"Sell the spirit fields." "No." "You cannot be serious." The old cultivator looked at him as if he had just thrown away his last chance at survival. "With your roots? With your talent? You think growing rice will lead you to immortality?" He said nothing. Because the old man was right. Weak mixed roots. No master. No clan. No hidden bloodline. No glorious destiny waiting to descend from the heavens. All he had were two neglected spirit fields, a basic cultivation technique, and a rain spell so ordinary most disciples would be ashamed to practice it. Then the panel awakened. [Minor Cloud-Rain Technique: Entry] One spell became a harvest. One harvest became spirit stones. Spirit stones became pills, talismans, sword arts, body refining, and better techniques. Every drop of rain made the numbers rise. Every failed talisman taught his hands to move cleaner. Every ruined pill brought him closer to success. Every ordinary skill had a limit. And he could break limits. The cultivation world worshipped talent. Heavenly roots. Ancient legacies. Sudden enlightenment. Lucky encounters. Young geniuses who burned bright and vanished just as fast. He trusted something quieter. Repetition. Practice the spell. Refine the pill. Draw the talisman. Swing the sword. Harvest the rice. Again. And again. And again. By the time the sect finally noticed the quiet farmer at the edge of the market, his weak foundation was no longer weak. His spells were too precise. His pills were too pure. His talismans were too fast. His cultivation was too steady. And his path was only beginning. They thought he was wasting his life in the fields. They never realized the fields were where he was building immortality. The cultivation world was filled with geniuses. He intended to outlast every single one of them.
