Spirit Tea Shop

Waking up, Su Qing ached all over, her arms and legs feeling like they’d fallen apart. Last night, she’d recited the *Clear Mind Technique* to sleep, with the Red Rust Sword and Tianning still absent.

By morning, she was alone in the dorm. A habitual early riser, she reviewed sword forms mentally while washing and dressing.

Today was body refinement class.

Skipping breakfast before it would be suicide.

She rushed to the cafeteria.

Even early, it was crowded, most students hurrying, no one leisurely. Cultivation was busy, it seemed. An idea sparked, but with no time to act, she ate quickly and headed to class.

Body refinement, a core course, wasn’t like swordsmanship’s 2,000-student gathering. About 300 freshmen chose it, attending together.

Tang Yueling and Tianning had picked body refinement.

Su Qing didn’t get it. Body refinement suited resource-poor students—grueling, painful, and messy. Hardly a top choice for those with means.

If Tianning chose it due to breaking from the Qi Clan’s resources, what was Tang Yueling’s reason?

Her personality suggested she’d prefer easy wins, like her Tang cousins: Xueshan chose talisman cultivation, Qimei picked pill cultivation, and Shitao went for beast taming.

Their teacher was Lin Hebai, who’d advised Su Qing on courses.

Lean and wiry, Lin Hebai didn’t look like a formidable body cultivator, despite her slight frame.

After Qin Hao’s “thunderous” display, the freshmen were notably tamer, none daring to challenge Lin Hebai’s authority.

The class proceeded smoothly.

Lin Hebai said their primary task was conditioning their bodies. Only a strong foundation allowed proper body refinement. Some students—pale, unsteady, weaker than mortals—couldn’t hope to enter the Dao through their bodies.

The priority: eat well, drink well, exercise well.

Like Qin Hao, she issued a diet guide and daily training tasks via Lingpass. Su Qing checked: tasks split into strength and endurance, more like training athletes than cultivators.

The diet guide seemed reasonable—a balanced nutrition plan. Su Qing, believing progress came step-by-step, trusted Lin Hebai and planned to follow it.

Some disagreed. “This wastes time! A single Origin-Solidifying Pill could fix our physiques. Why rely on useless diet and exercise? It’s inefficient.”

Unlike Qin Hao, Lin Hebai taught only those who trusted her, wasting no words on others. “If you don’t believe me, train on your own. At semester’s end, I’ll assess everyone by one standard—pass or fail. Fair?”

Those students, confident in their clan’s teachings, scoffed at her lack of explanation, deeming her methods fit for mortals. “Just unorthodox nonsense,” they muttered, storming out after her polite dismissal. “Come back for the final exam.”

Su Qing was surprised by both teachers’ patience.

As Sword Sect instructors, they’d met graduation standards—likely Nascent Soul or higher. Yet they tolerated these Qi Refining “chicks,” not swatting them for insolence.

Lin Hebai continued, “Body refinement hinges on two words: refine and body. Without knowing your body, how can you refine it?”

Her words indirectly addressed the skeptics, but she had no interest in convincing privileged heirs who wouldn’t listen.

“A weak foundation shakes the earth. Never chase shortcuts or external aids. There are no shortcuts in cultivation—those you take become tougher roads and fiercer heart demons later. This is my hard-earned lesson.”

Su Qing believed her, quietly scheduling training tasks into her daily routine. But with work, her time was tight.

She decided to run between tasks—exercise on the go.

—

At the spiritual tea shop, Manager Lin was shrewd and stingy. He scheduled Su Qing from 1 to 5 p.m., no lunch or dinner included, saving two meals.

So, Monday through Wednesday, she’d follow Lin Hebai’s diet guide, eating more meat and vegetables at noon.

Body refinement started with understanding the body, and eating was the first key, followed by exercise and good sleep.

Maybe that’s why Sword Sect students loved food.

After lunch, Su Qing posted flyers on her dorm’s first-floor hallway. From Saturday to Wednesday (excluding her Thursday-Friday cafeteria shifts), she offered meal delivery for 1 spirit seed per order, with discounts for monthly subscriptions.

Student business was reliable—cultivators weren’t likely to scam. Her worry was demand.

With ten steady customers, two meals daily, she’d earn 400 seeds monthly—four spirit stones. Plus her four saved stones and seven from the tea shop, that’s fifteen monthly.

A 500-spirit-stone sword would take 2.7 years—nearly a year faster than 3.8.

Motivated, she washed her face and headed to the tea shop.

—

The “shop” was a three-story establishment with four main halls and twenty-eight private rooms, elegantly understated with meticulous details.

The first floor overlooked willows and a babbling river. The second showed Mirror Lake’s rippling green waves and bustling crowds. The third offered mountain vistas wreathed in clouds. Higher floors meant pricier rooms and rarer teas.

To practical Su Qing, the views were useless. She preferred watching students scramble with assignments.

Her first task: memorize the menu—daily specials, snacks, seasonal items, popular teas, and their flavors, all to be recited on demand.

Tasting the teas would’ve helped more than memorizing descriptions, but the cheapest signature tea, *Spring Breeze Nightless Wait*, cost two spirit stones a pot—unaffordable.

Manager Lin didn’t offer samples, instructing her to mark orders on the menu and relay them to the kitchen. Essentially a runner, she delivered messages and hustled.

