I teleported to the Core Region, the familiar rush of spatial displacement settling as I materialized in my palace's grand library. The towering shelves held thousands of knowledge crystals, but the real treasure resided in my mind. Jihasti's memories contained millions of years of accumulated expertise across every cultivation craft imaginable.
Time to begin learning about cultivator crafts.
I settled into a meditation posture and sifted through Jihasti's memories, searching for the perfect starting point. When anyone thinks about cultivation novels, the first thing that comes to mind is Alchemy, the mystical art of pill concocting. Images of bubbling cauldrons and miraculous elixirs filled popular imagination, and the practical applications were undeniable. Pills could accelerate cultivation, heal injuries, even extend lifespan.
The memories confirmed Jihasti had been a master alchemist. I could see the broad strokes of his expertise, the general categories of pills he'd created, the reputation he'd built across multiple star systems. Foundation pills, breakthrough pills, healing elixirs, even tribulation resistance concoctions. The scope was staggering.
But after deciding on my first recipe, I tried to delve into Jihasti's experience with crafting that recipe, and that's when the memory felt fuzzy, like I was trying to navigate through a thick fog. I just couldn't see his memories encompassing his vast experience.
I pushed harder, reaching for the specific techniques he'd used to refine the pills. The knowledge should have been right there, crystal clear like everything else I'd absorbed. Instead, I encountered resistance, as if invisible barriers separated me from the practical expertise I needed.
What's up with that?
The answer came from the Heavenly Dao. Understanding bloomed across my thoughts, and with it came a dawning realization of just how precarious my situation had been.
The memories I'd absorbed weren't truly mine. Not yet.
The Heavenly Dao conveyed images, concepts that painted the full picture. When Jihasti's divine soul had attempted possession, his entire existence had tried to pour into me. Millions of years of experiences, countless techniques mastered across dozens of cultivation crafts, relationships spanning star systems, battles that reshaped planets. An ocean of information trying to force itself into a teacup.
I should have died. Or worse.
The Heavenly Dao showed me what normally happened when a mortal consciousness encountered a divine soul. The weaker mind simply shattered, fragmenting into madness as it tried to contain something far beyond its capacity.
I'd been saved by the world bead itself.
In that critical moment when Jihasti's memories flooded into me, the Heavenly Dao had acted.
By deciding to recognize me as the master, it essentially merged its essence with mine. From that connection, it both gained access to all my and Jihasti's absorbed memories. It then erected seals throughout the absorbed knowledge, creating barriers that prevented the full weight of a god's existence from crushing my mortal soul.
What I now had access to was essentially an index, an outline of Jihasti's vast experience without the overwhelming details.
I could see the timeline of his life, recognize the broad strokes of what he'd learned and accomplished. I knew he'd been a master alchemist, a formation expert, a skilled talisman creator. I could access general knowledge about cultivation realms and cosmic geography. But the specific techniques, the intricate details that made up true mastery? Those remained locked behind seals.
The Heavenly Dao sent another pulse of meaning. The seals weren't permanent. They'd gradually dissolve as my cultivation advanced, releasing information only when I reached a level capable of utilizing it properly. The knowledge would unseal in stages, matching my personal growth.
Right now, most of the alchemy knowledge remained inaccessible because proper pill concoction required at minimum the Meridian Opening Realm. Without meridians to circulate and refine vital energy through my body, without a core to store and refine that energy, I simply lacked the fundamental tools necessary for the craft. Giving me those techniques now would be like handing architectural blueprints to someone who'd never held a hammer.
I leaned back against the crystal shelf, processing this revelation. Part of me felt frustrated at the limitation, but a larger part recognized the wisdom in it. The Heavenly Dao had quite literally saved my life and sanity.
'Thank you,' I projected toward the consciousness of the world bead.
A warm pulse of acknowledgment rippled through my awareness. The Heavenly Dao didn't communicate in words, but I felt its satisfaction at my understanding.
