growth

Three months after the grand opening, things were steady. Not just good, not just promising—steady. Revenue had crossed twenty thousand mid-grade spirit stones, a little more than half of what we'd sunk into building the store. At this pace, we'd recover the full forty thousand in another three to four months. My cut was twenty percent. Not bad for a seventeen-year-old, but somehow, it didn't feel like enough.

That wasn't why I'd come to Clear Sky City. Not really.

I'd fulfilled the clan's expectations. The store was a success. The Spirit Needle Pavilion had a name now. People came for the robes, sure, but what they really came for was the feeling. Prestige. Status. I had created a place where foundation cultivators and noble juniors could feel like Nascent Soul scions for a while, wrapped in silk, showered in perfume, and greeted by well-trained staff.

But none of that had brought me closer to the one thing my system needed: a child.

So I started going out again. Not to banquets. Not this time. More private meetings. Courtyard strolls. Mid-tier tea houses in quiet districts. I reached out to some of the women I'd met at earlier events. Some remembered me. Some had clearly forgotten. Most were polite. Some were curious. A few seemed genuinely interested.

Lan Yue, from the Whitemist Sect. Elegant, clever, a little distant. We met twice. Our conversations were smooth, but cold. Like two scholars exchanging pleasantries before going back to their own books.

Baishi Lin, of the Jinwu-affiliated Baishi Clan. Fierce eyes, great posture, an obvious pride that reminded me of some of my uncles. She was sharp and didn't like being underestimated. We argued during dinner. She enjoyed it. I didn't.

There was even a healer's apprentice from the Crimson Pearl Guild, a mortal girl named Shun'er with soft hands and soft speech. I liked her the most. But she flinched when I mentioned the clan. Her voice cracked when I brought up cultivation. She couldn't follow me where I was going.

After a few weeks of this, I gave up.

Not dramatically. No drunken breakdown or bitter monologue. I just stopped calling people. No more courtyard strolls. No more dinners. Whatever this was—dating, courtship, strategic pairing, I didn't care—it wasn't working.

"Maybe I'm being too cautious," I muttered to myself one night, looking out over the second floor balcony of the store. It was quiet, closed for the day. "Too deliberate."

But caution was built into me. I couldn't just change it. So instead of forcing myself through another awkward meeting, I focused on what I could control: the Pavilion.

First thing I did was send robes to my family. A set each, handpicked. A black-silver ensemble for Father. A crimson-threaded one for Mother. Changming got a deep-blue war robe, sleek and practical. Even Grandfather received a personally tailored white-over-gold ceremonial robe. That man never smiled, but I hoped he'd wear it anyway.

Then, I made a decision. The second floor? It was no longer going to be by-appointment only. That was too slow. Too restrictive. The city was changing, and I wanted more revenue

We'd open it to walk-ins.

Instead, I began construction on a new third floor. That would be the exclusive space now. Top-grade second-level robes. Low and mid-tier third-grade robes. Real elite products. Not something you could just walk in and buy. If you wanted access, you'd need to be invited. Or at least recognized.

Of course, that meant I had to start scouting artisans capable of third-grade work.

One step at a time. My dating life was dead. But the Pavilion was alive.