normal Cultivator): Mortal to Qi Condensation: Average cultivator: 1-5 years (with talent) to never (without) Genius: 6-12 months Ling'er: 14 days Qi Condensation 1st to 3rd Stage: Average cultivator: 2-5 years Genius: 6-12 months Ling'er: 5 days I think back to the tournament, to the young geniuses parading their skills for the Nascent Soul observer.

The best among them, the Violet Sky finalists; the ones who earned inner disciple status were Qi Condensation 9th Stage at age seventeen to twenty. B-grade potential. Talented. Praised. Recruited. The crowd had gasped at their techniques. One elder mentioned a prodigy in the main sect who'd reached Foundation Establishment at 17. The crowd had murmured with awe, whispers of "genius" and "future elder" spreading through the stands.

And the Core Formation experts—everyone over forty, most over sixty, their power built on decades of dedicated cultivation. They were the ones who commanded respect, who led sects, who shaped the region. Ling'er is twelve. She's been cultivating for nineteen days. She's already Qi Condensation 3rd Stage. By the time the tournament prodigies reach Core Formation, she'll be preparing to ascend. And that's just the cultivation realms. Her technique comprehension, her battle instincts, her ability to adapt and improve…

those are growing even faster. She doesn't just learn techniques; she improves them. She doesn't just observe fighters; she understands the weak points to exploit ruthlessly. The Violet Sky Sect's "geniuses" are children playing with toys. We stop at a village near the mountain's base, a small collection of farms and a single inn where travelers occasionally rest. Nothing special. Just another dot on the map between the city and home. I lead Ling'er inside and order enough food for ten people.

The innkeeper raises an eyebrow but doesn't question. Sect leaders and their disciples sometimes have unusual appetites. She's seen stranger things in her years running this place. Ling'er eats with the same focused intensity she brings to everything. Steamed buns disappear. Rice porridge vanishes. Meat, vegetables, bread; all consumed with mechanical efficiency. The innkeeper stares openly now, but Ling'er doesn't notice. She's in her own world, processing, growing, converting matter into power.

Halfway through the meal, a group of traveling merchants enters. They're dusty from the road, weary from travel. Among them, a girl about Ling'er's age—maybe eleven or twelve—helping her father carry goods. She's thin, tired, with shadows under her eyes and hands calloused from work. She glances at Ling'er with the natural curiosity of one child seeing another. I habitually activate the Gaze. Cui He - Mortal Name: Cui He Age: 12 Spirit Root: None Cultivation: Mortal Verdict: Just a girl. Kind eyes.

Helps her father. Dreams of a better life that will probably never come. Two girls, same age. One carries packages for her father, dreaming of a better life. One carries a dragon bloodline and a cosmic bone, destined to reshape the heavens. The universe has a strange sense of humor. Ling'er notices the girl watching. She pauses mid-bite, a bun halfway to her mouth. For a moment, I see her processing; the girl's thin frame, her tired eyes, the packages she carries. Then she does something unexpected. She smiles.

A normal smile, warm and unguarded, the kind she rarely shows anyone but me. She picks up an extra bun from our mountain of food, still warm, and holds it out to the girl. The girl hesitates, looks at her father. He nods, puzzled but not opposed. She takes the bun, murmurs "thank you" so quietly I barely hear it, and hurries away to help with the unloading. Ling'er returns to eating.

"Kindness," I observe quietly, watching the girl disappear through the inn's back door. She chews thoughtfully.

"She was hungry. I know what that feels like. The empty stomach, the tiredness, the wishing someone would notice." She pauses, swallowing.

"Master, when I'm strong... can I help people like her? People who can't cultivate, who just struggle every day? Who work hard and never get anywhere?"

"That's exactly what you should do." I meet her eyes.

"Power isn't just for yourself. It's for protecting, for lifting others, for making the world better than you found it. If you only use your strength for yourself, you're no better than the bullies and tyrants." If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. She nods, satisfied, and finishes her meal. I watch the merchants through the window. The girl is helping her father load a cart, the bun clutched in one hand, saving it for later.

