The sun climbed higher as Jin checked his vegetable patch. The radishes he'd left yesterday had grown another inch overnight. Their leaves practically glowed in the morning light, saturated with spiritual energy he couldn't quite suppress.
He crouched beside them, examining the soil. Dark and rich, probably full of enough qi to make a Foundation Establishment cultivator's mouth water. He'd tried planting ordinary seeds. Tried mundane growing techniques.
The universe refused to cooperate.
"Could be worse," he muttered, brushing dirt from his hands. "At least they taste good."
A presence approached from the direction of the road—three presences, actually, moving at the unhurried pace of people with time to spare. Jin recognized the particular way spiritual energy moved through their meridians before he saw them.
He stood, turned, and found Feng Huang racing ahead of two other disciples. The boy's orange robes flapped behind him like wings.
"Big Brother Jin!" Feng Huang skidded to a stop, kicking up dust. "We came to help with the chickens! Are they here? Can I see them?"
Behind him, Zhi Ruo and Mei walked at a more dignified pace. Zhi Ruo carried a burlap sack. Mei had a bundle of what appeared to be bamboo poles under one arm.
"You already helped with the coop," Jin said. "The chickens are fine."
"But we brought supplies!" Feng Huang gestured dramatically at his companions. "Zhi Ruo has extra grain. Mei got bamboo for a better roosting bar. Elder Lian said we could spend the morning helping you get settled."
Jin glanced at Zhi Ruo, who shrugged.
"The Elder thinks you're a beneficial influence," Zhi Ruo said. "Something about learning the value of manual labor."
"More like learning to bother someone else for a few hours," Mei added. She dropped the bamboo poles near the coop. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing these legendary chickens."
"They're regular chickens."
"You say a lot of things are regular." Mei peered through the coop slats. "These look regular so far, I'll admit."
Feng Huang pressed his face against the wood. "Which one's the leader? Can you tell their personalities yet?"
"The rust-colored one's in charge." Jin walked to the coop door. "She's mean."
"Perfect!" Feng Huang beamed. "A fierce chicken protector for the fierce farmer who's secretly an immortal legend."
"I'm a farmer who farms."
"Right, right." Feng Huang winked with all the subtlety of a landslide. "A completely ordinary farmer whose radishes glow in moonlight."
Zhi Ruo set down his grain sack. "Do they actually glow?"
Jin pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sometimes."
"Outstanding." Mei grinned. "When Elder Qian asks how your farm is progressing, we can tell him your vegetables have achieved enlightenment."
The mention of Elder Qian reminded Jin of tomorrow's dinner. The cultivation world didn't easily release its grip on those who'd once walked its path.
"The Elder's excited to meet you," Zhi Ruo said, reading Jin's expression. "He's been preparing questions for three days."
"I don't have answers to cultivation questions anymore."
"He doesn't want cultivation answers." Zhi Ruo opened the grain sack, examining the contents. "He wants to understand why someone would walk away."
Feng Huang had moved to the vegetable patch, crouching beside the radishes with wide eyes. "Big Brother Jin, these are even bigger than yesterday!"
"They grow fast."
"They grow impossibly fast." Feng Huang reached toward a particularly large radish, then pulled his hand back. "Can I...?"
"Go ahead."
The boy touched the radish leaves gently, like greeting an old friend. His eyes widened further. "There's so much qi in these! How do you eat them without breaking through to the next cultivation stage?"
"I chew thoroughly."
Mei laughed—a short, sharp sound. "You're either the most wasteful cultivator in history or the most committed farmer."
"Just committed to farming." Jin watched Feng Huang examine each radish with reverent care. "The waste is unintentional."
Zhi Ruo poured grain into a small bowl, his movements precise. "My father used to say good tools make good work, but good intention makes good craft." He glanced at Jin. "You have good intention here."
"Your father sounds wise."
"He is." Zhi Ruo's expression clouded briefly. "Was. He still is. I just don't see him much."
An awkward silence settled. Mei filled it by testing the coop's door hinges, which creaked loudly.
"These need oil," she said. "I'll check your house. You have oil?"
"Above the stove."
She disappeared inside. Jin heard her rummaging through his limited supplies, occasionally making sounds of disapproval at his organizational system.
Feng Huang stood from the radishes, brushing dirt from his robes. "Can we feed the chickens the leftover grain? The normal grain, I mean. I don't know if feeding them spiritual grain would make them spiritual chickens."
"Might be interesting," Jin said. "But let's keep them ordinary for now."
