My Years as a Menace in the Sect

On the day the culvert was blocked, Wei Ping'an squatted by the quarry, staring at the neatly stacked stones for almost half an incense stick's time.

The stones were stacked tightly, two large stones sandwiching a smaller one, perfectly aligned horizontally and vertically, even more neatly than the quilt he folded every day. After Deacon Sun and his men left, he even went around to the side and peeked through the gaps, but there wasn't even a small opening left for ventilation; it was completely sealed off.

He just squatted there, looking listless, like a groundhog whose burrow had been wiped out. Zhang Erpang, panting heavily, ran up from the mountain path and grabbed his arm: "Quick, quick! Run further away! They haven't gone far yet!"

"Why are you running away?" Wei Ping'an said without turning his head. "I've been working on this hole for half a month, and it's been filled in just like that. What's wrong with me standing here and mourning?"

Zhang Erpang was stunned: "Silence... silence?"

"My medicinal powder, my Bletilla striata root, my oil lamp that I smuggled from the kitchen," he counted on his fingers, "and half a jar of fire-controlling stone powder, all buried in there. It was filled in before I even used it for a month."

Zhang Erpang also worried: "What should we do? Deacon Sun is obviously targeting you."

"What do you mean, 'whatever, we'll just look for another one'?" He patted his butt and stood up. "He thinks he can shut me down by just plugging a hole? He underestimates me, Wei Ping'an."

Zhang Erpang's eyes widened: "You're going to continue? If Deacon Sun catches you red-handed, he'll definitely send you to the mines to dig for stones for three years!"

"Otherwise, what are we supposed to do? Honestly chop wood and earn five spirit stones a month? You can afford that, but I can't."

As he spoke, he walked down the mountain. After a few steps, he turned back and winked at Zhang Erpang, "By the way, if Deacon Sun asks, just say that I squatted in the corner and cried for a long time, and I was so scared that I never dared to do it again."

Of course he cried. He hid back in the drug testing room, bolted the door, slid down against the door, buried his face in his knees, and squatted quietly for a while. When he looked up, the corners of his eyes were indeed red, but he insisted to everyone that he had gotten sand in his throat while running. This matter cannot be left like this.

That night, he tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep. He stared at the dark ceiling, his mind filled with the pile of stones used to block the hole during the day. Steward Sun was using this as a warning, cutting off his source of income before slowly dealing with him.

After thinking for a long time without coming up with a perfect solution, I simply rolled over, and the pot on my back hit the bed board with a thud. My fingertips accidentally brushed against the new mark on the edge of the pot, and the texture was wrong. It didn't feel like a rough scratch from hitting a stone. The edge was very shallow and even, as if something was slowly bulging out from under the metal sheet. My fingertips felt a slight warmth when I touched it.

He paused for a moment, then sat up and touched it again. It wasn't his imagination; the area around the pattern was indeed a bit warmer than the rest of the pot. He simply sat up cross-legged, took the pot off his knees, placed it horizontally on his lap, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and guided the energy from his dantian to his palm, gently pressing it against the pattern on the pot's surface.

Nothing happened in the first breath; the iron pot remained ice-cold, just like always. Undeterred, he channeled another burst of energy into it. In the second breath, the surface of the pot beneath his palm slowly warmed. Suddenly, he felt a gentle tug on his energy, as if someone had lightly pulled on his energy channels with their fingertips—not severing or forcibly pulling, but simply guiding it back a short distance along his energy pathway. He abruptly opened his eyes and looked down. The pot was still that old, black iron pot, pitted and completely devoid of luster.

He rubbed the spot he had just pressed vigorously. Apart from the lingering warmth, it felt normal. He lay back down, staring at the ceiling, and started to ponder. If this pot could "swallow" and bring back the energy, could he transfer the scattered medicinal power from the waste pill residue into the pot when making pills? The thought grew rapidly, and he instantly became alert, almost sitting up to grab a handful of waste pill residue and try it out. But then he glanced at the pitch-black sky outside the window and forcibly restrained himself.

