My Portable Spirit Farm: Rise of the Humble Servant

Chapter 212: Third Grade Top Grade

After a moment of deliberation, Chen Ping pointed toward the Pill Hall.

Historically, his luck with alchemy rooms in secret realms had been abysmal. He hoped this pristine tomb would finally break the curse. Could my luck really be this rotten forever?

At his silent command, the Han siblings stepped forward and pushed open the heavy stone doors.

They navigated a short, winding stone corridor before unsealing a second set of doors. Immediately, a musty scent washed over them—the heavy, sterile smell of ancient dust tinged with the lingering ghost of a medicinal fragrance.

In the dead center of the room stood a three-legged Alchemy Furnace, standing nearly half the height of a grown man.

It was forged from a dark, heavy gold, exuding an aura of ancient majesty. Four vividly lifelike, five-clawed golden dragons coiled around the main body, their heads reared back and jaws parted as if ready to spew apocalyptic flames. The surface was densely etched with profound flame runes and microscopic spirit-gathering arrays. Even after centuries of isolation, spiritual light still pulsed faintly through the grooves, projecting a steady, oppressive spiritual pressure.

“A Third Grade Top Grade Alchemy Furnace!”

A sharp glint flashed in Chen Ping’s eyes. This alone was a massive windfall. If placed in an auction house, a furnace of this caliber would easily command a staggering hundred thousand Spirit Stones. Compared to his current Second Grade Alchemy Furnace, this was a divine artifact.

He nodded in quiet satisfaction. With this, he wouldn’t need to worry about upgrading his equipment until he reached the Golden Core realm.

The only slight disappointment was the lack of any sentient spiritual fluctuation. It hadn’t birthed an artifact spirit, not even a rudimentary one, which meant it had no potential to evolve into a true Dharma Treasure. But Chen Ping was a pragmatist; he knew that auxiliary Dharma Artifacts—especially Alchemy Furnaces and forging cauldrons—were exponentially harder to awaken than standard weapons or shields. If it had an artifact spirit, its value would have multiplied a thousandfold. He certainly didn’t expect his luck to stretch that far.

Standing nearby, Han Feiyu watched with a complexion like wet ash. This Alchemy Furnace symbolized the pinnacle of the Han family’s alchemical legacy. His heart twisted as if gripped by a vice. This should have been his birthright—the very foundation of his eventual rise to power. Now, he could only watch helplessly as it was claimed by a monster.

Chen Ping ignored the man’s silent agony. He stepped up to the furnace, sweeping the surrounding floor with his Divine Sense to ensure no lethal Restrictions lay hidden in the flagstones. Confirming it was safe, he extended a hand. True Essence surged from his palm, wrapping around the heavy bronze legs.

With a thought, the massive Alchemy Furnace vanished into his Jade Pendant.

Without its pulsing spiritual light, the room seemed to physically dim. Wasting no time, Chen Ping turned his attention to the tall medicine cabinets lining the walls.

He pulled open the heavy wooden doors, revealing hundreds of neatly stacked jade boxes. But the moment he cracked the first lid, the faint spiritual residue instantly evaporated into the stale air.

He peered inside. Archaeological tragedy. The pill had oxidized into a musty, gray-black powder.

He opened another. Just a crystalline husk.

Another. The contents had congealed into hardened, Qi-less stone pellets that crumbled to fine dust at his touch. Hundreds of years of isolation had been too much. The weight of lost history hung heavy in the air; time was always the most absolute destroyer.

Unwilling to leave empty-handed, Chen Ping thoroughly scanned the floorboards, the walls, and even probed the masonry for hidden compartments using his soul power. Nothing. Aside from the priceless Alchemy Furnace, the hall had been entirely ravaged by time.

“Limited harvest,” Chen Ping noted, his tone flat. He wasn’t particularly bitter. An elite Alchemy Furnace was better than walking away with nothing.

He turned on his heel and walked out, gesturing for Han Feiyu to lead them to the next chamber. The broken cultivator stared at the gutted room, a violent twitch in his jaw, before silently obeying.

Returning to the main hall, Chen Ping decided to sweep the complex systematically from left to right. The next stop was the Cultivation Chamber.

Situated at the end of a secluded passage, the heavy door yielded to reveal a room bathed in a soft, clinical white glow. Four fist-sized luminous pearls were embedded in the vaulted ceiling. The moment the seal broke, a tidal wave of pure, dense heaven and earth Qi washed over them, instantly refreshing Chen Ping’s mind.

The room was utterly spotless. A small, self-sustaining dust-removing Formation was still humming quietly in the corner.

But the true marvel dominated the floor. An impossibly complex Formation was carved directly into the bedrock, its sweeping lines composed of thousands of microscopic silver runes. In the dead center, the Qi was so dense it had physically manifested into a swirling, misty vortex.

Along the outer perimeter, dozens of shattered, gray-white Spirit Stones lay embedded in the grooves—their energy completely drained centuries ago. Yet, several tall Formation flags remained planted around the array, actively siphoning raw power directly from the subterranean spirit vein below to keep the system alive.

“A Fourth Grade Low-grade Spirit Gathering Formation.” Chen Ping recognized the intricate geometry immediately.

It was still running. It had spent the last several centuries parasitically draining the earth vein to maintain a Fourth Grade ambient Qi concentration inside this single room. If left undisturbed, it probably would have kept cannibalizing the mountain for another few hundred years.

The cost, however, was catastrophic. The foundational origin of the spirit vein had been mercilessly overdrawn. This was a classic case of draining the pond to catch the fish. A dying ancestor preparing for the end wouldn’t care about preserving the local ecology for future generations. It was a shame—what used to be a pristine Third Grade spirit vein was now too degraded to ever support a sect.

In the center of the misty vortex sat a meditation mat woven from pale golden Spirit Grass. It pulsed with a tranquil, soothing rhythm.

“A Third Grade High-grade meditation mat,” Han Feiyu muttered, his voice cracking. He had actually spoken aloud, his despair overriding his fear. Another ancestral treasure destined for his own use, snatched away.

Chen Ping nodded approvingly. While not as liquidly valuable as the Alchemy Furnace, a premium mat like this was invaluable for stabilizing the mind and accelerating meditation. It was perfect for personal use.

After scanning for booby traps, he carefully stowed the mat into his Jade Pendant.

Then, he eyed the sprawling Formation. The base was deeply integrated into the stone. Ripping it out forcefully would definitely damage the runes.

Chen Ping didn’t hesitate. Damage or not, I can always repair it later. A Fourth Grade Low-grade Spirit Gathering Formation was a priceless strategic asset. He deserved it.

Crouching down, he wrapped his True Essence around the ancient Formation flags and meticulously pried them loose. He then drove his energy under the stone plates, forcefully uprooting the entire array from the vein. Two of the flags snapped slightly during the violent extraction, but the core plate remained intact. It would still function.

He swept the dismantled array into his pendant.

Standing in the now-barren room, Chen Ping frowned. The Qi was already rapidly dissipating. He cast a cold glance around the empty space.

Where is the ancestor’s corpse? Perhaps Han Feiyu was telling the truth, and the remains were locked inside the core secret treasury. Keeping his expression neutral, Chen Ping gestured toward the door. It was time to keep moving.