Han’s breakthrough brought an immediate, practical snag.


    Dinner wasn’t enough to go around.


    Beast meat was a key supplement for martial artists—packed with vitality and nutrients, it fueled cultivation for a good stretch and built up reserves in the body.


    “Any fresh moves from the Heiyun Guard lately?” Han asked, tracking down Shen Long and the crew.


    “Zuo Tianzheng’s shifting his focus hard to Black Mountain,” Shen Long replied, shaking his head. “He’s pulled most of the forces keeping Heiyun stable over there.”


    He Feng snorted. “They’re ‘maintaining order,’ they say. But those guards? They’re the same ones who’ve always spent the most time in Black Mountain. Now they’re just treasure-hunting under a new title.”


    “I’ve heard from martial artists coming out of Black Mountain,” Shen Long added. “With the Heiyun Guard around, it’s not more orderly—it’s a bigger mess. Their badge is just a banner to wave.”


    Han mulled it over. Zuo Tianzheng was casting a wide net, unsure where his prize lay.


    Whatever Zuo was up to, though, no one else could steer it. They just had to keep clear of the fallout.


    What threw Han off was waiting all day—right into the night—without a sign of that fourth wish bottle.


    Seriously? Don’t tell me it’s a bust. “Drift, if you flake out like this, I’m gonna lose respect for you,” he muttered.


    “Something up?” Lu Qingmo asked, eyeing him. “You seem off.”


    “Waiting for someone who didn’t show,” Han said, a hint of sulk in his tone.


    Drift was dropping the ball. It was almost 11 p.m.—sub-hour—and still nothing.


    Lu Qingmo blinked, puzzled. Is he hinting at me?


    Time ticked past sub-hour by half an hour. Han had all but given up on Drift when his soul homeland stirred.


    Hey, hey, hey—here it comes!


    Shock turned to glee. You little tease, cutting it this close? Playing games with me, huh?


    His soul’s gaze sharpened, locking onto a bottle that popped up out of nowhere—no trace of its origin.


    What floored Han most? This one wasn’t blue or purple—it was a third color.


    Red.


    “If colors mean rank, is red above or below blue and purple?” he wondered. “Better be higher—last bottle of the month, you’ve gotta deliver, right?”


    He snatched the wish bottle, pulled out the paper, and read:


    [Three days ago, while washing Second Miss’s feet, I spilled water by mistake. She gave me ten lashes—skin torn, body screaming, butt stinging like fire. Couldn’t sit or stand straight.]


    Han’s expression twitched. Washing feet was washing feet—why fancy it up as “foot cleansing”? And this wisher’s backside? Probably literally on fire.


    [Two days ago, Third Young Master was in a bad mood. Said I bumped into him—slapped my face. My already ugly mug got uglier, hurt so bad I could barely eat.]


    Han pieced it together. Low status—likely a servant or slave.


    [Yesterday, feeding Eldest Young Master’s Western Fierce Hound, it went berserk—tore off a chunk of my flesh. He blamed me, gave me three more lashes. Skin split open, the hound chowing on my meat right beside me. I knelt and thanked him for the ‘reward.’]


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    “…”


    This wisher’s life was that grim?


    Four wishers this month, and this one’s misery ranked right below Sui’s.


    [Today, I’m sneaking martial arts lessons. After yesterday’s ‘reward,’ I found a sewer—leads straight to the Fang family’s inner disciple courtyard. Hidden, untraceable.]


    [Stealing martial skills is a death sentence—caught, and I’d die horribly. But I don’t care anymore.]


    [A golden chance! My dad was a Fang family slave, I’m a Fang family slave. Without a miracle, my kids and grandkids will be too. I don’t want to be a house pet—I want to be human.]


    [Plus, I’m so ugly—people and ghosts despise me—no heirs likely. Might as well roll the dice!]


    [Win, I break free, sky’s the limit. Lose… eighteen years later, I’m back in the game.]


    Han froze. Fang family slave, stealing martial arts… What kind of storyline are you living?


    He zeroed in on something else—this wisher was tough as nails. Three days straight of “rewards,” beaten to a pulp, yet still kicking like it was nothing?


    [I’ve memorized the Fang family’s Foundation Martial Art. In Great Xia, the Fang family rules Tianxing Province. Their foundational stuff is top-tier—I nailed it in one go. Guess I’ve got some talent. Freedom’s looking closer!]


