Chương 31: Using a Nascent Soul’s Legacy to Store Pork

The seasons turn, winter tightening its grip on the mountain, but within Coiling Dragon Sect, warmth and growth flourish. It's colder now, I can see my breath freezing in the morning air, frost painting the training yard in shades of white. The disciples huddle in their new cloaks, stamping their feet between exercises. But no one complains. No one shivers in threadbare robes anymore. No one dreads the coming months. We're ready.

I gather the disciples on the first day of the new month, their breath misting in the cold morning air.

"From now on, morning practice includes mandatory sparring. Light contact, technique focus. You'll learn more from failing against each other than from perfect forms alone." They exchange nervous glances. Sparring means pain. Embarrassment. Exposure of weaknesses. But it also means growth. Mei Lin steps forward first, challenging Wei Chen. He lasts thirty seconds before she pins him, her water techniques flowing around his fire. The others laugh, but he gets up grinning.

"Again," I say. Wei Chen doesn't hesitate this time. He charges first, fire qi flaring along his arms, heat warping the air around his fists. He swings wide. Mei Lin pivots, water sliding across her limbs like a second skin. She redirects. His punch glances off her guard, dragged just off-center. She steps inside his range, palm striking his ribs, light contact but clean.

"Point." I watch in silence, arms folded. In Greenstone City, neither of them would have made it past the first round. Not because they're weak. They're not. For a backwater sect, they're solid. Their qi circulation is stable. Their forms are clean enough. Their endurance is improving. But they lack everything else. Wei Chen fights like someone who believes effort can substitute for thinking. He swings and hopes.

In a real match, against someone his level, that first wild strike gets slipped and the counter comes straight to the throat. Mei Lin is better. Smarter. She conserves energy, reads movement, waits for openings. In the tournament, I saw fighters who would create openings. Force them. Bait reactions. If Mei Lin waited like this, a city disciple would pressure her relentlessly, break her guard inch by inch, then punish her hesitation the moment she chose not to act. She would lose without ever understanding why.

"Winner gets extra portions at meals," I announce.

"And first pick of training supplies next month." The shift in attitude is immediate. Suddenly everyone wants to spar. By week's end, sparring is the most anticipated part of practice. The disciples push each other, learn from each other, grow together. Wei Chen lasts a full minute against Mei Lin now. Jun, the cynical one, discovers he's actually good at reading opponents. Even the youngest disciples find their rhythm. Ling'er doesn't dominate, that would raise suspicion.

But she wins more than she loses, and when she loses, it's close. Her "natural talent" becomes accepted fact among the disciples. The kitchen girl who watches too much and somehow knows things. I watch her spar with Wei Chen, her movements controlled, her power restrained. She's holding back so much it must ache. In the tournament, I saw her identify lethal vulnerabilities in every fighter. Jugulars. Hearts. The spaces between ribs. I feared she'd instinctively target those weaknesses here. But she doesn't.

She's controlled. Friendly. Respectful. She pulls her strikes, limits her speed, plays the role of "talented beginner" perfectly. Still, I can tell it's harder for her to look like she's struggling. The gap between her real ability and her public performance grows wider every day. She could take all eleven disciples at once and come out unscathed. That thought is both reassuring and terrifying.

"You're really good at this," Mei Lin says after a close spar.

"For someone who started so late." Ling'er shrugs modestly.

"I watch a lot. And the body refinement training helps." Ah, yes. Body refinement. I announce it casually at the next practice: "Ling'er has shown exceptional results in body refinement. She'll lead those sessions from now on. Anyone who wants to improve their physical conditioning, follow her lead." They follow. And they suffer. Ling'er doesn't go easy on them.

She leads them through the same exercises I gave her, boulder carries up the slope, hill sprints until their legs burn, endurance drills that seem designed by a sadist. She demonstrates each exercise perfectly, then watches as they attempt to keep up. They collapse. All of them. Gasping on the cold ground, limbs trembling, while Ling'er stands fresh and encouraging.

"How does she do that?" Wei Chen wheezes, flat on his back, staring at the sky.

"Genetics," I say, which is technically true. Wei Chen props himself up on one elbow.

