Preparing for the Future, Cultivating Herbs in the Wild

Several consecutive days of trials had thoroughly confirmed to Chen Ping'an that the *Qingnang Breathing Art* was indeed genuine.
The warm current transformed from the essence of plants, though still feeble, was no longer as elusive as it had been at the start. Under his deliberate guidance, it behaved like a gentle stream, completing a slow but steady circulation through his weakened meridians every night.

The effects were remarkable.
Every morning upon waking, he no longer felt his usual fatigue; his entire body exuded a faint sense of comfort. His steps on the way to work became much lighter, allowing him to easily keep pace with the apprentice, Little Zhang. More importantly, his presbyopic eyes, which had looked at objects for half a lifetime, no longer watered with soreness when reading under the night lamp.

This change delighted him, but it also brought a deeper layer of worry.
That night, looking at the stone mortar which held only a tiny bit of medicinal paste, his brow furrowed slowly.
The ginger and mugwort purchased from Granny Wang during the day had been completely used up.
This method, in the end, was not a long-term solution.

He calculated silently in his heart. Granny Wang was simple and honest, so she would not think much of it. But for a solitary old man like him to frequently purchase the same medicinal herbs—once or twice could be excused as "soaking his feet," but what about half a year or a year? Over time, it would inevitably form a noticeable pattern.
Wherever there is a habit, there is a loophole. This was a supreme truth he had discovered from countless people attempting to pass off fakes during his thirty years as a pawnshop manager.
Moreover, what he currently needed for his cultivation were merely the most common herbs on the market. Carefully studying the half-volume of the remnant manual several times, he discovered that the subsequent techniques mentioned several rarely-seen herbs like "Shehan Grass" and "Longkui." These were hard to find in ordinary markets and could only be bought at large, official pharmacies.

How could a pawnshop manager frequently entering and leaving pharmacies to buy herbs with different medicinal properties explain himself? Claiming to brew medicine for someone else? Once or twice was fine, but if he did it often, the resident physician would ask a single question, and the truth would be exposed.
Cost was also a concern. His savings from half a lifetime were modest, and every coin was hard-earned. He could manage now, but what about the future?
The more he thought, the only secure method was—to grow them himself.

Once this thought arose, it took root in his heart like a rapidly growing vine.
However, land in Yanwei City was as precious as gold. His small courtyard, save for a few potted evergreens, had only a narrow stone path, leaving absolutely no space to establish an herb garden.
Chen Ping'an did not panic. He blew out the lamp and lay down in the darkness, his eyes wide open as a highly detailed map of Yanwei City appeared in his mind. Every street, every alley, even which courtyard walls had cracks and which eaves were the lowest, was clearly mapped out.
His sea of consciousness was his greatest treasure trove.

On this map, he began to search for secluded places forgotten by the world.
After an unknown amount of time, a memory buried for nearly ten years was retrieved from the depths of his mind.
It was a rainy afternoon when a dejected scholar named Zhang, his eyes red, placed the land deed of his ancestral home on the counter of Zhou's Pawnshop. It was his family's last remaining property. Chen Ping'an remembered that as the scholar signed the pawn document, he complained with a sob that the ancestral home was located in the desolate "Neping Alley" in the south of the city, and behind its back gate lay a graveyard—a place of ill omen that absolutely no one would inquire about.

Neping Alley... The Zhang Family Ancestral Home...
Chen Ping'an's eyes suddenly lit up in the darkness.
The next evening, he closed the pawnshop half an hour early. Instead of heading straight home, he took a long detour, walking slowly toward the southern part of the city.
The fading twilight lingered, and kitchen smoke curled in the air. He walked very slowly, like an ordinary old man taking a stroll after dinner, but his gaze casually swept over every minor detail around him. Neping Alley was even more dilapidated than he remembered; the alley was narrow, barely wide enough for one person to pass, with high courtyard walls on both sides, their plaster peeling off in large chunks to reveal the brownish-green rammed earth beneath.

Deep within the alley, there was indeed a large vermilion gate locked tight with a massive bronze padlock. The red paint had faded to a dark crimson, and thick cobwebs covered it, showing that no one had set foot there for a long time.
Chen Ping'an did not stop at the main gate, continuing toward the back wall of the estate.
It was even quieter here. In the narrow alley, the ground was covered with dry branches and fallen leaves, rustling under his feet. In the middle of the back wall, an inconspicuous small door was set. Made of ordinary pine wood, it had long been weathered black by wind and rain, and the iron latch above was so rusted that even the keyhole was barely visible.

He looked around, confirming that the surroundings were deserted. Peering through a crack at the base of the wall, he saw a courtyard overgrown with waist-high weeds—a scene of decay, yet the soil appeared highly fertile.
He was now certain.
Over the next few days, Chen Ping'an did not act rashly. He went to the busiest teahouse in the city and sat for an afternoon. He did not actively pry, but simply pricked up his ears, listening to the idle chatter of the neighboring tables. With just a few coins, he managed to coax confirmation from a tea servant: after that ancestral home was pawned to a wealthy family ten years ago, it had remained completely abandoned due to its remote location and rumors of being haunted, becoming an ignored ghost house.

With this, his plan was foolproof.
With the plan set, he began his purchases.
He needed seeds and tools. These, too, could not be bought in a way that drew attention.
He gathered the seeds in three separate trips. Once was from Granny Wang; under the pretext that the empty space in his yard was wasted and he wanted to sow some mugwort to repel mosquitoes, he bought a small packet of mugwort seeds. Another time, he went for a walk outside the city and personally gathered some wild Shehan Grass seeds from the wasteland. Finally, the Longkui seeds were purchased from a traveling peddler carrying goods from north to south, mixed in with a batch of other seeds.

For tools, he made full use of his profession's skill of "turning waste into treasure." He spent two copper coins at a blacksmith shop in the west of the city to buy an old hoe with a broken handle. Then, from a carpenter's scrap pile, he found a sturdy, discarded wooden beam.
That night, in his own small courtyard, under the moonlight, he used hemp rope and a few old copper nails to hammer and secure the hoe to the wooden handle. Though crude in appearance, it was sturdy and usable.
Everything was ready. The seeds were sorted, wrapped carefully in small paper packets, and hidden in his inner pocket. The repaired hoe was wrapped in rags and hidden in a corner of the woodshed.

Chen Ping'an stood in the courtyard, looking up at the sky. Tonight the moon was bright and the wind clear—not the ideal time.
He returned to his room, closed the door, and began his nightly breathing exercises.
Everything was prepared; he only awaited the right time.
And in this life, what Chen Ping'an lacked least was the patience to wait for the right moment.