After their routine inspection of the spirit fields, Han Yu and Old Li set off for the Green Grain Market.

As they navigated the winding paths through the sprawling fields, Old Li shared his hard-earned wisdom in a voice like grinding gravel.

“If we stick to shops run by Wanchun Valley, we can breathe easy,” Old Li explained. “As Laborer Disciples, no one will dare harbor ill intent there. But this Daoist isn’t at a level where I need the high-end goods used by true cultivators.”

He glanced around cautiously. “I mainly trade with mortals or rogue cultivators of unknown background. In those circles, you hide your face. You don’t let them see your true depths, or you’ll find yourself in a life-and-death struggle over a few pounds of spirit rice again.”

“I’ve heard the true experts even hide their cultivation,” the old man continued, his tone turning melancholy. “Otherwise, someone a whole major realm higher can see right through you. But such things are far too distant for the likes of us.”

He paused, then asked abruptly, “Little brat, it’s been three months since you joined. How is your progress? Are you close to the first layer of Qi Refining yet?”

Han Yu remained silent.

“Speak up. How much longer?” Old Li prodded, his curiosity piqued. “I know you have Four Spirit Roots. Your aptitude is better than mine.”

“About two months,” Han Yu finally replied.

Old Li’s eyes widened with a mix of surprise and envy. “That fast? Truly, better roots make all the difference!”

He sighed. “If I followed the standard path, I’d need another year at least. The Green Grain Qi Refining Heart Method is agonizingly slow.”

The old man patted Han Yu’s shoulder. “You’ve worked hard, kid. You’re truly Wan’er’s grandson.”

Han Yu was speechless. The old Daoist was decent enough, but he was obsessed with a grandmother Han Yu had barely known decades ago. It was as if Han Yu’s own diligence was merely a genetic inheritance.

As the market appeared on the horizon, Old Li pulled two veiled bamboo hats from his back basket. They donned them quickly.

They kept their grey laborer robes on. Among rogue cultivators and mortals, the sect uniform was a shield that commanded a necessary degree of fear.

They had arrived early. The morning mist was just retreating, leaving a faint, pearlescent shimmer of dew on the bluestone slabs of the market entrance.

Two ancient, thousand-year-old scholar trees stood like sentinels at the gate, their branches dripping with spiritual energy like silk tassels. A vermilion-lacquered sign hung between them, the words “Green Grain” carved into the wood with strokes as sharp as a hatchet.

Inside, the market was divided into clear strata.

The outermost area consisted of reed mats spread on the bare ground. These open-air stalls lacked any dignity. No true cultivator—not even a desperate rogue—would sit under the scorching sun to hawk wares here.

The vendors were mostly mortals or servants who lacked the talent to cultivate. They traded in gold, silver, or simple barter, as their goods rarely held a trace of spiritual qi.

Han Yu followed Old Li past the commoners and into the bamboo shed district.

Here, the atmosphere shifted. Not a single mortal was in sight. The stalls were manned by Laborer Disciples or independent rogue cultivators. Everyone walking these aisles had at least dipped their toes into the Qi Refining realm.

The items here hummed with spiritual energy. Mundane currency was useless; only spirit-enriched goods were accepted.

For the sheltered Han Yu, the sights were dazzling.

A Laborer Disciple in grey tunics clutched a heavy cloth bag, whispering frantically to a veiled stall owner. A gap in the bag revealed Green Grain Spirit Rice, white as fallen snow, its fragrance mingling with the scent of fresh earth.

Nearby, a young woman in crimson robes leaned against a bamboo crate filled with shimmering spirit herbs. At her feet, a white-furred Spirit Dog snored rhythmically, looking deceptively adorable.

A portly man with his chest exposed barked at the crowd with a wide grin. “Spells, secret arts, pills, and talismans! I have it all! Who wants to change their fate?”

Most people ignored him, their eyes instead following a Wanchun Valley Outer Disciple in crisp blue robes who hurried toward the inner circle.

“Let’s look at the center,” Old Li whispered. “Then we leave.”

The central district was a different world. Neat rows of shops and multi-storied pavilions lined the streets. Blue-robed Outer Disciples were everywhere, and the few mortals present were clearly high-ranking servants on official business.

Han Yu spotted specialized shops for talismans, magical artifacts, and elixirs. There was even a grand tavern with an antique sign: Green Grain Brew. It was a luxury neither of them could hope to afford.

Suddenly, a streak of gold light cut through the sky. A blue-robed figure, his sleeves embroidered with golden thread, descended on a flying sword.

The tavern waiter sprinted out to greet him, and the Outer Disciples inside rose from their seats in respect.

“An Inner Disciple,” Old Li whispered, his voice trembling with awe. “At least the seventh layer of Qi Refining. They’ve passed the trials and have the talent. They are the ones who become Foundation Establishment experts and Sect Deacons.”

Han Yu nodded, realizing just how vast the gap was between the layers of the sect.

“Little brat, we should—” Old Li started, but his face suddenly drained of color. He cut himself off, his voice urgent. “You’ve seen enough. Wander around on your own for a bit. This Daoist has other business.”

Without waiting for a reply, the old man pressed his hat down and vanished into the crowd.

“Wait, Master Daoist?”

Han Yu called out, but the old man was gone. Left alone, Han Yu decided to explore the bamboo sheds.

He had the four pounds of spirit rice from the Spirit-Stealing Rat in his pack. It wasn’t enough for the inner shops, and the mortal mats were a waste of time. The sheds were his only option.

As he returned to the middle district, the portly man was still shouting. The girl in crimson was still teasing her dog.

Han Yu scanned the stalls, realizing he was surrounded by treasures he didn’t even have a name for.

“Fellow Daoist!” The portly man approached him with a greasy smile. “Looking for something special?”