Spells Grinding: From Basic Sparks to Divine Arts

The villa’s main hall was ablaze with light. Dozens of lanterns hung from the rafters, and candles lined the walls, casting a warm, golden glow over the scene. In the center of the room, two large Eight Immortals tables had been set up, groaning under the weight of a sumptuous feast.

Thirteen cultivators sat around the tables, enjoying the rare luxury of a proper meal.

Qin Lu, Feng Xi, Gu Can, and Cao Yunxi’s family of three occupied the first table. Lu Anchen, his family, and the remaining three cultivators took the second.

Gu Yue was conspicuously absent. Having achieved Foundation Establishment, she had transcended the mortal need for sustenance. A simple cycle of spiritual energy was enough to maintain her body, so she had chosen to skip the banquet in favor of meditation.

“Brother Qin,” Cao Yunxi said between mouthfuls, “your servants are truly gifted. This meal is a feast for the senses. The variety alone is impressive—we haven’t seen a repeated dish in days.”

Qin Lu smiled, the warmth of the room loosening his usually guarded demeanor. “Not bad, right? I spent a fair few Spirit Stones to hire a restaurant chef back in the day to train them. Add to that the quality of the Spirit Rice and demon beast meat, and the result is bound to be decent.”

“Brother Qin really knows how to live!” Gu Can gave a thumbs-up, then eyed the gourd in Qin Lu’s hand. “But tell me, what’s inside that gourd? You’ve been nursing it for days. Is it some rare vintage? Pour me a cup?”

“It’s nothing special, just ordinary Spirit Rice wine. But go ahead, try it.” Qin Lu uncorked his [Wine Gourd] and filled Gu Can’s cup.

The wine itself was cheap swill from the Wuji Market, but the gourd had a catalytic effect, slowly enhancing the liquid to provide a minuscule boost to physical constitution. It was barely noticeable, but Qin Lu wasn’t one to waste even the smallest advantage.

“Uncle Qin, Uncle Qin, me too!”

Little Fatty Cao Mo shoved his cup forward, eyes eager.

Qin Lu chuckled and poured him a measure. “You’re fifteen this year, kid. Old enough for a drink.”

“Hey! A-Da is still a child!” Qi Xiaofeng scolded, reaching out to twist her son’s ear. “One cup. Only one, do you hear me?”

“I hear you, I hear you!” Cao Mo winced, but his eyes flashed with sly triumph as he snatched the cup and took a greedy sip.

Qin Lu watched the boy’s antics, suppressing a knowing smirk. He glanced at Lu Xian at the next table. This little fatty really knows how to play the innocent. If his mother saw him at the pleasure houses with that old lecher Lu Xian, she’d faint.

Since Cao Mo had become sexually active, his interest in the “flower wine” lifestyle had skyrocketed. Flush with cash from his talisman sales, he had become a regular patron of the brothels, thick as thieves with Lu Xian. Of course, Qin Lu wasn’t about to expose them.

The hall buzzed with camaraderie. The tension of the journey had faded, replaced by the warmth of alcohol and shared survival. As the meal progressed, people began to circulate, exchanging toasts.

“Uncle Qin, a toast to you.”

Lu Anchen approached, cup in hand, flanked by two young men. “And to new friendships.”

“To Senior! Thank you for saving our lives at East Head Ridge!” The black-clad youth beside him raised his glass, bowing respectfully.

“Thank you, Senior!” The younger, pale-faced boy echoed.

Qin Lu stood, raising his own cup. “No need to thank me. If you want to thank someone, find Senior Gu. Without her yesterday, we wouldn’t be eating here tonight.”

The black-clad youth grinned. “Senior Gu is formidable, of course, but your Spirit Boat was our lifeline, Senior Qin.”

“You flatter me.” Qin Lu laughed, clinking cups with them.

Over the last five days, he had learned more about Lu Anchen’s “brothers.” The one in black was Lu Xuan, a Qi Refining Level 7 cultivator and a co-founder of Lu Anchen’s old gang—a true brother-in-arms.

The pale, handsome boy was Wu Zhengtian, only at Qi Refining Level 3. He was the son of Wu Zheng, the Xuanyang Sect Leader. Lu Anchen had saved the boy to repay the debt of gratitude he owed the father.

“By the way,” Qin Lu said, turning to Wu Zhengtian, “I practice the [Xuanyang Art] myself. In a way, I have a connection to the sect your father founded.”

Wu Zhengtian’s eyes widened. “Senior practices the [Xuanyang Art]?”

“Found it in a cave years ago. It’s the foundation of my cultivation,” Qin Lu said with a self-deprecating chuckle.

The [Xuanyang Art] was a common, street-tier manual, the starting point for countless loose cultivators. Legend had it that Wu Zheng himself had used it to reach Foundation Establishment, naming his sect after the humble technique in gratitude.

After a few more pleasantries, the trio returned to their seats.

Hardly had Qin Lu sat down when Lu Xian approached with his own companion.

Lu Xian’s friend was a short, rat-faced old man named Shi Geng. He had a permanent flush to his cheeks and eyes that wandered too freely. He had been a colleague of Lu Xian’s at the auction house, and in Qin Lu’s estimation, he was thoroughly unreliable—a man of loose lips and looser morals.

Still, Qin Lu maintained his polite mask, smiling and exchanging toasts until they, too, returned to their table satisfied.

As the feast wound down and the guests sat back, satiated and content, Steward Chen entered the hall. He moved briskly to Qin Lu’s side and bowed low.

“Immortal Master. The Emperor of the Great Zhou requests an audience.”

The chatter in the room died instantly. All eyes turned to Qin Lu.

Qin Lu placed his cup gently on the table. The silence stretched for a long moment as he weighed the request.

“Let him in.”