    “Great Xia, Tianxing Province,” Han muttered, brow creasing. Another unfamiliar land, another wisher lost in who-knows-where.


    No point asking Lu Qingmo—he knew no such nation existed today.


    [I failed.]


    “…”


    The twist hit like whiplash. Weren’t you just saying hope was soaring?


    [I memorized it, but practicing? Agony—can’t stand, body spazzing out. I can’t train.]


    [Tried tons of times—same deal. My body’s freakish, heals fast, but this martial pain? Nothing helps.]


    [I’m a martial dud. Cultivation arts? Out of reach—Fang family teaches that to clansmen in secret spots.]


    [What do I do…]


    [I’ll figure it out. I won’t quit.]


    [Better a beggar than a slave!]


    The note ended there.


    The fourth wisher’s wish was crystal clear: fix their martial block, step into the martial path, gain power, climb the ladder, ditch slavery, and reclaim freedom.


    “Practicing martial arts triggers unbearable pain, convulsions, can’t even stand,” Han mused, frowning. He’d never heard of such a thing.


    All martial arts, from wellness to Flesh Realm, demanded physical training—building the body through sweat and motion. Sitting meditation wasn’t for low-tier martial artists.


    This wisher’s condition was a martial dead-end.


    He stood and sought Lu Qingmo. “Aunt Mo, is there anyone who absolutely can’t practice martial arts?”


    “There is. You’ve met one—Meng Hao.”


    “Besides him?”


    She nodded. “Sure. Martial arts aren’t as picky as cultivation arts. With a manual and guidance, anyone can theoretically train—strengthen their body. Cultivation’s trickier—soul arts lean heavy on talent and insight. Way fewer cultivators than martial artists out there.”


    “But some folks are outliers,” she continued. “Their bodies have quirks. Training doesn’t build them up—it breaks them down. Usually, there’s a fix—strong intervention or tailored treasures. Cases like Meng Hao, where even Zi Xiao Tianjun’s stumped? Rare.”


    “Why the sudden question?”


    “Just feeling lucky I’ve got a smidge of talent,” Han said.


    “…”


    You barge in at midnight to flex your ‘smidge’ of talent?


    Han left, knowing he couldn’t fix this wisher’s issue. Worlds apart—maybe even eras apart—how could he patch up their body?


    Helping them escape slavery directly? Also out of his hands.


    “Can’t crack the martial block, so I’ll hook you up with cultivation arts. Hope you’ve got the knack for it,” he decided.


    The wish paper’s text had faded. He grabbed a pen and started his reply, a strange wistfulness creeping in.


    Sure, the [Drift Wish Bottle] cheat was weird and cryptic, but this month, it’d scored him four pen pals. Friendship tucked away in letters and bottles.


    [Long, long ago, there was a guy named Xiao Han…]


    [He learned martial arts, stumbled into all sorts of lucky breaks…]


    [Through grit and the occasional rare tonic, this horse-grooming nobody climbed to the world’s peak—an immortal legend.]


    [Fellow slave, if Xiao Han made it, so can you!]


    [That’s the spirit of a true man!]


    Han poured ink into a rousing tale, tweaking it to fit this world—leaving out specifics like what “rare tonics” Xiao Han ate.


    “Four bottles, four stories. If these spread, I’d be a legend in storyteller circles,” he chuckled, scribbling down some cultivation arts.


    He wasn’t just dishing out motivational fluff—he’d pack in real know-how. He’d taken down plenty of cultivators, amassing a stash of arts. Useless to him now, but gold for a beginner.


    The Huang family Day Roamer and Dai Lin’s hauls alone were plenty—more than enough to kit out a newbie pen pal.


    To keep it clear, he added notes explaining terms, ensuring the wisher could grasp the basics. Still, he tacked on a warning: Figure it out before diving in—don’t rush blind.


    Pen down, a red flash flared, and the paper vanished.


    “Hope you sort yourself out and break free,” Han said, sending good vibes.


    In the red glow, a lean silhouette flickered—face unclear, but those eyes? Sharp and unforgettable. One glance, and Han felt like they mirrored him, reflecting his whole being.


    The light faded. He snapped back.


    “This wisher’s no pushover,” he mused, shaking his head. Doesn’t matter how special—they’re out of reach.