The Heavenly Dao shifted my attention, guiding my thoughts toward a different section of Jihasti's memories. Not the grand art of Alchemy with its mystical cauldrons and precise vital energy manipulation, but something far more humble.
Herbalism.
I followed the mental thread and found the knowledge flowing freely, unrestricted by any seals. The information settled into my mind with surprising ease, and I immediately understood why. This wasn't the sophisticated craft practiced by cultivators. This was primitive medicine, the kind of remedies that predated proper cultivation techniques by thousands of years.
In most civilizations across the cosmos, Herbalism belonged to tribal witchdoctors and village healers. People who lacked the talent or resources for true cultivation but still needed to treat injuries and illnesses. The methods were straightforward. Combine herbs, apply heat from an ordinary fire, and let the natural spiritual energy within the plants do the work. No meridians required. No core formation necessary. Just knowledge, patience, and the right ingredients.
The recipes ranged from basic to moderately useful. Salves that accelerated skin healing by harnessing the vitality of certain spiritual plants. Poultices that reduced inflammation and numbed pain. Tinctures that fought infection or settled upset stomachs. Most of it mirrored what Earth's medical science could already accomplish through chemistry and pharmaceuticals.
The critical difference? Spiritual herbs.
Even the most basic spiritual plant contained energies that Earth's vegetation simply lacked. A simple Spirit Moss growing in the Eastern Region held more healing potential than the most advanced antibiotics. The Foundation Building Pill recipe caught my attention immediately.
I pulled the knowledge forward, examining it carefully. Six pills taken over six days. Each pill contained a blend of common spiritual herbs that worked together to rebuild a cultivator's foundation from the ground up. It targeted people with low aptitude or those who started cultivation too late in life, when their bodies had already begun aging past optimal conditions.
My parents.
The recipe wasn't complicated. Simmer the herbs in a heated container over a 200-degree flame. No vital energy circulation required from the crafter. The herbs themselves provided all the necessary power. What I found most interesting was that the mixture formed into pills automatically as it cooled, the spiritual energy in the herbs shaping them without any intervention.
I stood, purpose crystallizing in my mind. This I could do right now.
I reached out to the Heavenly Dao, projecting my need for the specific herbs. The world bead's consciousness responded immediately, highlighting locations across the various continents where the required plants grew in abundance.
The first teleport brought me to a misty valley in what I'd mentally designated as the Northern Region. Silverleaf carpeted the ground in thick patches, their pale surfaces gleaming in the filtered sunlight. I knelt and harvested several dozen plants, selecting only those at exactly three months of age. The leaves had just completed their transformation from green to silver, their edges crisp and perfectly formed. The Heavenly Dao guided my selections, ensuring I picked the optimal specimens.
Next came the Eastern Region's mountain ranges. I materialized at a peak just as dawn broke, the sun's first rays painting the rocks gold. Dawnroot grew in clusters between boulders, their gnarled forms twisted by constant exposure to spiritual energy. I dug carefully, extracting the roots at the precise moment when sunrise peaked. The timing mattered. Too early or too late and the spiritual energy concentration would be wrong.
The final ingredient required altitude. I teleported to the Western Region's highest peaks, materializing above the cloud line where oxygen grew thin. Cloudmoss clung to exposed rock faces, its fibrous structure absorbing atmospheric energy. I gathered handfuls, the moss coming away easily under my enhanced strength.
Within minutes, I'd collected enough ingredients for hundreds of pills. The world bead's relatively low level didn't matter. These were common herbs, abundant across every continent. Higher level spiritual plants would be scarce, but for Foundation Building Pills? I could probably harvest enough to supply thousands of people.
I teleported back to my San Jose apartment, materializing in the cramped kitchen. The familiar space felt even smaller now, the cabinets and countertops seeming almost toy-like compared to the vast landscapes I'd just traversed. I set the herbs on the counter and began pulling out equipment.
A medium saucepan would serve as my cauldron. I grabbed a wooden spoon for stirring, a cutting board for preparation, and turned the stove burner to medium heat. The blue flames licked upward, and I positioned a thermometer to monitor temperature. Two hundred degrees. Not particularly hot by cooking standards, barely enough to simmer water.