It seemed simple, but the ornate sandalwood-and-jade menu made her dizzy.

She realized: *I can’t read.*

“What’re you standing there for?” Lin glared, sensing trouble. “What, you can’t read?”

“How could I not?” Post-college-entrance-exam Su Qing refused to be called illiterate. “I mostly can read!”

“Mostly? You either can or can’t!” Lin rolled up his sleeves, placing a bowl of tea-rinsing water on her table. Glancing at a dish of fennel beans, he said, “Test time. How do you write ‘fennel’?”

“…”

Anything else, she might’ve managed, but this?

Confidently, she dipped her finger in the tea water and wrote four versions of “fennel” on the table.

Thankfully, her exam prep hadn’t faded completely.

Lin, surprised, said, “Not bad. You’re pretty cultured.”

Cultured Su Qing sighed in relief, saving face for compulsory education.

She wasn’t entirely illiterate—guessing, she could recognize half the characters. But the tea shop’s menu was absurdly poetic, with convoluted names and dense strokes. Many teas differed by one character, tripping her up.

Like poverty, illiteracy was hard to hide.

Soon, she cracked.

“Xiangxue Pavilion, table one, one pot of Awakening Tea Elixir, six azure-carved white flower cups, rims scalded carefully with White Mist Jiameng, rinse with Red Mist Jiameng first, then Bud Tip Jiameng for balanced fragrance. The elixir needs three brews before serving…”

Awakening Tea Elixir, White Mist Jiameng, Red Mist Jiameng, Bud Tip Jiameng—Su Qing scoured the menu, swimming in strokes, lost.

She took too long, earning Lin’s skeptical glance.

Giving up, she closed the menu. “Fine, I can’t read.”

“I knew it!” Lin jumped triumphantly, pointing. “To the kitchen—cut potatoes. Sword practice is better for slicing spuds.”

Banished to the kitchen.

The shop’s front was grand, its service meticulous, but the kitchen was cramped, barely functional.

Two long tables filled one room, five or six people squeezed between, elbows bumping. Fine on slow days, but during rushes, it was chaos.

The kitchen linked to the tea hall for runners and the stove room for cooks. Windowless, it was dim, poorly ventilated. Tea aromas were pleasant but stifling over time, and heat from the stoves made it worse.

Su Qing, cutting potatoes, was shoved to a corner.

A scrawny apprentice dropped a sack of potatoes at her feet. “Here, your spuds. Peel, then shred—fine as possible, ideally floating on water. Makes it elegant, immortal-approved. Last guy cut them thick as fingers, pissed off my master. Got us both chewed out.”

Su Qing could cook and cut potato shreds, but fine enough to float? No way. She managed slightly-thinner-than-finger strips.

“You’re a Sword Sect student and can’t even do this? Worse than me,” the apprentice sighed. “Fine, peel them. I’ll shred.”

Su Qing grabbed a stool and knife, peeling obediently.

Humiliation.

Peeling wasn’t bad, but being sent here for illiteracy stung.

Despairing illiterate Su Qing peeled all afternoon, her fingerprints puckering, wrist and neck aching.

She thought: *I can’t stay illiterate. Running tables pays the same and is easier.*

Literacy was urgent. Did the Sword Sect have a literacy class?

She’d pay, but free was better.

By nearly 5 p.m., the sack was empty. Parched, she couldn’t easily leave for water or the bathroom. Helpers kept a jug for the afternoon, but theirs was low, and she felt too shy to ask.

Wiping sweat with her elbow, she planned to bring a cup tomorrow.

The apprentice squeezed through with two teapots. Young—eleven or twelve—small and nimble, he slipped past.

“Here.” He handed her a pot.

Su Qing took it, confused. “Hold it?”

“You’re not thirsty after all afternoon?” He gulped from his pot, throat gurgling.

Wiping spilled tea from his neck, he saw her hesitation. “What, too good for it? It’s leftover, but the spout’s clean—guests use cups.”

“It’s not that,” Su Qing said, shaking her head. “This is *Spring Breeze Nightless Wait*—two spirit stones a pot. Can we just drink spiritual tea?”

He didn’t blink. “Stick around, you’ll see. No one drinks leftovers. Immortals scorn it, mortals can’t absorb the spiritual qi—just makes them fart. Working in a tea shop, it’d be a shame not to sip.”

Su Qing almost asked if he didn’t fart.

Before she could, he deadpanned, “I can hold it in.”

Fair enough.

No point being polite—spiritual stuff was good stuff.

Mimicking him, she gulped the cool, clear tea, soothing her parched throat. Feeling no qi, she recited the *Clear Mind Technique* for effect.

Truthfully, the tea had little spiritual qi. At two spirit stones, minus labor, packaging, and hype, it cost maybe twenty or thirty seeds—basically flavored water for ambiance.

Yet Su Qing felt lighter, as if a tight knot in her body loosened, maybe psychological.

“Thanks,” she said. “Next time, I’ll treat you.”

He shrugged. “No need—my tongue’s picky. Leftovers go to waste otherwise.”

—

She found a literacy class.

Posting in the secondhand goods group, someone quickly replied with details.

The Sword Sect offered a literacy class—three sessions monthly, taught by sect-provided instructors with free materials. Just bring your brain.

Perfect, but nothing was flawless.

The catch: the teacher wasn’t human.