After parting ways with Chen Qing, Wang Hao walked the bustling streets of the market, his thoughts a quiet counterpoint to the noise around him.

Since stepping onto the path of cultivation, his journey had been remarkably smooth. He had techniques, pills, and luck. Every ambush had turned into a harvest; every exploration yielded treasure.

But it wasn’t enough.

The chasm between mediocrity and greatness in the cultivation world was vast, and nowhere was this clearer than in the formation of the Golden Core. The quality of a Core determined a cultivator’s future potential, graded into four tiers: Supreme, Upper, Middle, and Lower. Most cultivators, plagued by poor aptitude and a lack of resources, were doomed to form a Lower-grade Core.

For Wang Hao, whose natural talent was abysmal, a Lower-grade Core was a death sentence for his Dao. While legends spoke of cultivators who achieved the Nascent Soul stage with a Lower-grade Core, such anomalies were one in a billion.

He needed to aim higher. An Upper-grade Core was the goal.

To achieve this, he needed specific heavenly resources—consumables known as ‘Spirit Objects.’ Rumor had it that gathering four distinct types of these treasures would virtually guarantee an Upper-grade Core, or at the very least, a stable Middle-grade one.

The problem was scarcity. He had a Gold Essence Fruit, and the Dustfall Pill was purchasable if one had deep enough pockets. But the other two items? They couldn’t be found in any store.

They were found in ruins.

Eons ago, before the Great Demonic Invasion, this world had been rich in spiritual energy. Ascension was common, and Spirit Objects were as plentiful as grass. But the war had shattered the world’s foundation, thinning the ambient Qi and making such treasures extinct in the wild.

The South Sea, however, was a graveyard of the old world. It had been the primary battlefield, and the ancient cave dwellings and sects buried beneath its waves were time capsules from an era of plenty.

“It’s a vicious cycle,” Wang Hao muttered to himself. “To advance, I must take risks. To survive the risks, I need high cultivation. But I can’t get high cultivation without advancing.”

He needed guidance. He decided to return to Wang Family Ridge to consult the Patriarch, Wang Guang’an. The old man had lived for two centuries; his wisdom might illuminate a path Wang Hao couldn’t see.

Wang Hao rested at the family shop for a day. During his stay, he paid a visit to the resident brewmaster, Zou Renhe.

The old man was in the twilight of his years, his hair white and his posture stooped with the weight of mortality. Yet, when Wang Hao produced a Hundred-Fragrance Spirit Fruit, Zou Renhe’s eyes shone with the fervor of youth.

“A pity,” Zou Renhe sighed, closing his eyes. “This old man won’t live to see the Hundred-Fragrance Wine fully brewed.”

He reached into his robe and produced a jade slip, offering it to Wang Hao with trembling hands. “Master, this is the Zou family’s secret brewing heritage. Please, take it.”

“Old Zou,” Wang Hao said gently, not accepting the slip. “You still have two years of life. That is enough time to brew the first batch.”

“Master,” Zou Renhe insisted, pressing the jade into Wang Hao’s palm. “Fallen leaves must return to their roots. I wish to go home before the end. These years with the Wang family have been a blessing, but I cannot let my family’s legacy die with me. It is better that the Wang family inherits it. I have but one request.”

“Speak.”

Zou Renhe bowed deeply. “Please select a few apprentices and tell them this art came from the Zou family.”

“I promise,” Wang Hao said solemnly. “If you have any descendants, send them to us. The Wang family will raise them as core disciples.”

Zou Renhe’s eyes lit up—this was the assurance he had been fishing for. “I never married, but my younger brother has a grandnephew. He possesses three Spiritual Roots. Sadly, the boy has no love for brewing. I hope the Master can guide him.”

Wang Hao smiled. The old man was shrewd, using the recipe to pave a road for his kin. It was a fair trade; the Wang family gained a valuable trade secret and a decent cultivator.

“Rest assured. I will instruct him personally.”

Zou Renhe thanked him profusely, his spirit seemingly lifted by the promise.

The next day, however, Zou Renhe returned not with a boy, but with a timid little girl.

She looked no older than ten, her hair tied in twin pigtails, her cheeks flushed red. She hid behind the old man’s robes, peeking out with wide, fearful eyes.

“This is Zou Yu,” the old man introduced. “Metal, Earth, and Fire roots. She is only at the first layer of Qi Refining because no one urged her to practice.”

“Yu’er,” Zou Renhe said sternly, “You have Spiritual Roots. You are not a mortal anymore. You must listen to Elder Wang and cultivate diligently.”

“Calling me Elder makes me sound ancient,” Wang Hao chuckled, crouching down to her eye level. “Just call me Brother.”

“Yu’er understands,” the girl whispered, eyes welling with tears. “I will listen to Brother.”

Zou Renhe bowed again. “Master, Yu’er’s life has been hard. She is introverted and started late. I hope you can… give her a status.”

“Status?” Wang Hao blinked, suddenly wary. “She is ten years old, Old Zou. What kind of status?”

Zou Renhe looked at him with desperate hope. “I beg the Master to take her as a personal disciple. With that title, she might not be pampered, but no one will dare bully her.”

Wang Hao exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Ah. A disciple. That… I can do.”

He understood the old man’s fear. An outsider in a clan like the Wang family faced an invisible wall of exclusion. Zou Renhe could protect her while he lived, but once he was gone, a lonely girl with a different surname would be easy prey for internal politics and resource snatching.

But as Wang Hao’s personal disciple? She would be untouchable. She would have a backer who was not only a Foundation Establishment cultivator but a high-ranking alchemist.

“Very well,” Wang Hao said, looking at the girl. “I accept.”