Quality Needs Improving

　　The saying goes, "One who survives a great calamity is sure to be blessed afterward."

　　Chen Xia firmly believed in this adage. On the first day back, despite his limping gait, he went out and bought what was popular among cultivators: silver lottery tickets.

　　And he did win.

　　Five spirit stones.

　　He weighed the five spirit stones in his hand, considering it as a sign of good luck turning around. With another limp, he made his way back home.

　　The small house felt much quieter without the great yellow dog. The biggest difference was that there was no longer the sound of its howling or the sight of its spasms.

　　"Missing the great yellow dog?" Zhang Daoming stood beside him with his hands behind his back, muttering.

　　"Yeah," Chen Xia nodded lightly and suggested, "How about you lie down and pretend to have a fit like the great yellow dog? I'll give you the five spirit stones I won today."

　　Zhang Daoming immediately upped the offer, "I'll double it to ten spirit stones; you act it out for me."

　　"Forget it, not dignified enough," Chen Xia waved his hand.

　　This was giving him a double standard.

　　Again, he limped over to his usual chair, poured himself a cup of clear tea, took a sip, and began propping his head up while staring blankly at the door.

　　There was really nothing else to do.

　　Zhang Daoming walked up beside him and asked with a light laugh, "Want to play a game of chess?"

　　"Let's not," Chen Xia shook his head. "Our skills don't match; I think I should play someone at my level, not you."

　　In short, he wasn't good and didn't want to get crushed.

　　"I'll let you have a single horse, chariot, and cannon, and I'll go first," Zhang Daoming smiled and proposed.

　　Chen Xia frowned, his expression suddenly serious, looking straight at Zhang Daoming with a hint of solemnity. He shook his head and asked,

　　"You can say my chess skills are poor, but don't insult my character. If we play like that, what's the point of playing chess?"

　　Zhang Daoming was taken aback by Chen Xia's strictness towards chess ethics and felt somewhat ashamed, lowering his head, ready to apologize.

　　Chen Xia added,

　　"Alright, forget the chariot and cannon, but don't let the horse go, it's no fun."

　　Zhang Daoming was stunned again.

　　The chessboard was laid out.

　　Chen Xia gestured with one hand, smiling, "Please."

　　The outcome wasn't perfect even though Zhang Daoming played very conservatively. Chen Xia only won once, and that was the last game, under Zhang Daoming's deliberate leniency, which essentially meant Zhang Daoming was helping Chen Xia win.

　　After this game, Chen Xia shook his head, sipped his tea, and said with a smile,

　　"Let's call it fifty-fifty; I lost by just a little bit."

　　Zhang Daoming nodded without comment, thinking that even if Chen Xia were cremated, his stubborn mouth would remain intact.

　　It had been five days since the great yellow dog left. They rarely played chess after that, never again in fact.

　　In the days that followed, Chen Xia immersed himself completely, not going out, and certainly not watching other cultivators fight at Broken City.

　　Perhaps it was because he missed the great yellow dog calling him back for dinner.

　　Anyway, Chen Xia found it meaningless, sitting on his chair daily, brewing the same tea, and daydreaming.

　　Zhang Daoming often came to chat, and Chen Xia responded intermittently.

　　"The wall was less lively after you released those cultivators you captured," Zhang Daoming laughed.

　　"Should I recapture them?" Chen Xia asked.

　　"Let's not; it feels wrong to capture them for no reason," Zhang Daoming shook his head.

　　"No problem, I can deduct your virtue points," Chen Xia joked.

　　Zhang Daoming was momentarily speechless, hesitating for a moment before replying,

　　"Thank you."

　　Chen Xia didn't respond, finishing his tea in one gulp, standing up, and shaking his head, "I've been too idle lately. I've decided what to do."

　　"What?" Zhang Daoming asked curiously.

　　"Farming," Chen Xia answered promptly.

　　This wasn't a joke. The next day, Chen Xia fashioned a hoe, bought medicinal seeds, and started cultivating a herb garden in the yard.

　　Some say farming is a noble pursuit that refines one's character.

　　Chen Xia thought it was nonsense.

　　At most, it was a way to pass time.

　　Every day, he wore an old straw hat from somewhere, carried the hoe, rolled up his sleeves and pants, and tended to his newly cultivated herb garden. He looked like a true native herbalist of the realms.

　　Not only did he dress the part, but he also learned to speak like a local farmer. There was one phrase he mastered perfectly.

　　"Damn it!"

　　Whenever Chen Xia said this, Zhang Daoming would pause, eventually unable to resist asking,

　　"Who taught you to talk like that?"

　　"Self-taught, damn it!" Chen Xia added the exclamation.

　　"That's not right; it's not a good thing to say," Zhang Daoming frowned.

　　"It's fine; I'm learning bad words," Chen Xia grinned.

　　Deliberately misbehaving.

　　Zhang Daoming had no response, touching his cheek and frowning, "Is that all you learned?"

　　"One more," Chen Xia replied.

　　"What?" Zhang Daoming asked out of curiosity.

　　"My father!" Chen Xia retorted.

　　Zhang Daoming was utterly stunned, wishing he hadn't asked.

　　Though Chen Xia picked up some undesirable habits from the farmers, he also absorbed their expertise.

　　His herb garden thrived exceptionally well. Various herbs grew robustly, showing signs of mutation and advancement.

　　This left Zhang Daoming puzzled, feeling that whenever Chen Xia touched anything related to alchemy, it seemed almost supernatural.

　　Growing herbs, refining pills, self-sufficient.

　　How were other alchemists supposed to live?

　　Zhang Daoming sighed, slightly shaking his head. Fortunately, he wasn't an alchemist; he was a sword cultivator.

　　Although he hadn't yet entered the gate of cultivation or obtained his life-bound flying sword.

　　But he was still a sword cultivator.

　　Suddenly, Zhang Daoming recalled Chen Xia's three million flying swords and frowned, realizing being a sword cultivator might not be so great either.

　　He felt troubled and glanced at Chen Xia.

　　Wearing his green robe, sleeves and pants rolled up, and an old straw hat, Chen Xia wandered through the herb garden under the midday sun.

　　Zhang Daoming watched closely. He knew Chen Xia's garden was thriving but didn't know exactly how.

　　Chen Xia seemed to notice something and quickly approached a plant shorter than the rest.

　　Finding problematic plants and addressing them was indeed what a good farmer should do.

　　But the methods could vary. Would Chen Xia enrich the soil or expand the land?

　　Zhang Daoming became interested, waiting to see.

　　Chen Xia squatted down, suddenly slapped the plant, and pointed at it, scolding,

　　"Damn it! Grow taller within three days, or I'll bury you deeper."

　　To Zhang Daoming's astonishment, the plant visibly grew an inch.

　　Zhang Daoming was dumbfounded.

　　He had never seen anyone farm by intimidation.

　　What kind of terrorist was this?