"Everything you touch becomes extraordinary," Feng Huang said matter-of-factly. "But we can try."
Zhi Ruo scattered grain inside the coop. The hens converged immediately, their earlier hierarchy forgotten in favor of food competition. The rust-colored hen claimed the center spot again, eating with aggressive efficiency.
"She's definitely the leader," Zhi Ruo observed. "Look how the others defer to her space."
"Animals establish order quickly." Jin leaned against the fence post. "Simpler than people."
"People complicate things," Zhi Ruo agreed. "My sect siblings spent three months arguing about dormitory assignments. The chickens figured out their housing in three minutes."
Mei emerged from the house carrying a small clay jar. "Your kitchen is depressing. You own two bowls and one cup."
"I'm one person."
"What if you have guests?"
"I didn't plan on guests."
"Too bad." Mei knelt by the coop door, applying oil to the hinges with a rag. "You're popular now. Yesterday Lian Xiu spent an hour telling outer disciples about the mysterious farmer who makes spiritual vegetables on accident."
Jin closed his eyes briefly. "Perfect."
"She called you 'an enigma wrapped in humility.'" Mei worked the hinges back and forth, testing their movement. "Which is hilarious because you're about as subtle as Feng Huang."
"Hey!" Feng Huang protested.
"It's true and you know it."
The boy crossed his arms but couldn't quite hide his smile.
Zhi Ruo watched the chickens settle into their feeding routine. "Will you really keep farming? Even with the sects interested? Even with your vegetables causing spiritual phenomena?"
"Especially with those things." Jin studied his small plot of land—the crooked coop, the glowing vegetables, the simple house. "This matters more."
Feng Huang had been uncharacteristically quiet, processing this exchange. Now he spoke up, his voice smaller than usual. "Do you think someone can be happy without being powerful?"
Jin considered the question. The morning sun warmed his shoulders. The chickens clucked contentedly in their crooked coop. Mei worked the door hinges with methodical care. Zhi Ruo stood among the vegetables, his troubled expression softening slightly.
"I think someone can be powerful and miserable," Jin said. "Or ordinary and content. The correlation isn't what we're taught."
"The sects teach that strength brings freedom," Zhi Ruo said.
"Strength brings options. Freedom is what you choose to do with them." Jin pushed off from the fence post. "I chose this."
Mei finished with the hinges and stood, testing the door. It swung smoothly now, silent. "There. The chickens can come and go without waking you at dawn."
"Much appreciated."
She wiped her hands on her robes, leaving oil smudges. "You're really going to Elder Qian's dinner tomorrow?"
"Said I would."
"He'll probably spend three hours asking about your cultivation philosophy."
"Then I'll spend three hours explaining I don't have one anymore."
"He won't believe you," Zhi Ruo said. "Nobody who meets you believes you're really done with cultivation."
Jin smiled without humor. "Their disbelief doesn't change my choices."
Feng Huang perked up. "Can we come to the dinner? I want to see Elder Qian's face when you tell him farming is better than immortality."
"Absolutely not," Mei and Zhi Ruo said simultaneously.
The boy deflated. "Worth asking."
They spent the next hour making small improvements to the farm. Mei reinforced the coop's support posts. Zhi Ruo helped Jin plant a new row of vegetables—bok choy this time, though Jin suspected they'd end up just as spiritually saturated as everything else. Feng Huang appointed himself Chief Chicken Observer, narrating their behavior with enthusiastic detail.
"The white one's plotting something," he announced. "See how she keeps eyeing the rust leader's food?"
"That's just a chicken being a chicken," Mei said.
"Or a chicken cultivator preparing her challenge for sect dominance!"
"You spend too much time in the outer disciples' drama."
"There's no such thing as too much drama."
Zhi Ruo and Jin exchanged glances over the vegetable row. The older disciple's expression held something between amusement and melancholy.
"He reminds you of someone?" Zhi Ruo asked quietly.
"Several someones." Jin patted soil around a bok choy seedling. "I was that enthusiastic once. Long ago."
"What changed?"
"Time. Experience." Jin sat back on his heels. "The cultivation path rewards single-minded dedication. It punishes everything else."
"You sound like you regret it."
"I regret what it cost. I don't regret what I learned." Jin examined the neat row of seedlings. "The knowledge helped me understand what I actually wanted. Which wasn't more power."
Zhi Ruo was quiet for a moment. "My father wanted me to inherit his carpentry business. Said working with wood taught patience and precision—virtues worth more than qi manipulation."
"He was right."
