“Cough… cough…”

“Deacon Li, sir… this is the tribute for the month. Please… take inventory.”

Wang Ba bowed low, his body racked with coughing fits. His face was a mask of sickly pallor, the aftermath of a terror that had drained him to his core.

Deacon Li stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his generous belly protruding like a badge of office. He looked down his nose at the offering, his demeanor haughty and imperious.

He scanned the goods: two roosters, two hens, and exactly two hundred Rare Fowl eggs.

Seeing the count was flawless, he merely narrowed his eyes. His expression remained cold, impassive—a stone wall of bureaucratic indifference.

Then, amidst another spasm of coughing, Wang Ba deftly slid a silver note into the Deacon’s palm.

The transformation was instantaneous. Deacon Li’s face bloomed like the sky clearing after a heavy snowfall. The cold official vanished, replaced by a beaming, benevolent uncle.

“Ah, Brother Wang! You really are too polite!”

“It is only right… only right… cough, cough!”

“This mountain villa is a harsh, bitter place,” Deacon Li said, his voice dripping with sudden concern. “You must look after your health, brother. The Sect needs capable men like you.”

As he spoke, a conspiratorial, mysterious smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Brother, do you have any idea what I’ve brought for you this time?”

Wang Ba’s heart skipped a beat. He lowered his voice, playing along. “Cough… could it be… cough… a scroll on raising poultry?”

“Look at you! I can’t hide anything from you, can I? I wanted to keep you in suspense!”

Deacon Li laughed heartily, dropping the pretense. From within his wide, flowing sleeve, he produced a bound book and held it out.

Then, his expression turned grave.

“Strictly speaking, Laborer Disciples are not qualified to borrow texts from the archives. Even for a Deacon like myself, the paperwork is a nightmare…”

Wang Ba understood the dance perfectly. He didn’t hesitate. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his very last silver note, and pressed it into Li’s hand.

It was painful. That money was the result of endless days shoveling chicken manure, sweating in the filth. He had only recently converted his loose silver into notes for safekeeping.

“Hey now, Brother!” Deacon Li snatched the note with practiced speed while feigning a look of hurt. “What kind of person do you take me for? And here I thought of you as a dear friend!”

“Yes, yes! It is my vulgarity showing!” Wang Ba said, plastering an embarrassed smile onto his pale face.

Deacon Li didn’t push the protest any further. Satisfied, he tucked the note into his robe, patting it securely before delivering his final warning.

“You have this volume for two months. At most. After that, I must return it. And listen to me—do not damage it, and do not get it dirty. Understood?”

“Yes! I promise on my life, not a speck of dirt!”

Two months was more than enough. Wang Ba swore a solemn oath, bowing repeatedly as he saw the Deacon off.

Once Deacon Li was gone, Wang Ba clutched the book to his chest and retreated into his hut.

Perhaps it was the lingering shock from the previous night’s encounter with the lost cultivator, but he had woken up feeling as if his bones had turned to water. He was drenched in a cold sweat, his limbs heavy, his cough persistent.

He knew he was sick.

Yet, survival waited for no man. He forced himself to grind through the daily chores—feeding the flock, scraping the coop floor, and counting out the tribute.

It was during a brief respite that he overheard Old Hou gossiping.

“Did you hear? This morning, Deacon Mei—the one who manages the Laborer Disciples—got absolutely chewed out by an Outer Sect disciple!”

Old Hou’s weathered face crinkled with schadenfreude. There was nothing a low-level laborer loved more than seeing a supervisor suffer.

“Oh?” Wang Ba tightened his grip on his broom, his knuckles whitening. He tried to keep his voice casual. “What happened?”

“Rumor has it that this Outer Sect disciple had urgent business at the Merit Hall last night. But apparently, some confused laborer tricked him. The Merit Hall is to the north, but this laborer sent him running east! He missed out on some great opportunity because of it. So, first thing this morning, he stormed in to give Deacon Mei hell. You should have seen Mei’s old face…”

Old Hou described the scene with vivid relish, acting it out as if he’d been front row center.

Wang Ba, however, felt his blood turn to ice.

Last night. The Merit Hall. A laborer giving wrong directions.

He thought back to his desperate, terrified gesture in the dark. He had pointed randomly.

He had pointed East.

There was no doubt. Ninety percent chance—no, ninety-nine—that the furious disciple was the very same “Senior Brother” he had fooled.

