“Now that you’re here, keep your mouth shut and your head down. Just focus on raising the Spirit Chow for the Immortals. Do a good job, and you’ll enjoy plenty of benefits. Hell, play your cards right, and one day you might even become an Outer Sect Deacon like me.”

“Yes, yes, of course. This humble one understands.”

“Mm. Take this package. It has everything you need to tend to the livestock. I’ll be back in half a month to inspect the stock. If they aren’t thriving by then, don’t blame me for making an example out of you.”

“Understood. Thank you for your care, Deacon Li. Please, accept this… a small token for your tea.”

“Hoh? You’re quite sensible, aren’t you? Very well. I’m off.”

“Safe travels, Deacon Li. Take care.”

Wang Ba stood with a respectful bow, a plastered smile on his face, watching as the plump, oily figure of Deacon Li disappeared into the valley mists. Only when the man was gone did Wang Ba’s smile vanish.

It was replaced by a look of profound melancholy and bitter resignation.

“So, it really has come to this.”

“Who told me to be born with garbage aptitude and worse luck?”

“I really am a disgrace to the title of ‘Transmigrator’.”

Wang Ba’s eyes were heavy with frustration. When he first arrived in this world, he had dreamed of seeking immortality, pursuing the Dao, and living an eternal life of wonder.

But reality was a cruel mistress. After painstakingly locating the nearest Immortal Sect, he was rejected at the door—his aptitude was so poor they wouldn’t even take him as a servant in the Outer Sect.

He refused to give up. He spent eight full years exhausting every method, scheme, and back-channel he could find. He achieved nothing.

Now, with his family fortune squandered and his bridges burned, there was no turning back.

Reluctantly, he let go of his grand fantasies. He scraped together his last few coins and pulled strings to get an introduction to Deacon Li of the Eastern Sage Sect.

Deacon Li took the money and, to his credit, was efficient. He arranged a spot for Wang Ba right away.

A manor dedicated to raising Spirit Chow for the Immortals.

To Wang Ba, however, ‘manor’ was a generous overstatement. It was a chicken farm.

Looking around, the valley was filled with free-range roosters and hens. They were magnificent beasts—tall, robust, and bursting with vitality. Their feathers possessed a sheen that no mortal bird could match, and their eyes held a glimmer of intelligence.

These chickens roamed the manor with leisurely arrogance, waited on hand and foot by humans who served them premium feed and spirit insects.

Their destiny was to grow plump and rich in spiritual energy, eventually ending up on an Immortal’s dinner plate as a high-grade Spirit Chow dish.

Deacon Li had made the job description very clear.

Aside from the birds, the only other living soul in the manor was a withered old man. He looked to be in his seventies or eighties, his skin mapped with age spots. Upon seeing Wang Ba, the old man simply dragged a small wooden stool under the eaves and sat down to bask in the sun, ignoring him completely.

“Greetings, Senior,” Wang Ba said, his habitual mask of polite deference sliding back into place. “I am Wang Ba. I’ll be working alongside you from now on. I hope for your guidance.”

The old man glanced sideways at him. His eyes held an indecipherable glint. After a long silence, he croaked, “My surname is Sun.”

He paused, looking Wang Ba up and down. “Li sent you? Heh. Seems your bribe was a little light.”

Wang Ba froze for a second, then forced a chuckle. “Old Man Sun, you jest. What benefits could a pauper like me possibly give…”

“Hmph.”

Old Man Sun snorted, turned his head away, and closed his eyes.

Seeing that the old man had no interest in conversation, Wang Ba felt a twinge of awkwardness. He cupped his hands in a silent farewell and headed toward his assigned quarters.

The room was a closet. It contained a narrow bed barely three feet wide and a wardrobe that looked like it was held together by termites. Pushing open the door kicked up a cloud of dust and the smell of ancient mold. Cobwebs draped every corner.

It had clearly been abandoned for a long time.

Wang Ba didn’t care. He wasn’t here for comfort.

After a cursory wipe-down of the table, he sat down and eagerly untied the package Deacon Li had left him.

Inside lay a sheet of rice paper, a standard-issue dark blue Daoist robe, and a handwritten book.

He picked up the rice paper first. It was just a list of instructions for raising the chickens—dietary restrictions, feeding times, waste management. He stuffed it into his shirt without a second thought.