"I told him cultivation would bring honor to our family. Give me opportunities he never had." Zhi Ruo's hands tightened on the trowel he held. "Now I'm an inner sect third rank, and I haven't visited home in eight months."
Jin didn't offer empty comfort. The ache in Zhi Ruo's voice was too genuine for platitudes.
"The path changes us," Jin said instead. "Sometimes into better versions of ourselves. Sometimes into strangers."
"Which one are you?"
"Still figuring it out." Jin stood, brushing dirt from his hands. "But I'm figuring it out here, growing glowing radishes and raising chickens. That's something."
Mei called from the coop, where she'd been adjusting the bamboo roosting bars. "These hens are settling in well. The rust one already claimed the highest perch."
"Of course she did," Feng Huang said. "She's establishing aerial superiority."
"She's a chicken."
"A strategic chicken!"
Their bickering continued as Jin and Zhi Ruo finished the planting. The sun reached its peak, casting short shadows. Jin's stomach reminded him he'd skipped breakfast.
"Stay for lunch?" he offered. "I have rice and vegetables."
"Spiritual vegetables?" Feng Huang asked hopefully.
"All my vegetables are spiritual. I've given up fighting it."
"Perfect! I'll help cook."
Mei and Zhi Ruo exchanged wary glances.
"Feng Huang's cooking skills are... experimental," Mei said diplomatically.
"I'm improving!"
"You set water on fire last month."
"That was one time, and it was the pot's fault."
Jin headed toward the house. "I'll supervise. Come on."
They filed inside, filling his small kitchen with noise and presence. Feng Huang immediately began examining Jin's meager supplies with the intensity of a treasure hunter. Mei pointed out various organizational improvements he could make. Zhi Ruo simply stood near the door, watching the organized chaos with quiet amusement.
Jin pulled rice from a jar and began measuring portions. This—the crowded kitchen, the friendly arguments, the simple task of preparing food—settled something in his chest.
"Big Brother Jin," Feng Huang asked, holding up a bundle of dried herbs, "what's this?"
"Mint. For tea."
"Can I make tea?"
"If you promise not to set it on fire."
"I make no guarantees, but I'll try very hard."
Mei sighed. "I'll watch him."
The afternoon unfolded simply. They cooked rice, steamed vegetables, and somehow didn't burn anything despite Feng Huang's enthusiastic participation. They ate sitting on Jin's small porch, bowls balanced on their laps, watching the chickens explore their new territory.
The rust-colored hen ventured farthest from the coop, pecking experimentally at various plants. The others followed her lead with varying degrees of confidence.
"They trust her completely," Zhi Ruo observed. "Even the white one who was challenging her earlier."
"Leadership isn't about being strongest," Jin said. "It's about being willing to go first into uncertain territory."
"Is that from your cultivation experience?"
"From watching chickens, mostly."
Feng Huang laughed, nearly dropping his rice bowl. Mei caught it reflexively.
"Careful," she said. "We don't need spiritual rice scattered everywhere attracting spiritual ants."
"Do spiritual ants exist?" Feng Huang asked, eyes wide.
"Let's not find out," Jin said firmly.
They finished eating in comfortable quiet, broken occasionally by observations about the chickens or questions about tomorrow's dinner. The sun began its descent, painting the sky orange and pink.
Eventually, the disciples had to leave. Sect curfew for outer disciples came early.
"Thank you for helping," Jin said as they gathered their things. "The coop improvements will matter when winter comes."
"Thank you for lunch," Zhi Ruo replied. "And the conversation."
Mei punched Jin's shoulder lightly. "Survive Elder Qian tomorrow. He means well, but he talks a lot."
"I've survived worse than talkative dinner companions."
"That's the spirit!" Feng Huang bounced on his toes. "Can we visit again? Maybe help with planting?"
Jin found himself nodding before thinking it through. "Sure. But bring your own bowls next time."
"I told you!" Mei crowed. "Two bowls isn't enough."
They headed down the path, Feng Huang chattering enthusiastically about their next visit, Mei and Zhi Ruo walking on either side like patient wardens. Jin watched until they disappeared beyond the first hill.
The farm seemed quieter without them. Jin checked on the chickens one final time—all six accounted for, the rust leader already roosting on the highest perch. He scattered evening grain, closed the coop door gently, and headed back to his house.
Tomorrow would bring Elder Qian's dinner and whatever questions came with it. But tonight was his—peaceful, ordinary, exactly what he'd chosen.
He sat on his porch steps as darkness gathered. Stars emerged one by one. The stream murmured its continuous song. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird called.
This life, he chose peace. Everything else was just details.