"Cultivation isn't just meditation. One cultivates the body. One cultivates the soul. And eventually — one cultivates the heart." He glanced at Mo Xuan. "Every choice you make is cultivation. Every decision made with no one there to guide you — that's cultivation."
His voice stayed calm, unhurried.
"You'll meet people who influence you. That, too, is a form of cultivation."
"You'll encounter things that challenge what you believe — that is another form of cultivation."
Han Long took another drink. "The important thing is not to spend your life regretting every choice you've made."
"So never think that only the hours you spend meditating are cultivation."
"Your whole journey is cultivation."
"Every experience is cultivation."
"Every choice — it all shapes who you become."
Mo Xuan's expression turned thoughtful.
Han Long looked at him directly. "And above everything else — never forget your original intention."
The words hung between them for several breaths.
Noticing Mo Xuan's thoughtful expression, Han Long leaned forward slightly. "So," he said, "is there anything about cultivation you need guidance on?"
Mo Xuan thought, then began asking questions. Han Long answered each one carefully — sometimes explaining, sometimes demonstrating, sometimes simply telling him to figure it out himself. The conversation stretched on for a long while.
Eventually, Han Long leaned back. Then, without warning: "Have you thought about the future?"
Mo Xuan looked at him. "The future?"
"Yes." Han Long met his eyes. "Suppose you meet my requirement. You reach the Soul King Realm. You become my disciple, officially. What then?"
"I'll go back and see my father," Mo Xuan said, without hesitation.
Han Long nodded — he'd expected nothing less. "And after you've seen your father. What next?"
Mo Xuan opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He'd never thought past that point. Every goal, every hardship, every hour of training had bent toward one destination: return home. He had never once asked what came after reaching it.
Han Long waited.
Mo Xuan finally spoke. "I..."
"I..." Mo Xuan hesitated, scratching his head, embarrassed. "At first, I wanted to become the wealthiest person in the world."
Han Long raised an eyebrow. "The wealthiest?"
Mo Xuan nodded. "I thought if I had enough money, I wouldn't have to worry about anything."
"I thought if I had enough money, I wouldn't have to worry about anything." He laughed quietly. "But that changed during my awakening ceremony. Also, someone once told me Heaven had given me a gift — and I shouldn't waste it." He looked down at his hands. "I didn't understand what he meant back then."
"But after everything I've experienced..."
His gaze moved toward the night sky. "I've heard stories about cultivation."
"People who can fly through the heavens."
"People who can travel thousands of kilometres."
"People who can understand the laws of the world."
He smiled faintly. "And the more I hear..."
"...the more I want to see how far I can go."
Han Long was silent for a moment before asking again. "What next?"
Mo Xuan fell silent.
Han Long waited.
A long moment passed. Mo Xuan looked toward the night sky, searching for an answer that wouldn't come. For so long, every thought, every training session, every hardship had pointed toward a single destination.
Home.
He had never allowed himself to think beyond it. For the first time, he realised he had been walking toward a destination without ever asking what he would do once he reached it.
"I don't know." His voice came out quiet.
Han Long smiled. "That's alright."
Mo Xuan looked at him.
"You don't need to know everything now."
"The path is long."
He lifted his wine gourd.
"Finding the answer — that's cultivation too."
Han Long reached into his sleeve and withdrew a small token. He tossed it toward Mo Xuan.
"Rest for five days."
Mo Xuan caught it and looked at the unfamiliar token.
"After that, take this to the Mission Hall."
The morning of the sixth day arrived pale and cool, mist still clinging to the sect's rooftops when Mo Xuan reached the Mission Hall. He cupped his hands in greeting before setting the token down on the worn wooden counter. The registrar, an elder with ink-stained fingers and a perpetually unimpressed expression, picked it up without a word and pressed it against the ledger. A soft chime rang out as the assignment registered itself.
Mission: Medicinal Field Guard Duty.
Duration: One year.
Contribution Reward: 80 Points.
He shook his head, thinking that his unreliable master really didn't intend to let him stay idle for even a moment.
The elder's voice broke through his thoughts as he slid the token back across the counter. "The eastern cultivation grounds. Report to Elder Zhao."