The next day, just as dawn broke, he didn't go to the front yard to test the medicine first. Instead, he took a detour to the east side of Danfeng. He originally wanted to ask Shen Qingyao if there was any secluded place he could temporarily borrow, but as soon as he got near the abandoned old medicine room, he saw a half-open wooden door and heard the sound of something being dragged inside.

He pushed open the door and peeked inside, then froze. Shen Qingyao was facing away from the door, dragging several dusty old iron racks out. A thin layer of dust clung to her ponytail, and the hem of her moon-white robe was filthy, covered in cobwebs. The place wasn't small; it was more than three times the size of the culvert. Although the floor was dusty and looked dilapidated, the ceiling was intact and didn't leak, and a half-open ventilation window in the corner let in dappled morning light. He stood at the door, momentarily speechless. He had been prepared to spend another ten days or so finding a new place, but Shen Qingyao had already found one for him.

Shen Qingyao glanced back at him and saw him standing in the doorway, not coming in: "What are you standing there for? Come in and lend a hand."

He quickly stepped over the threshold: "When did you find this place?"

The day before yesterday.

"You found it the day before yesterday? Why didn't you tell me sooner!"

"I already told you I wouldn't have dared to interrupt you while you were squatting in the quarry mourning."

She patted the dust off her hands, raised her chin, and gestured around. "Take a look and see if it's suitable." He looked around. Although the ground was covered with a thick layer of dust, it was flat, hard soil that wasn't damp. The herbs wouldn't get moldy. The ventilation window in the corner was hidden, and outside was the messy bushes on the back mountain. The two walls were solidly built with a single piece of stone.

"Perfect! Absolutely perfect!" He squatted down and tapped the dry ground. "Are you sure no one comes here? Will Steward Sun's people find their way here?" "The drying room has been abandoned for three years. It used to be used for drying raw medicine, but after Danfeng built the new south warehouse, this area was completely abandoned."

Steward Sun's power mainly resides in the miscellaneous services department and the medicinal cuisine kitchen; he can't extend his influence to the unused areas of the Danfeng headquarters.

He was completely relieved, dusted off his knees, and stood up: "Senior Sister Shen, you helped me find a place, prepared the medicine powder, and inquired about Deacon Sun's movements. Do you think I have potential and are planning to invest in me in advance?"

Shen Qingyao glanced at him: "I just feel that if you are kicked out, there will be no one in the drug testing hall to write such detailed records of the medicinal properties, and it will be too troublesome to find someone else to work with."

"So what do you think of me?"

"He has thick skin."

"Being thick-skinned is a skill in itself," he said confidently. "You just wait and see, I'm sure I can make the pills."

They got right to work. The two of them spent most of the day cleaning up, moving all the dusty old iron racks from the ground to the corner and stacking them neatly, making room in the middle. Wei Ping'an carefully placed the few packets of coarse powder he had snatched from the culvert and the remaining half-bag of Bletilla striata root on the shelf in the corner, and then solemnly took down the black pot and leaned it against the innermost wall.

I picked up a pebble and drew two crooked lines on the ground, one circle for "work station" and the other for "storage area," the lines looking like earthworms crawling.

Shen Qingyao watched for a while before leaving, leaving behind the words "Don't make it too messy." After the door closed, he stood in the middle of the empty room with his hands on his hips, looking at the lines he had drawn and the shelves he had set up, and chuckled for a long time.

I squatted down to take stock of my inventory: three and a half packets of coarse powder, a small bag of Bletilla striata root, half a can of fire-controlling stone powder, and three and a half finished pills. It's less than when the underground canal was at its peak, but everything is still there and I'm safe, so I'm not at a loss no matter how you look at it.

That afternoon, he accomplished two important tasks. First, he dismantled the old shelves and rebuilt them, piecing together three shelves: one for raw medicinal herbs, one for the millstone and shovel, and one for the finished pills. Second, he found a flat old wooden board and carefully wrote three characters on it with charcoal: "Ping An Tang" (Peaceful Hall).

