The morning was mild. Thin fog crept between the houses, adhering to rooftops and stonewalls before disappearing beneath the warming sun. Yuhao strolled by himself, his diminutive basket draped over his back.
He dressed in simple attire—brown, worn, and unremarkable. His sleeves were rolled up at the elbows, showing slender but muscular arms. He kept his head down but not furtively so, eyes following each movement in his vicinity.
He walked as if he didn't count.
That was the idea.
He walked through the edge of the Heaven Dou Empire's adjacent market, a humble quarter with upright folks—traders, farmers, tailors, and herbalists. No sect disciples, no students of fame, and no cultivators showing off their prestige.
Just ordinary people.
He preferred it here.
---
His first destination was the herb vendor operated by a reserved old lady. She had sharp eyes but never asked questions. Yuhao had shopped from her twice before—both times with small quantities, never anything exceptional.
He provided a quick inclination of the head and chose mundane supplies: dried mint, relaxing root, and two pieces of sun-dried willow bark. All generic, all beneficial in controlling circulation of the blood and reducing tension on Yun'er's heart.
"Two copper coins," she spoke, already winding the bundle.
He provided exact change.
"No difference in your boy's voice today," she mentioned casually. "Sulky like a monk."
"Whatever is said is said," he retorted dryly.
She laughed once, and he departed.
---
Next, he visited a food stall—not the one in the center with the hanging pork or glistening spice-coated sausages. That would draw eyes. Instead, he approached a modest vendor near a side lane. The meat here wasn't as attractive—less marbled, more bone—but that suited his goals.
"I'll take half a kilo of this," he said, pointing to a lean cut.
"That's not a lot, young man."
"It's for soup."
The butcher wrapped it up in paper, bound it with twine, and handed it over. Yuhao paid with a silver coin and took the change, faking to count it with a confused expression.
A display of feigned ignorance.
He also bought dried beans, cracked wheat, and two bulbs of mountain garlic.
All fit into his basket tidily.
To anyone observing, he was a scrawny kid purchasing supper for an exhausted parent. Possibly a destitute aunt. Definitely not an heir or a rich merchant. Not something that could be stolen from.
---
He came back home without being tailed. He double-checked.
No tracks folded over his path. No out-of-ordinary noises. No death thoughts.
Upon entering, he shut the bolt and unloaded cautiously.
Yun'er sat beside the window, hand-embroidering a small piece of cloth. Her fingers were slow, but elegant. The sunlight highlighted the warmth in her hair.
"Did you find what you needed?" she asked.
He nodded and gave her the cloth bag with the herbs first.
She tested them each, nostrils flaring minutely as she drew in the odors. Her face eased. "These are clean. Not wet or stale. You chose well."
"I know," he replied.
She smiled palely, and that was all he needed.
---
That evening, Yuhao made the soup. He heated a ceramic bowl over a tiny flame, using clean wood and measured airflow. The meat stewed with beans and a minuscule sprinkle of medicinal roots—not enough to activate resistance, just enough to enhance absorption.
Yun'er sat across from him, a blanket over her knees.
"You're still keeping your strength under wraps," she said softly.
"I will until I don't have to."
"You'll be underestimated."
"I want that."
She accepted that. Not weakness, but intent.
---
Even before sundown, Yuhao sat down to meditate again, shirtless and barefoot, hands open to the waning light. The purple color of the evening sun was pale but still present. He funneled it into his lower dantian, stacking it atop what he had stored earlier in the week.
His system beeped.
> [Morning Purple Qi: Accumulated Layers – 9/100]
[Progress to First Internal Lightstep – 3.4%]
He ignored the low progress bar. It would rise.
It was all slow, steady, methodical.
And when he did make his move—toward Star Dou Forest, toward the Silkworm, toward true soul ring cultivation—he would be ready in ways no child of six had ever been.