"Genetics? What's that mean?" I freeze for just a moment. Right. This world doesn't have that term.

"It means... bloodline." I recover smoothly.

"Perhaps her parents were laborers. Strong backs passed down." He accepts this, collapsing back to the ground with a groan. The others aren't in any condition to question further. Ling'er catches my eye and hides a smile. By week two, the disciples are noticeably stronger. Their sparring improves, faster strikes, better endurance, more controlled techniques. Their qi circulation improves; more efficient cultivation during meditation. Even their morale improves. They grumble together. They collapse together.

They compare sore muscles and compete over who endured more. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, they start keeping up. Not matching Ling'er, but improving. Each session, they last a little longer. Carry a little more. Run a little faster. They push harder than they normally would, driven by something primal: the refusal to be completely outclassed by a twelve-year-old girl. Ling'er, for her part, plays the role perfectly. She's encouraging without being condescending. Demanding without being cruel.

She learns their names, their limits, their small victories. By the end of week two, they don't resent her for being better, they're grateful she's pushing them. Every night, she cycles the Five Phases method in my quarters. Every day, she takes her pills between meals. The combination is devastating. I keep telling her to build a foundation before breaking through. To ensure her base is solid before reaching for the next realm.

She nods seriously, agrees completely, and then accelerates so quickly that "slow" becomes a relative term. At this rate, she'll reach Foundation Establishment before spring. That's not slow by any standard. That's not even fast. That's something else entirely. Ling'er - Week 2 Assessment Cultivation: Qi Condensation 4th → 5th Stage Time for her to get some legitimate combat experience. I find a job posted at Greenstone Town; a worn parchment nailed to the board outside the cultivator's guild hall.

Ironhide Boars plaguing farming village to the east. Reward: 50 low-grade stones, plus materials. Threat level: Moderate (Qi Condensation 5th-7th equivalent). Perfect for Ling'er's first real combat. Dangerous enough to test her, not dangerous enough to actually threaten her. With me watching, at least. We travel to the village, presenting ourselves as wandering cultivators passing through. I don't want the sect associated with this—no connections, no questions, no trail leading back to Coiling Dragon Mountain.

Just two strangers who happen to be good at killing things. The villagers are grateful, desperate, and provide clear directions to the boars' lair. We track them to a rocky hillside an hour from the village. A cave entrance gapes in the stone, surrounded by churned earth and broken trees. The sounds of grunting and rooting echo from within. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Master." Ling'er's voice is soft, focused.

"There are five of them. The largest is... Qi Condensation 7th equivalent? Maybe 8th. The others are 4th to 6th."

"Correct." I position myself at the cave entrance, hand on my sword.

"Your targets are the smaller ones. I'll handle the big one if it gets dangerous. But I want you to fight. Really fight. Use everything you've learned." She nods. Gold flickers in her eyes. I watch her move into the cave, my hand tight on my sword hilt. Even though I know—having felt it myself—that those boars are far weaker than she is despite matching her cultivation rank. Even though I've seen her spar with me, a Foundation Establishment cultivator, and hold her own, I can't help but be on guard.

Is this what having a daughter is like? This constant, irrational need to protect someone who doesn't need protecting? This urge to step in even when she's clearly handling herself? I'm too young for this. Then I remember; this body is over forty years old. I have a forty-year-old's life experience and a twenty-year-old's emotional maturity and apparently a father's instinct I never asked for. I almost tear up. I blame the cold. A loud grunt alerts us. They know we're here.

"GRRR!" Ling'er moves like nothing I've seen. She flows between techniques seamlessly, water saw to wound the first boar's flank, flame spikes to herd the second away from the third, earth steps to evade a charge that would have crushed a normal cultivator her rank. The boars are strong, fast, their hides thick as armor. But they can't touch her. She's always exactly where they aren't. Always striking exactly where they're weak. Eyes. Throats. The soft tissue behind their front legs.

Three boars die in under a minute. Clean and efficient kills. The kind of kills that speak to deep understanding of anatomy and combat. Then the big one charges. It's massive—twice the size of the others, with tusks like spears and hide that seems to shrug off the techniques that felled its pack. Qi Condensation 7th equivalent, maybe 8th. Far stronger than anything she's faced.

