Chapter Eight: Ash Tea and the Philosophy of Holes
After the brief clash with Yang Lian atop the peak, Zhou Fan returned to the Servants' Valley. He felt no sense of victory—only a bone-deep exhaustion gnawing at his marrow. The technique of Energy Disassembly he had used, though it appeared effortless, had drained every last ounce of strength from his mortal body.
That night, Zhou Fan did not train.
Instead, he sat outside his small shack, watching Zhang struggle to light a modest fire to boil the mountain herbs he had gathered.
"Fan… drink this. It's Earthroot Tea. It helps calm the nerves," Zhang said, handing him a chipped clay cup.
Zhou Fan accepted it, gazing at the steam curling upward.
"Thank you, Zhang. And… I'm sorry for dragging you into that hell inside the mine."
Zhang let out a bitter laugh and scratched his head.
"Sorry? If it weren't for your brains, I'd be rat food by now! But… Fan, there's something that's been bothering me since we came back. How did you do it? Everyone says your meridians are full of holes, useless for cultivation—so how did you defeat Yang Lian?"
Zhou Fan fell silent for a moment, then gestured toward the cup in his hand.
"Zhang, look at this cup. If we pour water into it, it holds the water so we can drink it. Right?"
Zhang nodded. "Of course. That's what a cup does."
"Ordinary cultivators like Yang Lian are the same," Zhou Fan said calmly.
"They gather spiritual energy—qi—inside their bodies. The bigger and sturdier the cup, the stronger they become. But my body…"
He smiled faintly.
"My cup has no bottom."
"Then… how do you have power?" Zhang asked, intrigued.
"Imagine placing this broken cup beneath a raging waterfall," Zhou Fan said, a strange light flickering in his eyes.
"The water won't stay inside—but it will pass through at terrifying speed. The strength I use isn't stored power. It's flowing power. I don't possess energy—I become the channel that guides it."
Yang Lian possessed energy, but did not understand it.
Zhou Fan understood it—and thus could dismantle it as it passed through him.
Zhang pondered this for a long moment, then grinned.
"So you're not a reservoir—you're just a ridiculously clever drain!"
"Exactly," Zhou Fan replied, smiling genuinely for the first time.
"And that's what the ancient records call Derivation. Ordinary cultivators add numbers—one plus one equals two. I draw power directly from the environment… and subtract it from my opponent."
The night passed in quiet conversation.
Zhang spoke of his simple dream—to become a "woodcutter cultivator" and send money back to his mother in the village. Zhou Fan listened in silence, his heart heavy. He knew that Zhang's innocence was something he himself would never reclaim on the path ahead.
"Fan… do you think we'll be servants forever?" Zhang asked with a yawn.
Zhou Fan lowered his gaze to the black dagger hidden beneath his clothes.
"No. Soon, the sect will open the Grand Trial for outer disciples. We won't be there to watch."
"We'll be there to take our place."
Suddenly, soft footsteps broke the stillness of the night—steady, unhurried.
From the mist emerged the old man with the broom—the same one who had given Zhou Fan the black stone.
"That tea smells pleasant," the old man said with a mysterious smile.
"Is there a cup for an old fellow who's lost his way?"
Zhang panicked and hurried to bow, but Zhou Fan remained seated, staring deeply into the old man's eyes.
"Old man… the stone you gave me nearly killed me," Zhou Fan said coldly.
"But it opened a door I never dreamed existed."
The old man sat beside them and accepted a cup from Zhang.
"The doors worth walking through are always the ones that almost kill us," he said softly.
"Tell me—have you read the Record?"
Zhou Fan's body stiffened.
How did he know?
"Don't be afraid," the old man said, sipping his tea.
"I placed that Record there thirty years ago, waiting for someone without a reservoir—someone who could wield a channel. The world believes power lies in accumulation. Now you know the truth."
"Who are you?" Zhou Fan asked sharply.
"Just a coordinator of old calculations," the old man replied.
"But beware—Yang Lian is nothing more than a shadow. This sect is full of hunters who can smell chaos from miles away. If you want to survive the Grand Trial one month from now, you must learn how to hide your holes. Reveal your true power only when you intend to erase your enemy completely."
The old man stood and dusted off his clothes.
"In the coming trial, they won't ask you to carry water. They'll ask you to hunt souls in the Illusion Forest. There, calculations won't be written on paper…"
"They'll be written on corpses."
And just like that, he vanished into the fog.
Zhou Fan turned to see Zhang already asleep beside the fire. He covered him with an old blanket, then looked up toward the sect's towering peaks—looming like slumbering beasts beneath the moonlight.
"One month," Zhou Fan thought.
"One month to turn this fragile sieve of a body into a lethal array. Yang Lian. The elders. Even the heavens themselves…"
"Prepare yourselves. The accountant has begun auditing your debts."
Zhou Fan returned to his shack and took out the leather scroll.
He did not begin training.
He began planning.
Within his mind, he sketched a map of the Illusion Forest based on rumors alone, calculating variables—humidity, beast species, disciple distribution.
The era of surprises was over.
The era of engineering had begun.