A fresh layer of cold sweat broke out over his shivering body.

He didn’t know how the disciple had realized the deception—perhaps he sobered up, perhaps he asked someone else—but the danger was real.

As soon as Old Hou shuffled away, Wang Ba sprang into action.

Illness be damned. He rushed to the back of the coop. He dug up his stash of Spirit Stones and buried them even deeper into the earth. Then, he dragged the massive vat of fermenting chicken feed and heaved it directly over the spot. He piled fresh, reeking manure around it, creating a barrier of filth.

He gathered the leftover chicken bones from his own meals—evidence of unauthorized consumption—and burned what he could, burying the rest in the woods.

He didn’t know if the Sect disciple would come personally to investigate, but he had to assume the worst. He had to be a ghost. A nobody.

Lying back on his bed, exhausted and trembling, the terror of the previous night washed over him again.

“There shouldn’t be any flaws left…” Wang Ba murmured to himself, staring at the ceiling.

Needing a distraction, he carefully picked up the book Deacon Li had delivered.

He didn’t know what material the pages were made of. The volume wasn’t thick or large, yet it felt heavy in his hands—substantial, like holding a brick of knowledge.

Four large, bold characters dominated the cover:

Notes on Avian Husbandry.

The signature below was written in powerful, sweeping strokes: Authored by Daoist Horn-Pot.

Wang Ba flipped it open.

Honestly, he hadn’t held much hope. No matter how profound the text, it couldn’t possibly compare to his cheat ability to transfer Lifespan.

However, as he read, Wang Ba’s eyes began to widen.

“I had no idea… there are so many ways for mortal creatures to ascend?”

Daoist Horn-Pot had written that, to his knowledge, there were three main paths to cultivate a common, mundane beast into a graded Spirit Beast.

The First Path: Bloodline Breakthrough. If a creature possesses a trace of an ancient, powerful lineage, sufficient nourishment with spiritual energy can purify this bloodline. Eventually, a natural breakthrough occurs. Prerequisite: The beast must have a glorious ancestor. If its lineage is common mud, no amount of purification will work.

The Second Path: Lifespan Breakthrough. The text read: “To outlive one’s years is to become a thief of Heaven.” This “thief” steals from the natural order; they steal destiny itself. If a beast can survive past its natural lifespan limit—even by a single breath—it has successfully stolen from Heaven. Having seized this good fortune, the creature is reborn, advancing its grade naturally. However, treasures that extend lifespan are incredibly rare. Most elixirs merely replenish lost life; they do not break the ceiling of life. Furthermore, due to the restrictions of Heavenly Law, this method can typically only trigger a breakthrough once.

Wang Ba stared at the page, his breath hitching.

He finally understood his Golden Finger.

It all made sense. When he deposited just 0.1 years of lifespan into the Rare Fowl, they broke through instantly. They had crossed the threshold. They had become Thieves of Heaven.

It also explained why, after becoming Spirit Poultry, they never evolved again no matter how much lifespan he dumped into them. The Heavenly Law allowed this trick only once.

“And the third method…” Wang Ba read on. “Awakening spiritual intelligence to practice cultivation?”

He shook his head. Awakening the mind of a chicken? That sounded like a fantasy far beyond his current means.

He closed the book for a moment, his mind racing.

Lifespan Breakthrough was his reality, but it was also his deadliest secret. If anyone found out he could manipulate life, he would be dissected on a table before sunset.

“Therefore,” he whispered, “the only method I can show the world… the only explanation for my success… must be the first one. Bloodline Breakthrough.”

He eagerly flipped to the section detailing Bloodline Breakthroughs.

His eyes lit up with genuine shock.

Daoist Horn-Pot was clearly a master of his craft. He had recorded specific purification methods for eight different types of birds, beasts, and insects.

“The method of Bloodline Breakthrough is the Great Dao!” the text proclaimed.

“However, relying solely on ambient spiritual energy is agonizingly slow! Furthermore, the constitution of a bird differs from that of a beast. One cannot use the same key for every lock.”

“Thus, through years of diligent and meticulous research, I have derived eight specific methods for purifying the bloodlines of various creatures. These eight are as follows—”

“Locusts, Gold and Silver Ringed Snakes, Yang Tigers, White Carp, Seventeen-Year Cicadas, Mysterious Phoenixes, Yellow-throated Stone Turtles… and Rare Fowl.”