Storm Brewing

Chen Minjing was more about action than words.

She adapted quickly, accustomed to proving her existence through work. It was as if labor defined her.

Before joining the sect, Chen Minjing was just an ordinary girl from Little Chen Village, with a name so perfunctory it barely counted. When impatient strangers shouted, “Little Girl!” or “You deaf, Little Girl?” she’d turn naturally, one of countless village “little girls,” as common as grass.

As the eldest, with five younger siblings, her parents put her to work early. Before dawn, she cut pig fodder, then cooked in the dark kitchen. After, she fed chickens, ducks, and filled the cow’s trough. When her parents rose, bleary-eyed, she served their breakfast.

As day broke, her sisters woke. She braided their hair, dressed the youngest, and hushed their noise to avoid angering the adults.

Feeding her youngest brother, the scent of rice porridge hit her empty stomach, her mouth dry with hunger. She longed to gulp the thin gruel, but it couldn’t fill the invisible, terrifying void in her body.

She knew there was a hollow within her, unseen but real.

When she came of age, her parents arranged her marriage. When villagers asked to borrow their ox for breeding, her father hesitated, fearing it would weaken the beast. But her betrothal was settled easily—over a few words, drinks, and flushed faces.

Teased, she stayed silent, cheeks red, head down. Everyone praised her maturity, saying her in-laws were lucky.

When immortals came to select disciples, she knelt before her parents, tears in her eyes. “I’m a country girl, scraping by in the dirt, no talent for immortality. But Father, you’re worn out, riddled with ailments. Mother, you never recovered from childbirth. I’ll beg the immortals—kneel a thousand times—for medicine.”

Her parents refused, not because of her betrothal. They wanted her to stay, working a few more years until the second sister grew up. Their refusal was just reluctance.

Chen Minjing understood, so she pressed, “But little brother still can’t speak. I’ll beg the immortals to heal him!”

She went to the sect’s selection. Before leaving, she kissed her sisters’ gaunt faces. Their tears felt uncomfortable; some whimpered “Sister.” She ignored them, stiff-necked, and followed the immortals.

On the journey, a familiar villager joined her—another “little girl.” Xu Wenqing, a boy she barely knew but admired, was suddenly kind. Knowledgeable, thoughtful, his words were like songs.

She’d only glimpsed him through his window while working, heart racing at the sight. Now, he was by her side.

She’d seen him read, reciting beautiful, incomprehensible sentences. Villagers called him scholarly, a gentleman. @Infinite Good Reads, Only at Jinjiang Literature City

To her, a gentleman was a good person. During the selection, she privately asked Xu Wenqing for a name—she didn’t want to be Chen Little Girl anymore. As a gentleman, cultured and refined, he could give her a unique name, hers alone.

She remembered his surprised, curious look, which embarrassed her.

But she got a new name.

In the Sword Sect, rumors swirled that cultivators couldn’t reincarnate. She didn’t care. One life without returning to that dark house was enough. She’d make it count.

The sect was a revelation—no more insults, full meals, warm clothes, and books, so many books she’d never seen!

Fearful, she worked harder to prove her worth. She cleared herb fields faster, earned more task points, and gained access to Wuya Pavilion’s library. Reading voraciously, she stumbled upon an inheritance, soaring to Qi Refining Layer 4.

Good fortune surrounded her—how was she so lucky? Immersed in fleeting happiness, she was intoxicated until she saw the gentleman she admired, Xu Wenqing, rot away.

She realized: perhaps he’d always been rotten, but her empty heart had mistaken him for good.

She awoke.

It was fine, she thought. She could discard him. Just one person—not hard.

But still…

…

Now, Su Qing taught Chen Minjing to pickle toppings. Wash fruits, wipe them dry with a soft cloth, then soak them in honey water. Prepared the night before, they’d be ready by morning, no fermentation or safety issues—just follow the steps. Simple.

Chen Minjing’s movements were stiff, her hands hesitant.

Su Qing noticed, asking, “Got a cut? Can’t get it wet? I’ll handle it.”

“No.” Chen Minjing pursed her lips, showing her hands. “My hands are too rough. The fruit’s skin is delicate—I might ruin it.”

Su Qing saw her hands.

They were rough, fingers thick, joints swollen from years of labor, calluses layered at the tips and palms, skin cracked with fine lines.

“Ugly, right?” Chen Minjing broke the silence.

Su Qing placed her own hands beside Chen Minjing’s. “Not at all. Look at mine—calluses galore.”

Her hands weren’t pretty either. Manqing Sword’s heavy, coarse handle had thickened her palm and finger calluses. Gripping too hard, her joints had widened, making her fingers seem longer.

But it didn’t matter. These were a sword cultivator’s hands, marked by effort, like Chen Minjing’s.

“I don’t think they’re ugly. Do you think mine are?” Su Qing said, half-troubled, half-proud. “They’re not great-looking, sure, but I worked hard for them. I love them. When I grip my sword, my calluses fit the handle perfectly—not too much, not too little. That’s when I feel my strength.”

She didn’t expect others to share her view, adding, “If it bothers you, buy peeling ointment from the Pill Hall. It’s cheap, works well—smooth, fragrant hands in a week.”