After finishing writing it, I took two steps back, tilted my head, and looked at it for a long time, feeling more and more impressed. Having looked at it enough, I flipped it over and added a line of small print on the back: "Master Wei Ping'an, no credit, no returns." I chuckled to myself for a while after writing that.

That night, he didn't go back to the drug testing hall to sleep, but instead sat in the corner of the drying room on a pile of hay to meditate and practice his skills.

He placed the pot horizontally on his knees, calmed his mind, and slowly guided the Qi from his dantian to the surface of the pot. The first time, there was no reaction; the iron pot was ice-cold. The second time, he added a little force, and the surface of the pot warmed slightly. On the third time, he concentrated and steadily pushed a much more refined Qi towards the pot. The moment the Qi touched the pattern on the surface of the pot, the deep black pattern lit up very quickly, as if a dark light shone through and disappeared in a flash. A small wisp of his Qi was gently "swallowed" in, and after a couple of breaths, an even warmer stream of Qi flowed back from his palm, entered his meridians, and merged into his dantian. It was like a small sip of warm water sliding into his stomach, truly strengthening his Qi sensation.

He opened his eyes, stared at the pot for a long time, his heart pounding. It wasn't his imagination; this pot really could purify spiritual energy. He didn't tell anyone about it, not even Shen Qingyao, but silently made a mental note of it.

The next morning, just as he was about to open the door to find something to eat in the kitchen, the door was pushed open. Shen Qingyao stood in the doorway, carrying two things: a bulging small cloth bag and a thin, long piece of iron. She handed him the iron piece: "Here, use this. The old medicine spatula in the drying room is all rusted." He took it and weighed it in his hand; it was thin, easy to handle, and had smooth edges.

"Newly made?"

"It cost me three spirit stones to hire someone to do it. Remember to give me 20% when you sell pills in the future."

He opened his mouth, but since they had gone to such lengths to find a place and provide tools, he couldn't let them work for nothing: "Okay, we'll split it 20/80, you get 20% and I get 80%."

"Four six."

"Three-seven! No more than that!"

The two stared at each other for three breaths before he finally gave in and conceded with a long face: "...Fine, 46 it is. But you have to be responsible for testing the first batch of the new formula for me."

"Why am I the one to try it again?" "Because you're healthy and have a strong constitution, so nothing bad will happen to you." She glanced at him but didn't refute.

That evening, he squatted in the drying room and began to roll a new batch of pills. He mixed the powder of Bletilla striata root and the powder of fire-controlling stone in the prepared ratio, and after thinking for a moment, he added a small pinch of powder of ginseng rootlets.

He slowly ground the medicine with the new shovel, sifting it again and again. The perfectly round pills were then laid out on the windowsill to dry, the setting sun casting a faint sheen of oil on their surfaces. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes for a while, feeling much more at ease. For the first time since arriving at the Cangxia Sect, he felt a sense of "settling down."

Unbeknownst to him, a pair of eyes had been watching him from behind the bushes outside the window for a long time.

A disciple in a gray robe squatted in waist-high grass and peered through the crack in the ventilation window for almost half an hour. He clearly saw a row of pills on the windowsill and that the disciple had leaned the black pot against the wall.

Only after confirming he wasn't mistaken did he crouch down and slip silently down the hillside, cross the path next to the miscellaneous affairs office, and go around to the back courtyard of the deacon's office to knock on the door of Deacon Sun's duty room.

"Steward Sun, we've figured it out. He's moved."

"Where did it move to?"

"That abandoned old drying room on the east side of Danfeng." Deacon Sun paused on the paper, the ink spreading into a small dot, then slowly put down the pen, leaned back in his chair, and gently tapped the table with his fingers.

He folded the paper, stuffed it into the drawer, and locked it. His tone was calm but carried an air of certainty: "You don't need to follow them anymore these next few days. Just keep an eye on the entrance. Forcing your way into Danfeng's territory won't work; there are other ways."

The room fell silent again, save for the crackling of the flickering candlelight, and the night breeze made the windowpanes sway slightly. In the drying room, Wei Ping'an was still humming a little tune as he polished his medicine spatula, a new net slowly spreading out towards him.