Ignoring the robe, his trembling hands reached for the book at the bottom of the pile.

Three plain characters were scrawled on the cover.

Physique Strengthening Scripture.

“This is it!”

Wang Ba’s eyes burned with intensity.

This was his final hail mary.

When Sects accepted disciples, Spiritual Root aptitude was everything. Those with high aptitude were instantly elevated to the heavens. But most people, like Wang Ba, had no Spiritual Roots at all.

However, there was always a silver lining.

The Physique Strengthening Scripture was a cultivation method designed for mortals. It offered a microscopic glimmer of hope—a chance to artificially nurture a Spiritual Root.

The resulting root would be of the lowest quality, something even a homeless rogue cultivator would sneer at.

But for Wang Ba, it was a lifeline.

Cultivation methods like this were strictly controlled. Only by entering the Sect, even as a lowly chicken farmer, could he legally obtain one. This was why he had humiliated himself, bribed Deacon Li, and accepted a life of shoveling bird droppings.

With the manual in his hands, Wang Ba flipped it open, his heart pounding against his ribs.

“Thirteen layers… This Physique Strengthening Scripture has a full thirteen layers.”

“Each mastered layer increases physical strength by dozens of jin…”

“Reach the tenth layer, and there is a chance to birth a Spiritual Root?”

“And if one reaches the thirteenth layer, one can even achieve a Mid-Grade Spiritual Root!”

“Good! What a fantastic technique!”

Wang Ba’s excitement mounted with every line he read. He hadn’t expected such heaven-defying effects from a mortal manual.

Thirteen layers sounded like a lot, but he only needed ten. Just ten layers to generate a root. And the Eastern Sage Sect’s Outer Sect only required a Low-Grade Spiritual Root for entry.

If he could push to the eleventh or twelfth layer, he wouldn’t just be a servant anymore. He would be an official Outer Sect disciple.

The path of Immortality was finally opening up!

“Hoo— Calm down. Calm down,” he muttered to himself, slapping his cheeks. “Don’t get carried away. A technique this powerful must have a catch. The cultivation requirements are probably insane.”

He took a deep breath, steadying his shaking hands, and turned the page to the cultivation instructions.

“Huh? No special resources required? It just takes… time?”

Wang Ba blinked. He read on, relieved.

“The first layer takes one year to master. Okay. That means I’ll be in my forties or fifties when I finally get my Spiritual Root. That’s… acceptable. Not too hard to swallow.”

“Wait. The second layer takes two years. The third layer takes four years…”

As his eyes tracked down the page, Wang Ba’s face began to drain of color.

Exponential growth.

He didn’t even need to do the math on paper; the numbers screamed at him. If the time doubled with every layer…

Layer ten.

512 years!

Disbelief clawed at his throat. He frantically flipped to the next page, praying he had misunderstood.

He hadn’t.

There it was, written in black ink, stark and unforgiving.

Tenth Layer: 512 Years.

Thirteenth Layer: 4,096 Years.

Wang Ba stood frozen, struck dumb as if by lightning.

Four thousand years. That was longer than the lifespan of most Immortals, let alone a mortal.

There was a footnote: Note: Those with exceptional aptitude may significantly shorten cultivation time.

Reading that line, Wang Ba could only let out a dry, broken laugh.

To go from the first layer to the tenth required a cumulative total of 1,023 years.

What kind of heaven-defying aptitude would it take to bridge a thousand-year gap? If he had that kind of talent, he wouldn’t be here reading a manual for mortals!

He couldn’t do it.

Even if, by some miracle, he mastered it in a few decades and birthed a Spiritual Root… what then?

A mortal’s lifespan was capped at a hundred years.

By the time he succeeded, he’d be a withered husk. What life would he have left to refine Qi? What vitality would he have to build his Foundation?

In that moment, it wasn’t exactly that all hopes were dashed. It was something quieter.

His heart simply died.

He stood there in a daze, the silence of the room pressing in on him.

After a long time, he exhaled a heavy, shuddering breath, expelling the last of his ambition and unwillingness into the dusty air.

He tossed the Physique Strengthening Scripture—the book he had sacrificed his fortune and dignity to obtain—toward the foot of the bed.

In its place, he picked up the sheet of rice paper.

He began to read the instructions for raising chickens.