The next morning, Liu Shi'ai came again, sweeping the courtyard, collecting early meals, gathering fallen leaves, and arranging them beautifully. Jing Jiǔ watched him quietly. He had heard every word of Lü Master’s conversation with Liu Shi'ai last night. Even if he didn’t hear it directly, Lü Master would deliberately ensure that he did. Lü Master hoped Liu Shi'ai would have self-awareness—or feel embarrassed and willingly leave him behind. Jing Jiǔ understood Lü Master well; if it were him, he would do the same. How could a Daoist devote time to such mundane affairs? If Liu Shi'ai had listened to Lü Master’s advice, he too would have understood—how could he not? Before the Great Path, there is no heaven or earth, let alone a Lord. Yet Jing Jiǔ did not expect Liu Shi'ai to stay awake all night and still come today, still doing these things, even more eager than ever before. Suddenly, Jing Jiǔ wondered what this young boy truly thought. But since Liu Shi'ai had not heeded Lü Master’s advice, there was no need for him to dismiss Liu Shi'ai out of mere pride or dignity. It was a rare comfort to have someone familiar with his daily habits helping manage the routine—something he had never experienced before in his long years of wandering. After finishing her morning tasks, Liu Shi'ai brewed a pot of tea and placed it on the table, then carried out the bamboo recliner from the cave room. Jing Jiǔ lay down on the bamboo chair, facing the rising sunlight, lightly closing his eyes. His fingers gently tapped rhythmlessly on the armrest—without any pattern. That morning, Liu Shi'ai did not go to the Sword Hall; instead, he stayed in the small courtyard, standing motionless with poised arms that seemed casual yet swift as lightning. In previous days, Liu Shi'ai would have shown no reaction at all to the tapping sound of Jing Jiǔ’s fingers on the bamboo chair. But through recent verification, he now naturally began to listen attentively. Even without a clear rhythm, such tapping still conveyed the length and intervals of his breath—steady and present. When the sun passed over the Nine Peaks, Liu Shi'ai finally completed his body cultivation practice. His face was glistening with sweat, his body subtly aching. He didn’t feel tired at all—he felt refreshed and energized. He turned to look back at Jing Jiǔ lying asleep on the bamboo recliner, eyes closed as if resting deeply, and couldn’t help but smile. After one year of coexistence, he realized that Jing Jiǔ often seemed asleep when in fact he was awake—deeply engaged. "Lord…" Liu Shi'ai hesitated. He had never done anything like this before. But recalling Lü Master’s solemn expression last night, he finally found the courage to speak softly: "...Could you perhaps not be so lazy?" He knew Jing Jiǔ was very lazy—the very bamboo recliner beneath him was proof—how it had been moved from his home remained a mystery. He also knew that Jing Jiǔ was exceptionally intelligent and capable. Yet, after all this time, having just arrived at the Qingshan Sect, with opportunities to learn celestial techniques and sword arts, how could he continue to remain so idle? If Jing Jiǔ stayed this way, how would he ever pass the Inner Gate examination? What if he were actually dismissed by a senior master? Even the most naturally gifted child wouldn’t hide his genuine emotions. Seeing Liu Shi'ai’s thoughtful expression, Jing Jiǔ paused, then smiled. ... ... That night, Jing Jiǔ stood in the courtyard, arms folded, gazing silently at the Nine Peaks beneath the stars. He did not heed Liu Shi'ai's suggestion to practice arrow-step movements and arch-punches, nor to cultivate his body for completeness of form—aiming to lay a solid foundation for future cultivation. He didn’t need to. If measured by ordinary practitioners' stages, he had already surpassed the "Initial Form" realm long ago—entering the "Holding the Spirit" stage. In fact, more precisely speaking, when he stepped into the small stream inside the cave, he was already at the "Holding the Spirit" level. Looking back over Qingshan’s history of tens of thousands of years, he was arguably the fastest to reach this stage. He did not feel proud—he believed it was entirely due to his unique body condition. The subtle intricacies, however, were beyond the comprehension of Lü Master and other cultivators at his level. In the world, every gain comes with a loss. He drew out a pale green pill from his sleeve, bit into it gently, and swallowed it whole. Then he sipped some cold tea, shook his head slightly—finding the flavor rather ordinary. To observers such as Lü Master or other Qingshan Sect masters, this scene might well cause their cultivation hearts to falter. This pale green pill was known as the Zixuan Pill—the finest medicine available for cultivators in the Initial Realm. For disciples at the Holding the Spirit level, one Zixuan Pill equaled a year of rigorous practice. One could imagine how precious such a pill truly was—only the most promising and gifted students received this treatment. Among the Sword-Bearing Disciples stationed across the Nine Peaks, few had even taken such a pill during their Initial Realm training. Yet Jing Jiǔ treated this valuable medicine as if it were simply roasted beans to be consumed casually. Given his frequency and volume of intake, an ordinary Outer Gate disciple would have reached the Holding the Spirit stage within just one hour. Perhaps even more likely—by half an hour earlier, such a disciple had already perished due to a sudden surge in vital energy. Jing Jiǔ remained unharmed—showing no signs at all. Once again, it was because of his unique body: capable not only of absorbing ambient qi effortlessly but also of enduring vast amounts of it. The problem was… there simply was too much. His spirit sea resembled a truly immense ocean—one that stretched far beyond sight. Filling this deep sea with celestial qi required an endless time—no matter how often he consumed Zixuan Pills, progress remained slow, and the medicine’s effects eventually wore off. As long as his spirit sea remained unfulfilled, his Dao-heritage would remain isolated and unable to mature into a sword blossom or progress further in cultivation. What could he do? If the rumor were true—of an extraordinary artifact capable of altering time—he might have saved some time. But he knew such a mythical object did not exist—and so now only had to wait. He had calculated clearly: within three days, the Zixuan Pill would no longer offer any benefit to him—let alone ordinary medicines. Even if he continued to absorb celestial qi without cease, it would still take over a year before his spirit sea was fully filled. Such a long period of waiting—truly troublesome. If he wished to remain unnoticed and avoid complications, he could follow the example of other Outer Gate disciples—practicing diligently each day until he endured through this entire year. But he wouldn’t do that—not merely because it would be inconvenient—but because his real reason was simply one of avoidance of discomfort. Indeed, he wasn’t truly lazy—he only feared inconvenience. For a village year, Jing Jiǔ had often been asleep—because he needed to understand and grow familiar with this body. In the first nine days, he achieved only initial integration. To fully master every subtle aspect within his bodily structure would take many more days. He hadn’t lied to Liu Shi'ai either—he indeed conducted deep reflection, contemplation, and calculation during those dreams. He needed to understand why he had come here. He needed to contemplate the past and future. He needed to weigh gains and losses and assess current circumstances. Only after completing these two essential steps did he return to Qingshan Sect—and discovered that beyond waiting, he had no other responsibilities or activities. This was an experience entirely new to him. "Is this what it means to be bored?" Jing Jiǔ sensed this emotion—so unfamiliar—to him: "Could someone like me actually feel boredom?" (End of Chapter 12) Chapter 12: Like a Blossom