Xuhen's hands tightened slightly around the worn edges of the wooden box as he approached the counter, the faint shimmer of the system's prompt still lingering in his mind like an afterimage burned into his vision.
He placed the box down gently.
"Uncle Wen," he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "What's this herb?"
Wen looked up from behind the counter where he was sorting a basket of dried roots. His grizzled brows furrowed when he saw what Xuhen was holding.
"That thing?" he muttered, wiping his hands on a rag and walking over. "Didn't think I'd see that box opened again."
With a grunt, he flipped the lid open, revealing the wilted herb inside. Its withered leaves curled at the edges, veins faintly greenish beneath the dried surface. The stem was brittle-looking, a thin crack running halfway up its length like an old scar.
"Ghostroot," Wen said finally, voice tinged with something between memory and disappointment. "At least, that's what the folks in Linjing City called it."
"Linjing City?" Xuhen echoed, his heart giving a small jolt at the name.
Wen nodded. "A proper city, two days east by the old trade road. Got big markets, guards who train day and night, even martial artists with real strength. Years ago, I bought this herb from a wandering peddler—claimed it was once used by martial artists for tempering their bodies or some such thing. Thought I'd make a good profit reselling it."
He let out a short, humorless chuckle.
"Took it all the way to Linjing myself. Spent three days asking around—showed it to an apothecary, then to one of the martial sects there. All of them said the same thing. Useless in its state. Too damaged, too dried up. Wouldn't take it, not even for a few copper coins."
"What about the village chief?" Xuhen asked, pressing on. "He's a martial artist too, isn't he?" He had learned it from the memories of old Xuhen.
"Aye," Wen said, scratching his beard absently. "Innate Realm, they say. Strong enough to kill a boar with one palm. I showed it to him too, back when I still had hope for this old root. Said it had once held power—but now it's little more than a dried husk."
Xuhen's fingers hovered near the edge of the box. "Power… from Ether?"
Wen shrugged. "So they say. I've never felt it myself, but martial artists rely on strange things. Breathing techniques, inner force, special herbs. It's all a mystery to folk like us."
He paused, then added, "Supposedly, it goes like this—first there's the Mortal Realm, where people live ordinary lives, same as you and me. Then the Innate Realm, where the body changes, toughens. Some say they can sense danger, heal fast, or punch through trees. After that comes the Martial Master Realm, where the real monsters are made. But I've never seen one of them up close."
Xuhen nodded slowly, pretending to ponder. In truth, his mind was racing. Even a damaged herb could still hold Ether—at least enough for the system to detect.
"Would you sell it to me?" he asked.
Wen blinked. "Sell it?"
"I'm curious," Xuhen said smoothly. "Might not be worth anything to a martial artist, but maybe I can use it for medicine. Or trade it later."
He reached into his pouch and pulled out the dull silver coin. It glinted faintly in the dusty light.
"It's all I've got."
Wen stared at the coin, then at the boy. "You sure? This old root might be some mystical thing but you have no use of it. You aren't a martial artist, are you?"
"I'm sure."
Wen grunted. "Well, I suppose it's better than letting it rot on the shelf. Deal."
Xuhen smiled faintly and carefully closed the box. "Thanks, Uncle Wen."
Wen leaned over the counter, squinting. "You're acting different lately. Less sulking, more... questions."
Xuhen shrugged. "Just trying to learn more." A bit alarmed at the fact that he had noticed the change n his demeanor but it wasn't really a problem since he had no relatives and no one really had a close relation with his predecessor.
"Well, don't go making tea outta that thing. It might do more harm than good." Wen warned for the last time and got back to his work.
With a final nod, Xuhen turned and left the shop. The morning was warming now—the sky clear, the village alive with motion. A passing cart rumbled by, pulled by a tired ox. A woman swept her front steps with a bundle of twigs, and a few shirtless boys splashed around a mud puddle like ducklings.
He made his way toward the village well. The old stone structure sat under a simple wooden canopy. Several villagers stood nearby chatting, their bamboo hats casting long shadows on the packed earth. He waited patiently for his turn, then hauled up a full bucket and filled his clay pot.
As he walked back along the muddy path, the pouch at his side felt heavier somehow—not just from the wooden box, but from the possibilities within it. He could have absorbed the Ether already, right there in the shop, but that would have risked damaging the herb. It would have drawn questions which he didn't like.
No—better to wait. Better to learn first.
He quickened his steps, heart already beating faster.
The Ghostroot might be damaged. But through it, he would uncover the first real truth of this strange system that he had gotten.
End Of Chapter