Per Tang Yueling, who loved beauty, her every finger was flawless.

Chen Minjing studied her hands, then Su Qing’s, and asked, “Can I hold your hand?”

Unsure why, Su Qing agreed cheerfully. “Sure.”

Chen Minjing tentatively placed her hand on Su Qing’s. The awkward contact felt odd, so Su Qing grabbed her hand, squeezed, and shook it.

Callus against callus—hard yet soft. Unused to physical contact, Chen Minjing shivered at the strange sensation.

But the warmth was real, not imagined.

Xu Wenqing was her illusion, but Su Qing wasn’t.

For a moment, Chen Minjing held her breath. Something warm welled in her eyes, filling the void in her heart with a sense of fullness, like satiety.

Su Qing said her hands held strength. Holding them, that strength seemed to flow into Chen Minjing’s.

“I need to think,” she said.

…

With Chen Minjing’s help, Su Qing could breathe. Though she refused pay, Su Qing planned to compensate her. Cultivators’ time was precious—Chen Minjing’s “free time” was surely carved out.

Not paying upfront let Chen Minjing feel at ease, Su Qing figured.

Oddly, her hiring notice drew no interest. Despite high wages and good conditions—far better than the spirit tea shop—no one applied.

Was her new shop seen as unstable?

Or was someone sabotaging her, like Manager Lin?

After a week, her shop’s revenue stabilized at about 1,000 cups daily. Spirit seeds poured in—she was literally counting money until her hands cramped.

She gained minor fame in the sect. “Su Qing” was still a nobody, but “Honey Spirit Tea” sparked recognition: *Oh, that tea shop girl! A food cultivator? Her drinks are great, but so crowded!*

She nearly lost her Body Sect identity.

She swore she hadn’t slacked on cultivation. In the shop, she alternated arms wearing her storage bracelet, pounding celestial fruit with a stone pestle until exhausted. Afternoons, she and Chen Minjing took shifts, serving customers while cycling qi, absorbing the shop’s dense qi from the 66 spirit-gathering arrays.

Even doing nothing there was beneficial.

Evenings, after prepping materials and cleaning, she dashed to the Sword Tomb to train, practicing until midnight before sleeping.

Eyes barely closed, she cycled qi a few rounds, waking at dawn to practice swordplay on the cliff, forging her blade with the morning’s potent purple qi. @Infinite Good Reads, Only at Jinjiang Literature City

Slacking for a moment dulled her hands, forcing a restart. The body was ruthless, honest—persistence was the only way. After two hours, at nearly 7 a.m., she raced back to open the shop.

Days like this left no time for rest, even meals squeezed in. Fearing muscle loss from poor eating, she guarded her hard-earned gains.

After another week, Tang Yueling gaped. “Dark circles? How, with cultivation? Let me see—yep, real!”

Tianning was blunter. “Darkened forehead, deathly face.”

Su Qing shot back, “When it comes to self-discipline, you’ve got no room to talk.”

“Hire someone,” Tang Yueling urged. “Or you’ll drop dead.”

“I can’t,” Su Qing sighed, rubbing her face. “Just a few students part-time. I’m stuck here all day. I’ll find reliable help off-mountain.”

Full-time hires were tricky. Sect students prioritized cultivation, ruling out full-time work. Other shops’ workers, often tied to employers’ clans, wouldn’t jump to a new shop.

Plus, her shop had drama.

Her suspicions about Lin were spot-on. After a week of sulking, the cunning man spread rumors that she stole his recipes to open her shop.

Su Qing shrugged off the petty slander, responding to queries with a blank face: “Evidence? Whoever accuses, proves.”

There was none.

Lin sent goons to storm her shop, demanding to search for “stolen recipes.” They couldn’t even enter—her shop was packed, and line-cutters faced senior students’ wrath. A glance from their aura was enough to terrify.

By their turn, the goons’ bravado wilted. Sect rules banned hiring cultivators as workers, and their strongest was only Qi Refining Layer 5. Su Qing and Chen Minjing tossed them out.

Undeterred, Lin’s shop mimicked Honey Spirit Tea’s recipes, refusing to lower prices, boasting superior ingredients. But shoddy execution flopped—few bought in.

As their revenue tanked, higher-ups were alerted, sending a senior manager to investigate. Su Qing, done with Lin’s antics, anonymously sent evidence of Lin Daniang’s corruption to the manager. @Infinite Good Reads, Only at Jinjiang Literature City

It hit Lin hard. He moped for days, and even after the senior manager left, he remained subdued. Still, he clung to his position, likely paying a steep price to appease the higher-up.

Winter arrived, not yet snowy but cold. For cultivators, it was negligible—single layers sufficed. Seasons blurred, but hot teas sold better. Su Qing launched new items.

Gradually, Honey Spirit Tea became a hub for sect students to gather and chat. The shop was always full, busy at all hours.

One day, Senior Sister Chen Xinghao from the Beast Sect arrived with others. Seated quietly, their conversation was hushed.

Serving their tea, Su Qing sensed a heavy atmosphere. Their faces were grave.

Something was coming.