She catches my eye and ducks her head, shy. Two girls, same age. Different fates. But maybe if Ling'er has anything to say about it, the gap between them won't always be so wide. After finishing our food and paying the bill, we continue onward. The gates of Coiling Dragon Sect appear through the trees, weathered wood and faded paint, the same as always. Nothing has changed drastically in the days we've been gone—the same worn buildings, the same training yard, the same disciples going through their afternoon forms.

But everything feels different. I am different. The Frost Manual has changed me. Ling'er's guidance has changed me. Ling'er is different. Nine days ago, she was a newly awakened Qi Condensation cultivator with potential. Now she's Qi Condensation 3rd Stage, with 23 mastered techniques and a Soul Transformation-grade cultivation method integrated into her very being. We walk through the gates. Mei Lin spots us first. She's in the training yard, correcting a younger disciple's stance.

Her head snaps up, and her face lights up.

"Sect Leader! You're back!" She runs over, the disciple forgotten. Then she stops, looking at Ling'er with new eyes.

"Ling'er... you look... healthier. Stronger." She tilts her head, studying.

"The city agreed with you?" Ling'er ducks her head, the perfect picture of modesty.

"The Sect Leader fed me well on the journey. And I got to rest instead of working in the kitchen." Mei Lin accepts this. Why wouldn't she? Sometimes people bloom with proper food and rest. A malnourished girl gaining weight and color is hardly suspicious. I hide a smile. If only she knew. I gather everyone. Disciples first, they assemble in the training yard. Then the mortal laborers, called from their tasks. Old Zhao and his miners. Chen Jiang and his herb garden helpers. Li Hua from the laundry.

Old Chen from the kitchen. They stand in a loose crowd, curious and hopeful, wondering what their sect leader brought back from the city.

"I've returned from Greenstone City with supplies," I announce, raising my voice to carry.

"Winter is coming, and we'll face it prepared." From my storage ring, I begin producing packages. First, for the disciples. A second set of winter cloaks for everyone; thick wool, properly lined, warm enough for the coldest nights. I hand them out personally, watching faces light up as each disciple receives theirs. Better bedding, warm blankets, thicker mats, proper pillows. Small luxuries that make a huge difference in a cold mountain winter.

Personal cultivation supplies: incense for meditation, proper cushions, basic herbs for minor injuries. And for those who showed progress in my absence: Mei Lin gets an extra pill, a Meridian Cleansing pill to accelerate her growth. She's earned it, training the younger disciples, maintaining order, being the reliable senior disciple I need. Then, for the servants and labourers. Winter clothing for all. Thick coats, warm boots, gloves and hats. Things they've never had before.

Extra food supplies for the communal kitchen, rice, vegetables, preserved meat, enough to last through the coldest months. Better tools for the mine workers. Stronger picks, sharper shovels, more lanterns. Warm blankets for the servants' quarters, where the wind whistles through cracks in the walls. And a small bonus of silver for each family. They can't use spirit stones, but silver spends anywhere. Coin to buy treats for children, to repair roofs, to feel like their work matters.

Spirit herb seeds for the new garden. I'll need someone to tend them, maybe Chen Jiang's wife, who's proven skilled with plants. Formation flags for a defensive perimeter. To be installed tomorrow, creating a proper barrier around our territory. Healing supplies for the infirmary. Bandages, salves, basic medicines. New cooking supplies for Old Chen. Pots without cracks, knives that actually cut, a proper wok for stir-frying. He deserves better than the rusted things he's been using. Books for a small library.

Basic texts, not cultivation-related, but educational. History, geography, simple sciences. Things for curious minds to explore. The reaction is everything I hoped. Mei Lin clutches her new cloak like it's made of gold, tears forming in her eyes. She's been mending the same threadbare robe for three years. Now she has two new sets of training robes, plus winter gear, plus supplies. Wei Chen immediately puts on his new robes and struts around the training yard until someone tells him to stop.

He's young enough to care about appearances, old enough to appreciate quality. Old Chen examines the cooking supplies with tears in his eyes, running his gnarled fingers over the smooth new pots.

