For the next three days, Chen Ping was a ghost haunting the outer fringes of the Spirit Medicine Valley.

With his Divine Sense fully extended, he skirted the territories of lurking demon beasts and pockets of toxic miasma. He ignored the rare, dangerous treasures, focusing his entire will on the low-hanging fruit: mid-to-low grade herbs with guaranteed Contribution Point values.

“Jade Vine. Three points.”

“Three-Leaf Firegrass. Two points.”

“Earthroot Solomon’s Seal. Four points.”

His movements were a blur of efficiency. He harvested each glowing specimen with surgical precision, dropping them into the drab, gray storage bag issued by the Sect.

In less than two days, the value of his harvest had already surged past the fifty-point minimum.

He didn’t linger.

The depths of the valley might hide fortune, but they were guarded by beasts that could swallow a cultivator whole. To risk his life for herbs he could eventually grow himself was a fool’s gamble.

His path was one of control. Accumulate Spirit Stones, purchase seeds, and farm within the absolute safety of his portable dimension.

On the morning of the third day, as dawn pierced the forest mist, Chen Ping returned to the clearing.

The blue light barrier hummed silently, an imposing wall between the wild and the civilized.

Without hesitation, he pressed the sect storage bag against the energy field and injected a pulse of spiritual power.

Hum.

The Qingyun Sect sigil on the bag flared. A gentle, irresistible force latched onto him.

The barrier rippled like a disturbed pond, swallowing him whole.

…

The scenery shifted instantly.

The verdant, damp scent of the valley vanished, replaced by the dry, dusty breeze of the transfer plaza.

Several disciples were already there, chatting excitedly about their harvests. Chen Ping slipped into the crowd, unremarkable and unseen.

The duty disciple accepted his bag with a stony expression. A quick sweep of Divine Sense, a flicker of light on a jade slip, and it was done.

“Chen Ping. Fifty-five points. Quota met. Five point completion reward. One point bonus for surplus. Total: six Contribution Points.”

The voice was robotic, bored.

Chen Ping accepted his identity token. The number “6” glowed faintly on the surface.

He felt a flicker of cold amusement.

Six points. Roughly seven Spirit Stones.

He had barely met the quota. What about the others? If they had harvested more, their rewards would be substantial.

A dark realization settled in his mind.

The Qingyun Sect wasn’t necessarily evil, but it was a colossal, unfeeling machine. It provided the soil, but it was too vast to notice the maggots like Li Yingyong and Fatty Wang festering in its shadow, starving the roots.

Was the Sect benevolent? Or was it simply… indifferent?

He turned and merged into the flow of departing disciples, just another gray robe in the crowd.

…

Seven days passed.

The Hundred Herb Garden remained a sanctuary of peace, smelling of damp earth and medicinal fragrance.

Chen Ping sat cross-legged on his meditation cushion, tallying his true harvest.

The Contribution Points were negligible. The real wealth had come from the dead.

Thirty-seven Low-grade Spirit Stones.

Multiple bottles of detoxification and healing pills.

A collection of crafting materials.

And several booklets detailing basic spells and alchemy techniques.

The most valuable items were Sun Qian’s short knife and Li Yingyong’s heavy saber. Both were common, low-grade Dharma Artifacts, but in the hands of a struggling loose cultivator, they would fetch a decent price.

For a beginner, this was a windfall.

For Chen Ping, now firmly at the 6th Level of Qi Condensation, it was merely liquidity. He needed Spirit Stones to buy what really mattered: potent pill formulas suitable for the late stages of cultivation.

He would have to return to the Black Market.

It was a shark tank, filled with desperate men and illicit goods. But it was the only place to find ancient formulas the Sect wouldn’t share.

The alternative was to join the Outer Sect.

As an Outer Disciple, he would gain legitimate access to the Scripture Pavilion and the Alchemy Hall. It was the “proper” path.

Chen Ping dismissed the idea instantly.

Five-Element Waste Spirit Root.

That label was branded into his history.

For a Waste Spirit Root disciple to jump from Level 1 to Level 3 (his public persona) in three years was already borderline suspicious.

If he exposed his true cultivation of Level 6?

He would be a torch in the dark, attracting every greedy eye in the sect. The secret of his “Immortal Fate” would be hunted down, dissected, and stolen.

The danger would be a thousand times worse than Li Yingyong.

“A tall tree attracts the wind,” Chen Ping whispered, his eyes gleaming with cold logic. “A Waste Spirit Root reaching the 6th Level isn’t a triumph. It’s a fatal flaw. It must never be exposed.”

His path was clear. Utilize the Black Market. Keep his head down.

And one more thing.

His parents.

He took out his identity token and tapped a specific rune, injecting a mental message.

Application for Leave: Family Visitation.

He had served the Sect for five years. A visit home was a reasonable request. The bureaucracy shouldn’t block it.

His destination: the penal mining area.

He needed to get them out. He needed to settle them in safety.

The message sent, sinking like a pebble into the deep ocean of sect administration. Chen Ping wasn’t anxious; he knew the gears of the sect turned slowly.

He stowed the token and picked up a bottle of Qi Gathering Pills.

He swallowed one and began to cycle the Evergreen Art.

The pill dissolved, releasing a warm current.

But as soon as the energy entered his system, his body seemed to reject it. Most of the potency dissipated into his flesh, wasted.

The remaining energy was a trickle in a desert. For a cultivator at the 6th Level, the Qi Gathering Pill was becoming obsolete.

He frowned.

He needed better pills.

…

Winter faded into spring. Summer scorched the earth.

Half a year passed in the blink of an eye.

The ripples from the Spirit Medicine Valley had long since faded. The Sect didn’t care about a few missing servants; they were just numbers in the annual attrition report.

In the stone hut of the Hundred Herb Garden, Chen Ping sat like a statue.

Six months of solitude had settled on him, refining his aura into something deep, still, and dangerous.

Inside his body, the Qi of the Evergreen Art roared like a river, heavy and dense.

The final barrier of the 6th Level groaned under the pressure. For months, he had been wearing it down, drop by drop, grinding it into dust.

Today, it cracked.

Hum.

A soundless vibration resonated from his Dantian.

A surge of power, vast and uncontrolled, erupted from his body. Dust danced in the air, pushed back by an invisible shockwave.

Chen Ping clamped down instantly, forcing the wild aura back into his core.

Qi Condensation, 7th Level.

The Late Stage.

It had come as naturally as water flowing downhill.

Chen Ping opened his eyes. A sharp light flashed in his pupils before fading into a profound abyss.

The power was real. But so was the problem.

He was now in the Late Stage of Qi Condensation.

The Qi Gathering Pills were now effectively candy—sweet, but useless for cultivation.

He had tried to use brokers to find better formulas in the Black Market, asking about “Origin Nourishing Pills” or “Yellow Dragon Pills.”

The results were bleak.

The formulas for Late Stage pills were hoarded by the Sect and major clans. They simply didn’t exist in the open market.

Chen Ping sighed, rising from his cushion.

He would solve the pill problem later.

First, he would bring his parents home.