My Portable Spirit Farm: Rise of the Humble Servant

Chapter 156: Selecting Seedlings

Chen Ping’s reasoning was pragmatic.

Finding alchemy apprentices with talent, the right temperament, and loyalty within the Qingyun Sect was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Sect disciples came with baggage. They had hidden allegiances, clan ties, and complicated histories. If he poured his resources into raising a genius only to discover he had nurtured an ungrateful “white-eyed wolf,” he would have no one to blame but himself.

So, the solution was simple.

If the Sect couldn’t provide clean slates, the outside world would.

Specifically, the slave markets.

A few days later, Chen Ping returned to the familiar shadows of the black market.

He had liquidated another batch of pills, replenishing his war chest to just over a thousand Spirit Stones. It was more than enough to purchase a few human lives.

He headed straight for the trafficking district.

The scene was grim.

Behind a perimeter of crude, rusted iron spikes lay a large pen packed with human misery.

Men and women in tattered rags huddled together, their eyes dull and hollow. The light of hope had long since been extinguished, replaced by the dead stare of cattle waiting for slaughter.

Even cultivators weren’t immune. Once stripped of their freedom and collared like beasts, their fate was no different from mortals.

In a separate section, sturdy men were chained to iron stakes. Their muscles bulged, and their skin was crosshatched with fresh whip marks. Their eyes were fierce, burning with humiliation and despair. These were the ones who refused to kneel—the ones whose bones still held pride.

The slavers would break them. They always did. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, rust, and the metallic tang of old blood.

“Aiyo! Fellow Daoist!”

A middle-aged man in flashy, garish robes approached. His face was plastered with a shrewd, oily smile. His eyes darted over Chen Ping’s crisp, green Sect robes, assessing the wealth they represented.

“Looking for some muscle? I have sturdy miners for the pits. Or perhaps a maidservant to warm your bed? Guaranteed quality, prices negotiable!”

Chen Ping’s gaze swept over the numb crowd without emotion.

“Children,” he said flatly. “Under twelve. Must have Spirit Roots. Preferably… with a foundation in alchemy.”

The slaver, known in the market as “Old Dog,” blinked. The oily smile widened, revealing yellowed teeth.

“Ah! Fellow Daoist, you have a discerning eye! The common trash out here certainly won’t do. Please, follow me. The premium goods are in the back!”

Old Dog led Chen Ping past the crowded, stinking sheds to a row of smaller, cleaner iron cages in the rear.

These cages held fewer occupants. They were mostly children, ranging from seven to thirteen years old.

“Take a look, Immortal Master.”

Old Dog pointed a manicured finger at the cages, his tone dripping with theatrical pity.

“These little ones… sigh, tragic stories, all of them. See that boy in the gray shirt? He’s from a side branch of the Liu family in Fire Maple Valley. You know the Liu family? They offended someone powerful last month. Overnight… poof. Only these few pups with Spirit Roots were left. Their enemies sold them off to recoup losses.”

He gestured to another cage where a little girl hugged her knees, trembling.

“That one, surname Zhao. Her family ran a small herb trade between sects. Got caught as scapegoats in a smuggling deal gone wrong. Whole family wiped out. She’s a Five Spirit Root. A bit weak, but cheap.”

Old Dog was warming up to his pitch. He pointed to a seven-year-old girl.

“This one? Her second uncle was an Alchemist. I bet she has it in her blood. Buy her, and you might get a genius for pennies!”

Chen Ping listened silently, his face a mask.

He understood the subtext. These children were the debris of the cultivation world’s constant, brutal churning. Small clans destroyed, families erased, the survivors sold like cattle by the victors to squeeze out the last drop of value.

It was a bloody, unforgiving reality.

Seeing Chen Ping’s lack of interest in the “ordinary goods,” Old Dog changed tactics. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“But, Immortal Master, you asked for alchemy seedlings. You need uncut jade. And I just happen to have two rare gems.”

He led Chen Ping to the innermost cage.

Inside sat a pair of twins, a boy and a girl, roughly twelve years old. Their features were striking, sharing a 70% resemblance.

The boy was thin, his face sallow from malnutrition, wearing a robe that had been washed until it was white. But his eyes were different. They were calm, devoid of the panic that plagued the others.

He stared at Chen Ping and Old Dog with intense vigilance, his body shifting subtly to block his sister from view.

The girl clutched the hem of his robe, her face pale, her lips pressed into a thin line of terror.

“Behold!” Old Dog announced, gesturing like a ringmaster.

“Wang Lijing and Wang Liqian. Dragon-phoenix twins, just turned twelve! Both possess the West Spirit Root aptitude and have already reached the second layer of Qi Condensation! Their bone structure is decent, but their youth… ah, their youth makes them highly moldable!”

Old Dog leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with greed.

“But the real selling point is their pedigree. Their ancestor was a Tier 3 Alchemy Grandmaster! A proper, established alchemy clan! Sure, they’ve fallen on hard times now, but that bloodline? That instinct? It’s in the bone!”

“I had an expert test them. Their sensitivity to fire control and herb identification is far superior to ordinary brats. They have the talent, I guarantee it!”

Spittle flew from Old Dog’s mouth as he hyped his product.

“Think about it! A genuine alchemy heritage! If not for their family’s… misfortune, you’d never find seedlings like this on the open market. I have buyers lined up, but you, Immortal Master, you have the look of a connoisseur. I’ll let you take them both as a set.”

He held up eight fingers.

“800 Spirit Stones! An absolute steal!”

800?

Chen Ping looked at the boy, Wang Lijing.

Sensing the scrutiny, the boy’s body went rigid. The arm shielding his sister trembled slightly, but he forced his spine to remain straight, refusing to cower.

Chen Ping’s expression didn’t flicker.

“Old Dog,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “Your price is a little outrageous.”