"Ling'er, step back—" I raise my sword, ready to intervene, ready to freeze it solid— She doesn't step back. She meets it head-on. Gold floods her eyes. She catches its charge with her bare hands, forehead against its snout, fingers gripping its tusks. The impact drives her backward, her feet leaving deep tracks in the soil, but she doesn't fall. Doesn't break. For five seconds, she holds her ground against a beast quadruple her size and several times her weight. Her arms shake. Her feet dig deeper. But she holds.

Then I step in. Frost floods my palm, and I touch the boar's flank. Ice spreads instantly, freezing it solid from the point of contact outward. It topples, a statue of frozen meat and rage, dead before it hits the ground. I lower my hand, breathing hard. Ling'er stands among the corpses, chest heaving, eyes blazing gold. Blood, not hers, spatters her clothes. She looks at me, and for a moment she's not a child.

"Master... that was amazing." I stare at the frozen boar. At the three she killed with techniques and precision. At the fourth she held at bay with pure physical strength. She could likely defeat a Foundation Establishment beast at this rate. Maybe already could. The region will soon experience a culling of beast populations if she keeps this up.

"You did well." I sheathe my sword, forcing my voice calm.

"Now harvest them. Meat, cores, hides. This is part of the job too." She learns quickly. By evening, we have three ironhide pelts, five spirit beast cores, and enough meat to fill half my storage ring. Job Income: Reward: 5 low-grade Materials sold: 10 low-grade Meat harvested: ~400 lbs (priceless for sect nutrition) Total value: ~15 low-grade equivalent We ride back toward the sect as night falls, the storage ring heavy with resources. Ling'er is quiet, processing.

"Master. When the big one charged... I wasn't scared."

"That's good."

"No, I mean—I wasn't scared. My body just... acted. Like it knew exactly what to do. Like the dragon blood took over." I consider this.

"That's both good and dangerous. The bloodline gives you instinct. But instinct isn't always wisdom. You need to stay in control." She nods slowly.

"I'll practice." I return to the village with enough meat to replace all that the disciples (mostly Ling'er) had consumed over the past month. Six months of supplies were burning through fast, faster than I anticipated. The spirit rice helps, but meat is protein, and protein fuels the body refinement that's transforming my sect. I'm happy. This is another way of addressing food without running dry of funds. Hunting spirit beasts provides resources and food and training. A perfect cycle.

I find myself pausing, wondering why the man whose life I've inherited never thought to do this. He wasn't cheap; by all accounts, the original Lu Chen genuinely seemed to care for the kids, in his own stunted way. But in the rigid, status-heavy eyes of a traditional cultivator, hunting for food was mortal work. It was the labor of disciples, servants, or common butchers. To be seen dragging a bloody carcass through the mud would have been a death blow to his already crumbling sect prestige.

Inspecting the memories closely, I realized even more; the hesitation went deeper than just 'face.' For the original Lu Chen, a single bad encounter with a Rock Serpent or a territorial beast wasn't just a tactical challenge; it was a financial catastrophe. One deep wound could cost more in medical salves and recuperative spirit stones than a hundred pounds of meat was worth. He was, in every sense of the word, a loss-averse manager.

Without the Gaze to audit the forest, to map out the predators, flag the traps, and highlight every fatal weakness, he would've been flying blind. And in this world, flying blind is the fastest way to get eaten. His failure to feed the sect wasn't born of pure malice or total incompetence, but a cold, desperate pragmatism that resulted in terminal inaction. He was so afraid of a deficit that he never realized he was already bankrupt.

But as I survey the four hundred pounds of meat piled in my storage ring, a problem occurs to me. The storage ring is useful, but limited by its actual storage capacity. It can hold items, yes, but not forever. Four hundred pounds of fresh meat would take Old Chen and the servants days—weeks—to process through curing and salting. Even with winter slowing spoilage, much of it would go bad before they finished. I need a place to truly store meat. Long-term. Preserved without effort. I look at the meat.

