My Portable Spirit Farm: Rise of the Humble Servant

Three days later, dawn broke over the mountain plaza. A biting wind howled across the stone, but the cold did nothing to dampen the feverish excitement of the gathered disciples.

Dozens stood in formation, mostly at the 2nd or 3rd Level of Qi Condensation. Their eyes were bright with greed.

For a lowly Registered Disciple, this mission was a rare feast of Contribution Points.

Chen Ping stood at the back, wrapped in a plain grey robe, looking every bit the weakling he pretended to be. He kept his aura suppressed to a trembling, unstable 1st Level.

Above them, a Foundation Establishment elder hovered atop a flying sword, his face as cold and distant as a statue.

With a negligent wave of his sleeve, streaks of grey light rained down.

Chen Ping caught one. It was a low-grade storage pouch stamped with the Qingyun Sect seal.

“The Spirit Medicine Valley will remain open for seven days,” the elder announced, his voice amplified by Qi to reach every ear clearly.

“This pouch has a Restriction. Fill it with spirit herbs worth fifty Contribution Points to earn your exit. Anything beyond that quota is yours to keep or exchange for bonus rewards.”

A ripple of excitement moved through the crowd. Fifty points was nothing. A diligent disciple could fill that quota in three days. The remaining four days were pure profit.

“One warning,” the elder added, his tone sharpening like a blade. “Do not be clever. The herbs in the valley carry a unique aura. If you try to smuggle them in your personal pouches to evade the tax, you will be caught. And you will regret it.”

“Form ranks! Enter the array!”

The plaza floor lit up with complex geometric lines.

Chen Ping clutched his pouch, his face a mask of dull obedience. But underneath the skin, his Divine Sense—now spanning a terrifying 200 meters—swept the crowd like an invisible net.

He saw them immediately.

A short, stocky man with eyes like a viper. Li Yingyong, the Manager of Servant Peak, standing at the 4th Level.

Flanking him were two lackeys, both at the 3rd Level. Their eyes kept flicking toward Chen Ping, communicating with silent, knowing nods.

And there, hiding under a black veil hat, was a familiar, mountainous shape. Fatty Wang.

Li Yingyong had pulled strings to smuggle a Mortal into the mission.

So, the whole gang is here, Chen Ping thought, a cold calm settling over him. Good. It saves me the trouble of hunting you down one by one.

He felt another gaze.

The team leader, a weathered Outer Disciple named Sun Qian. He was looking at Chen Ping with a predatory smirk, the kind a butcher gives a lamb.

Him too? Li Yingyong was thorough.

A blue pillar of light erupted from the array, swallowing the world.

The vertigo passed instantly.

Chen Ping opened his eyes to a wall of suffocating green. The air was thick with vitality and the sweet, heavy scent of medicinal plants. Ancient trees blocked out the sky, their roots twisting through soil rich with spiritual energy.

“Stay close!” Sun Qian barked. “This isn’t a nursery. There are beasts in these woods. You wander off, you die alone.”

The group moved forward. Chen Ping deliberately lagged behind.

He watched Li Yingyong and his two goons break away, heading deep into the forest. They didn’t look back. They were confident the trap was set.

Sun Qian, meanwhile, was leading the main group east, but he kept subtly steering Chen Ping toward the edge of the formation.

After an Incense Stick’s Time, they reached a clearing by a stream.

“Alright, we split up here,” Sun Qian announced. “Two-man teams. Return before sunset or get left behind.”

He started pairing people off. When he got to Chen Ping, he grinned, revealing yellowed teeth.

“Junior Brother Chen, right? I heard you were recommended. Since your cultivation is… lacking, stick with me. I’ll make sure you don’t get eaten.”

Chen Ping looked at the man’s fake smile and nodded. “Thank you, Senior Brother.”

They walked upstream.

One hundred meters. Two hundred meters. The sounds of the other disciples faded into the ambient noise of the forest.

The stream curved into a secluded hollow, shielded by dense ferns.

Sun Qian stopped.

He turned slowly. The mask of the helpful senior brother dissolved, replaced by a sneer of naked greed.

“Alright, kid.”

Sun Qian’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Hand over the treasure. Li Yingyong doesn’t recommend trash unless that trash is sitting on gold. Give it up, and I’ll make it quick. You can stay here and fertilize the herbs. It’s a good burial spot.”

Chen Ping didn’t flinch. He didn’t beg. He just stood there, his hands hanging loosely by his sides.

“You seem very confident, Senior Brother.”

Sun Qian blinked, surprised by the lack of fear. Then he laughed viciously.

“Arrogant little—”

His hand blurred.

Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!

Three black streaks shot from his sleeve—bone-nails dipped in venom, aimed at Chen Ping’s eyes, throat, and heart.

Simultaneously, Sun Qian’s left hand formed a seal. A short, shimmering blade whipped from his belt, circling wide to slice at the back of Chen Ping’s neck.

A pincer attack. Lethal, dirty, and fast.

But Chen Ping was faster.

He didn’t panic. He simply tipped backward, his body bending with the unnatural grace of a willow branch. The three nails hissed through the space where his head had been a microsecond before.

As he flipped, he flicked a single finger behind him.

CLANG!

A streak of cyan light erupted from his sleeve.

The Green Edge Sword intercepted Sun Qian’s sneaking blade mid-air, smashing it aside with a violence that sent it spinning into a tree trunk.

Sun Qian’s grin froze.

His eyes bulged as he processed the speed. The precision.

“You—”

Chen Ping landed on his feet. The mask of the terrified servant was gone. In its place was the face of a killer.

He slashed his finger forward.

“Die.”

The Green Edge Sword screamed.

It accelerated instantly, turning into a blur of cyan lightning. It moved twice as fast as Sun Qian’s weapon.

Sun Qian shrieked, panic flooding his veins. He frantically pumped Qi into a defensive spell. A thick, yellow earth-shield materialized in front of his chest.

PFFT.

The sound was wet and anticlimactic.

The Green Edge Sword punched through the earth shield like a needle through wet paper. It didn’t even slow down as it drove through Sun Qian’s heart and exploded out his back in a spray of red mist.

Sun Qian looked down at the hole in his chest. He tried to speak, but only blood bubbled from his lips.

He collapsed backward, his eyes wide and staring at nothing.

From start to finish: three breaths.

Chen Ping flicked his finger. The Green Edge Sword flew back to his hand, humming softly. Not a drop of blood stained the metal.

He walked over to the corpse and crouched down. His face was devoid of emotion as he began to loot the body with the efficiency of a butcher.

Spirit stones. A low-grade storage pouch. A bottle of healing pills.

He took it all, ignoring the sect-issued herb bag.

Killing a fellow disciple was necessary. But leaving evidence was amateur.