I started with the Silverleaf, washing the plants carefully before adding them to the dry pan. Heat radiated up as the leaves made contact with the metal. Within seconds, a sweet fragrance filled the kitchen, reminiscent of honey mixed with fresh grass. The leaves turned translucent, their physical structure breaking down as their essence vaporized. Silvery mist rose from the pan, swirling in delicate patterns.
The Dawnroot came next. I'd already chopped it into small chunks, which I added to the vaporizing Silverleaf. An earthy undertone joined the sweet smell, creating a complex aroma that made my mouth water despite having no idea what it would taste like. The root dissolved quickly at this temperature, melting into thick liquid that mixed with the silver vapor.
Finally, the Cloudmoss. I crumbled it between my fingers, letting the fibrous material fall into the pan. The moss acted like a sponge, absorbing both the vapor and liquid. The mixture thickened, binding together into a cohesive paste that bubbled gently.
I stirred constantly, watching as the paste transformed. The color shifted from murky gray to deep crimson, the consistency becoming smooth and uniform. The bubbling slowed, then stopped entirely as the spiritual energy reached equilibrium. After fifteen minutes, I removed the pan from heat and set it on a cool burner.
The mixture began separating on its own.
Small spheres formed within the paste, pulling away from each other like oil beads on water. The crimson liquid gathered around invisible nuclei, compressing and solidifying. Within thirty seconds, six perfect pills sat in the pan, each one identical in size and color. They gleamed like polished rubies, their surfaces so smooth they reflected the kitchen light.
It was rather interesting to watch. Although I knew it would do so from the memories, but memories were not as good as seeing it in person. Jihasti's knowledge had shown me the process from a clinical perspective, the dry facts of spiritual energy coalescence and automatic formation. Actually witnessing the transformation, seeing the paste respond to laws I barely understood, created a sense of wonder that secondhand experience couldn't capture.
I picked up one pill, rolling it between my fingers. Warm to the touch, but not hot. Solid, but with a slight give that suggested it would dissolve easily when swallowed. The spiritual energy within pulsed gently, contained but active.
My parents could use these. Dad's knees bothered him more than he admitted, and Mom complained about her back after long shifts at the hospital. Both were in their fifties, well past the optimal age for beginning cultivation. These pills would rebuild their foundations, give them a chance at the kind of longevity and health that cultivation offered.
But six pills wouldn't be enough. Not when I had siblings, friends, people I cared about who deserved the same opportunity.
I cleaned the pan and started another batch.
Just one batch of pills took me about an hour the first time, but slowly reduced down to about half that time as I crafted several more batches. My movements became more efficient as muscle memory developed. I learned exactly when to add each ingredient, how vigorously to stir, the subtle color shifts that indicated proper mixing. The sweet and earthy aroma filled my apartment until I cracked a window, letting the San Jose afternoon breeze dilute the concentration.
By the time evening rolled around, I'd produced twelve batches. Seventy-two pills total, each one perfect and identical. I stored them in small crystal containers I'd pulled from my storage ring, the material's natural insulation preserving the pills' potency indefinitely.
I have crafted plenty, I should start thinking about how I can distribute these to people that need it. Perhaps I should open a shop in American City? Well, it's just a thought for now, I am in no hurry to do so right now at least.
The idea had merit though. American City sprawled across a hundred miles, housing thousands of new cultivators who'd stepped through the portals seeking power and opportunity. Most arrived with nothing but the clothes on their backs and whatever basic supplies they'd brought. They needed resources. Pills, techniques, equipment, information.
A proper shop could serve as more than just commerce. It could become a gathering place, a hub where cultivators exchanged knowledge and formed connections. I could staff it with trustworthy people, create jobs within the new economy that was forming.
But that required planning. Organization. Trust in people I hadn't met yet.
For now, I had pills for my family and enough left over for emergencies.