"Sect Leader," he whispers, "I've been using that cracked wok for fifteen years. Fifteen years. I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll make us a feast tonight." He grins, and it transforms his weathered face. The laborers murmur among themselves, glancing at me with new respect. Warm clothes. Better tools. Silver in their pockets. These are people who've worked for scraps their whole lives, and now their sect leader is treating them like they matter. Even the most cynical disciples, the ones who remind me of Feng, who always watch and calculate, look genuinely moved. A few actually smile.

Old Zhao pulls me aside as the crowd disperses, his weathered face creased with satisfaction.

"Sect Leader. The new vein is producing steady. Twenty to twenty-five stones a week now, consistent quality. We've got good workers, good morale, good production. The old vein still has a few months left, but the new one will carry us for years." He claps me on the shoulder—familiar, but I allow it.

"Whatever you're doing, keep doing it. I've lived in Greenstone for decades. This is the best I've seen the sect in... well, ever." I nod.

"I plan to." They throw a small feast to celebrate our safe return. Old Chen outdoes himself, summoning dishes from his new pots that would have been impossible in the old days. Rice steamed to perfection. Vegetables glistening with oil. Noodles in rich broth. And at the center of the table, a platter of roasted chickens: golden skin, fragrant herbs, steam rising in savory clouds. The disciples dig in with enthusiasm. The servants, invited to join for once, eat with equal gusto. Laughter fills the main hall.

Mei Lin tells a story about Wei Chen's disastrous attempt to impress her with a new technique. Wei Chen protests, face red. Everyone laughs. I take my place at the head of the table, surveying my sect with quiet satisfaction. This is what I'm building. Not just a powerful cultivator, but a real community. People who eat together, laugh together, grow together. A plate of chicken is set before me. I look at it. Then I look closer.

The Gaze flickers: Chicken Dish - Grade: Medium Effect: Slightly more tender than ordinary poultry. Otherwise tastes like chicken. Verdict: You're eating a dormant spirit beast. Dormant Fire-Yang constitution. Twelve percent chance to evolve into a Core Formation spirit beast with proper nurturing. Instead, it's dinner. Delicious, I'm sure. I freeze. My chopsticks hover inches from the golden skin. My face goes still. Inside, something is screaming. A spirit chicken.

A spirit chicken with a dormant Fire-Yang Constitution. Twelve percent chance to evolve. That's higher than most of my disciples' chances of reaching Foundation Establishment. And Old Chen braised it. With herbs. Was it a mutant? Had it unknowingly wandered in with the rest of the coop? Why didn't it fight back? Those questions remain unanswered. And now it's sitting on my plate, surrounded by roasted vegetables, steam rising from its once-promising flesh. Old Chen notices my expression from across the table.

His weathered face creases with worry. He hurries over, wiping his hands on his apron.

"Sect Leader? Is something wrong with the chicken? I used the new pots, fresh herbs from the garden, roasted it slow like my mother taught me. If it's not to your taste—""No." I force a smile onto my face. It feels tight. Wrong.

"Nothing is wrong, Old Chen. The chicken is... perfect." He beams, relieved, and bustles back to the kitchen. I stare at the chicken. It stares back with empty eye sockets, roasted to perfection. A spirit beast. A companion. A guardian for the sect. A Fire-Yang Constitution that could have complemented Ling'er's dragon blood. Twelve percent chance to evolve; those are better odds than Feng ever had. And now it's braised. I pick up the plate and set it in front of Ling'er. She looks up, surprised.

"Master?"

"Eat." My voice is calm.

"You need the nourishment more than I do." She doesn't question and digs in with enthusiasm. I watch her eat, taking solace in the only comfort available: if I lost a talent, at least it's going toward Ling'er. The chicken's spiritual energy will fuel her growth. Its Fire-Yang nature will resonate with her dragon blood. In a way, it's still serving the sect. Just... differently than intended. I reach for the vegetables and try not to think about what could have been. The Gaze Verdict: You're coping. That's healthy.

But let this be a lesson: always check your food before it's cooked.