I look at the snow drifting past the village windows. I look at my hands, still cold from the Frost Manual practice. The ice. The Azure Frost Manual. An idea forms. The next day, I set it in motion. The laborers dig. Under Old Zhao's direction, they carve a chamber beneath the kitchens—twenty feet deep, reinforced with stone pillars, accessible through a simple hatch in the floor. They don't question why their sect leader needs an underground room. They just do the work.

To expedite the process, I hire more temporary laborers from the village. More hands mean faster work. Within three days, the chamber is complete. I descend alone, torch in hand, and survey my creation. Stone walls. Stone floor. Stone pillars. Empty and cold. Perfect. I glance at the Ring of Frozen Depths, filled with gallons from the closest river, and begin my plan. I line the walls with ice from the ring, layering frost until it thickens into solid sheets. Then I draw from the storage ring's water reserve.

I'd filled it weeks ago, never expecting this use, and release it in controlled bursts, freezing each layer solid before adding the next. By evening, the chamber is a freezer. Walls of ice. Floor of ice. Cold so intense my breath freezes instantly. Somewhere, I imagine, the Nascent Soul's spirit is watching. Nine centuries of Azure Frost techniques, passed down through generations, refined by masters, capable of legendary feats—and I'm using them to store meat. I shrug mentally. A technique is a technique.

If it serves my sect, it's worthy. I explain the concept to Old Chen and the other servants, leading them down to see the frozen chamber. Their eyes go wide. They touch the ice walls, feel the cold, marvel at the impossibility of it.

"Sect Leader," Old Chen whispers, "this is... this is magic."

"Cultivation," I correct gently.

"Now you have a place to store meat and vegetables. All of it. Process what you need fresh, freeze the rest. It'll keep for months or years." They praise me for my strategy, for my foresight, for my wisdom. I accept it gracefully, ignoring the imagined curses of a long-dead cultivator. Then I hand them the meat. Four hundred pounds of ironhide boar, ready to be processed and stored.

Underground Freezer - Complete Capacity: 2, 000+ lbs of meat Temperature: Below freezing, sustained by my ice techniques Maintenance: 10 minutes of my time per week As I climb out of the freezer, brushing frost from my robes, I find Ling'er waiting. She stares at me with large eyes. Larger than usual. There's something hopeful in them, something almost childlike in its simplicity.

"Master." She hesitates.

"If we have so much meat now... can we...?" The question goes unspoken. I look at her—who's eaten more than any three disciples combined, who burns through calories like a furnace, who's probably been hungry her whole life even with our increased rations.

"Yes," I say.

"Extra meat at all meals. For everyone." Her smile could melt the freezer. For the next week, the disciples eat more meat. So much meat that there's more meat than rice on their plates. Ironhide boar, prepared by Old Chen in a dozen different ways: roasted, stewed, dried, fried. The servants eat well too, their portions increased, their bodies strengthening alongside the cultivators. With their arduous body refinement, the disciples eat with gusto. Wei Chen consumes his weight in roasted boar and asks for seconds.

Mei Lin, usually demure, devours stew with focused intensity. Even Jun can't hide his appreciation. I watch them eat, and I'm secretly relieved for another reason. This many meals, this much meat—it gives me an excuse to frequently inspect the farm animals we keep. Chickens. Pigs. The occasional goat. I check them all again. Thoroughly. With the Gaze. No more dormant constitutions. No more hidden potential. Just ordinary animals, destined for ordinary dinners.

The memory of that braised spirit chicken still haunts me. I take a bite, and for a moment I understand why cultivators hunt these creatures. The meat carries a hint of qi, a warmth that spreads through the body. Not enough to replace cultivation, but enough to feel nourishing in a way ordinary food isn't. It's good. Gamey and rich, with a depth of flavor that comes from spirit beasts. Old Chen prepared it simply—roasted with herbs, served with rice and pickled vegetables.

Across the table, Ling'er devours an entire plate by herself. The disciples stare, still not used to a twelve-year-old eating the same amount as three of them.

"How does she do that?" Wei Chen whispers to Mei Lin.

"Growing girl," Mei Lin whispers back, echoing my own excuse. I hide a smile behind my cup.

"Tasty," I say, reaching for another slice.

"Old Chen has outdone himself." Another problem solved. Another step forward.