Chapter 17: The Young Miss Cannot Cultivate

“How can you tell whether someone can cultivate?”

Yanfan stopped and turned toward the bundle of bedding on the bed. The question had come from nowhere; even half asleep, the young miss’s thoughts took unusual turns. “Why do you ask?”

“Never mind why. Just answer.” Chenxue exposed half her face. She tried to sound casual, but her grip on the quilt betrayed her.

He sat on a low stool beside her. There was something he wanted to confirm, too; perhaps her drowsiness would make her talk.

“The threshold can be high or low. The basic requirement is a spiritual root. Without one, spiritual energy can’t enter the body, however good the cultivation method. After that comes aptitude. Roots belong to the five elements: a single-element root is best, mixed roots come next, and deficient roots last. A heavenly spiritual root is the finest single root. There might not be one in a century.”

He paused, watching her eyes. “You needn’t think about it, Miss. You have no spiritual root.”

Chenxue sat bolt upright, quilt sliding from her shoulders, hair like a bird’s nest. “How do you know? You haven’t tested me!”

“There’s no need.” He leaned back from her glare. “Someone with a root has a faint fluctuation of spiritual energy. Ordinary people can’t sense it, but a cultivator can see it at a glance.”

“Then how can a wood chopper see it?”

For once he was caught off guard. He hadn’t considered how odd it sounded for a servant to lecture his mistress on cultivation aptitude. “I heard it at the teahouse,” he said smoothly. “Old Li the storyteller on East Street spent three days on an introduction to cultivation last month. I attended twice. Two copper coins a session. Quite good.”

She eyed him suspiciously, sensing something wrong, but was too sleepy to think. She fell back on the pillow and stared at the canopy. “Which root is best?”

“A heavenly root.”

“What if I have one?”

“Miss.” He looked at her earnestly. “There isn’t a trace of spiritual energy at your brow. You don’t even have a deficient root, much less a heavenly one. You’re entirely mortal.”

She was silent for three breaths, then pulled the quilt over her head. “Get out,” came her muffled voice.

“You just told me not to leave…”

“That was before! Get out now!”

He stood and took two steps, then stopped. Moonlight fell on the covered figure; a loose strand of hair trembled at the quilt’s edge. He couldn’t tell whether she was angry or sad. Either way, he sat down on the bed again.

“Cultivation isn’t all that wonderful.”

No response.

“Cultivators live too long and spend their days plotting. Few come to a good end. Mortals live a few decades, eat and drink, and share a warm home with their families. They’re more comfortable than immortals.”

The quilt moved. A pair of eyes appeared above it, the corners still red. “What does that have to do with me?”

“It does.” His voice softened as he looked at her. “Even as a mortal, you can live as long as I do.”

She blinked. “That’s obvious. Aren’t you mortal too?”

“You’re right, Miss.”

“Why are you so obedient today?”

“Because you haven’t docked my wages.”

She stuck a foot out and kicked his thigh. He looked down, stood, brushed the dust from his trousers, and walked to the door. There he turned back. “If you really want to cultivate, there is a way, sort of. With enough spirit stones, a mortal can use a spiritual treasure. It’s expensive: one high-grade stone per use.”

“How much? For one use?”

“Yes. And only the lowest-grade treasures, for things like light or warming tea. Would you like one? I can find a seller for a ten-percent commission.”

“Get out!” A pillow flew at him. He dodged and slipped quickly through the door.