"Thank you, Elder." Mo Xuan cupped his hands again, tucked the token away, and turned toward the door.
Outside, the sect's morning bustle gradually gave way to quiet as he made his way east. The Azure Cloud Spirit Herb Fields lay far from the towering sword peaks, where the clash of blades and the shouts of sparring disciples echoed from dawn until dusk. Here, there was only stillness — the kind that seemed to seep into the ground itself.
Rows of spirit herbs stretched across the valley in neat, deliberate lines. Some grew beneath formations humming faintly with restrained energy; others clustered along the banks of narrow streams that carried diluted Spiritual Energy down from the surrounding peaks. Scattered among the fields stood a handful of wooden buildings — storage houses, examination rooms, and modest quarters for the disciples who called this place home for however long their assignments lasted.
Mo Xuan stopped at the edge of the valley and understood, almost instantly, why this mission demanded an entire year. This was not a field. It was a small kingdom of its own, sprawling across several hills, each one cultivated for a different purpose. Some slopes were left open to catch the full weight of the sun; others were shadowed deliberately, kept cool and damp. Some herbs clung to the edges of streams, desperate for water, while others thrived only where Spiritual Energy pooled thick and heavy in the air.
A faint medicinal fragrance drifted past him, carried on the breeze — bitter herbs and sweet ones, tangled together.
"One year..." he murmured, exhaling slowly.
A middle-aged man in plain robes approached from between two rows of waist-high herbs, his steps unhurried, his eyes already appraising the newcomer. "You must be the disciple sent by the Mission Hall."
Mo Xuan turned to face him. "Yes."
The man held out a hand, and Mo Xuan passed over his token without hesitation. The man studied it briefly, his brows lifting just slightly. "Mo Xuan?" He said before handing the token back. "I'm Elder Zhao," he pointed toward the fields. "I oversee this area."
Mo Xuan cupped his hands. "Elder Zhao."
The elder gave a short nod, already turning to gesture at the fields sprawled behind him. "You'll be replacing another disciple whose term has ended." He paused, studying Mo Xuan for a moment longer than necessary; he continued. "Your duties are simple enough, on the surface."
He began ticking through them, his tone brisk and practised, the words clearly recited more times than he could count. "Inspect the fields every morning. Report any abnormalities you find — no matter how small they seem. Keep Spirit Beasts away from the medicinal fields; they wander in more often than you'd expect, drawn by the energy the herbs give off." His expression sharpened, the casual air draining from his voice. "And if someone attempts to steal the herbs..." He let the pause stretch just long enough for the point to land. "Stop them. By whatever means necessary."
"Understood," Mo Xuan said, nodding.
Elder Zhao reached into his sleeve and produced a wooden tablet, pressing it into Mo Xuan's hands. "Your daily schedule is recorded there."
Mo Xuan glanced down at the tablet, surprised by just how much detail had been etched into its surface — hourly inspections, formation checks, seasonal notes, even instructions for handling specific plants during specific weather. It was, he had to admit, more thorough than he'd expected from what he'd assumed would be a simple watch-duty post.
Alongside the tablet, Elder Zhao handed him a second token, this one containing information about his assigned residence and instructions for operating the protective formations scattered throughout the fields. "Everything you need is in there. If you have questions once you've settled in, ask one of the senior disciples."
With that, and without much more ceremony, Elder Zhao turned and strode off toward the far hills, leaving Mo Xuan standing alone at the edge of the valley. He looked out across the endless rows of herbs stretching toward the horizon, then down at the wooden tablet still resting in his palm, its carved characters catching the morning light.
"One year…" He sighed again.
His first few weeks passed uneventfully, and within days Mo Xuan had settled into a routine that felt, if not comfortable, at least manageable. Every morning he walked the length of the fields, checking the condition of the herbs row by row and inspecting the protective formations for any flicker of instability. Whenever something caught his attention — a wilting leaf, a formation running slightly out of sync — he noted it carefully on his wooden tablet before reporting it to Elder Zhao without delay.
At night, once the fields had gone quiet and the last of the field workers had retired, he returned to his small residence and cultivated, letting the day's fatigue dissolve into the slow circulation of Spiritual Energy through his meridians.