At dawn, mist curled over the lake like gauze.
The black-haired youth had just stuck his fishing rod into the bank when he lifted a large iron pot, tossing in a few bones and wild vegetables to prepare breakfast.
"Last night's fish was too bony, but the soup was fresh. Today I'll simmer another pot, and maybe bake some flatbread."
Humming a tune, he busied himself happily.
Suddenly, the lake surface hummed with vibration. Several spirit boats descended from the sky, crashing onto the shore and sending waves soaring.
From them stepped countless robed cultivators, radiant in light and formation.
At the forefront stood several famous holy land prodigies, their aura blazing like suns crossing the sky.
They dropped to one knee together, their voices shaking heaven and earth:
"Greetings to the ancient god!"
"We are willing to become your disciples, to serve at your side!"
"Please bestow upon us your divine words, grant us the Dao!"
…
The black-haired youth froze, still holding a ladle, his face full of confusion.
"You guys… what are you here for?"
The leading holy son answered respectfully: "We are willing to be disciples, to serve by your side, and beg the ancient god to guide us on the Dao!"
The youth blinked for a long moment before suddenly realizing:
"Ohhh—so you're here to mooch food!"
He chuckled, setting the ladle down and waving his hand: "Come on, why didn't you say so earlier? Forget this disciple business, I don't take apprentices. If you want to eat, sit down—the pot will be ready soon."
…
The holy sons were stunned.
Then, their hearts shook.
—The ancient god does not take disciples?!
What did that mean?
"We… are not worthy!"
"His gates cannot be entered lightly, his realm cannot be asked of lightly!"
Tears streamed from their eyes as they kowtowed harder, voices trembling: "Please, ancient god, grant us even one casual word—that alone would suffice!"
…
The black-haired youth scratched his head, stirred the pot, and muttered absentmindedly:
"Stir a few more times, or it'll stick."
The moment the words fell, the prodigies all trembled, eyes blazing.
"Did you hear?! The ancient god has spoken!"
"'Stir a few more times, or it'll stick'—this is divine truth! The supreme principle of cultivation!"
"Isn't this telling us that training requires repeated tempering, not rushing to succeed?!"
They were enlightened on the spot, their aura surging. Some even broke through realms instantly, roaring at the sky!
…
The black-haired youth nearly dropped his ladle in shock.
"Did you all take drugs? I was talking about stirring the pot, why are you screaming like pigs being slaughtered?"
Shaking his head, he scooped out a large bowl of broth and handed it casually to the holy son.
"Here, drink some. It's not good for your stomach to skip hot soup in the morning."
…
The holy son trembled like a leaf, tears filling his eyes.
"The ancient god… has bestowed upon me divine soup!"
He received it with both hands and drank in one gulp. At once, his face flushed red, thunder roared inside his body, and his cultivation surged a whole level!
"I… I've broken through!"
The crowd cried out:
"Heavens! That pot of broth… it's holy soup!"
"Cooked by the ancient god himself, it washes the marrow and breaks shackles!"
"This is supreme inheritance!"
In an instant, eyes reddened all around, as countless knelt and begged: "Ancient god! Please, let us drink the holy soup as well!"
…
Their noise made his ears ache, so the youth quickly scooped soup into stone bowls, passing them out.
"Alright, alright, don't push, don't crowd—one at a time, everyone gets some!"
His manner of distributing soup was like handing out dumplings during New Year.
But in their eyes, it was a divine feast of revelation.
Holding their bowls with tears streaming, they whispered shakily:
"To receive one bowl of holy soup from the ancient god—this life is complete!"
"This is his personal grace—this is the ultimate inheritance!"
…
More cultivators rushed in from afar.
The lakeside was soon packed wall to wall with kneeling figures, black and dense, shaking heaven with their voices.
"Ancient god, grant us holy soup!"
"Ancient god, accept disciples!"
The entire world trembled with their cries.
…
The black-haired youth sat on a rock with the last bowl of soup, frowning as he muttered:
"Weird… I just made soup, why are they acting like they've overdosed? Did I use too much seasoning?"
He took a sip, smacked his lips.
"Too salty. I'll use less salt next time."
…
That one line was instantly carved into countless hearts.
"Divine words! — Cultivation must not overindulge, but be restrained!"
"So profound! So great!"
People collapsed in worship, weeping endlessly.
…
The black-haired youth, however, stretched lazily, set the empty pot by the fire, and sighed:
"Well, full belly, time to go fishing."
Picking up his fishing rod, he walked toward the lake.
Behind him, billions of cultivators prostrated, their voices like tidal waves:
"Farewell, ancient god—may you fish in peace!"