Seeds—oh, glorious seeds.
Han craved them.
For others, seeds were a mixed bag. Sect folks could plant them for future disciples, sure. Lone cultivators? Tough luck—selling them off was usually the only play for profit.
Tai Bai Martial Hall lacked the means to start an herb garden, leaving Han in the same boat as those rogues. But he had a cheat up his sleeve.
No need to spill that to the Three Yin Mountain God, though.
“Just a pill and some seeds—that’s all I’ve left. Disappointed?” the god asked.
“Your gifts are a blessing, Senior. How could I be disappointed?” Han replied.
The god chuckled. “You’ve got a silver tongue.”
“That’s the loot, but I’ve got two legacies too—alchemy and cultivation. My ghost-body cultivation won’t suit you, but it’s perfect for your tamed spirit.”
He eyed An Lang with evident fondness. “Her potential’s deep. If I’d met her in life, I’d have snatched her up as a disciple.”
“Master, take me as your student!” An Lang blurted out.
Han’s face twitched. Well played, An Lang.
The god froze, then burst into laughter. “Ha! Alright, can’t let that ‘Master’ go unanswered.”
“Fine, fine—it’s yours.”
He flicked a finger, sending a gray-green light into An Lang’s brow.
“A yin-yang-eyed cultivator with a limitless spirit ghost—fate’s a wild ride,” he mused. “I’d planned a test before passing this on, but ‘Master’ skips the trial. My alchemy and ghost-path legacy are yours now. Train hard—don’t slack.”
An Lang looked dazed but nodded. “Got it, Master. I’m always grinding!”
Turning to Han, the god said, “She’s got yin and yang in balance—neither fully one nor the other. Endless potential, but it’ll bring trials. If she hits Yin God and aims higher, the yin-yang backlash could kill her if she slips. She’s your spirit—watch out.”
Han’s expression tightened. He recalled An Lang’s profile from God’s Eye—vast potential, rocky road ahead. So this was it.
“Huh?!” An Lang paled, then shrugged it off. “Yin God feels ages away.”
She was barely Night Roamer-tier—post-Yin God woes didn’t faze her.
“With your potential, it’s not far off,” the god said, optimistic.
“How do we dodge that crisis?” Han asked.
The god shook his head. “No clue—I never crossed that line myself. But as a Xuandu disciple, you could ask the temple elders.”
Solid advice. Too bad I’m not one.
“For my treasures, you’ll need a test,” the god continued.
“Master, didn’t you skip the test?” An Lang whispered.
“For you, yeah—not him.”
“Bring it on, Senior. I’m ready,” Han said, unfazed. Claiming an inheritance meant meeting some conditions—fair game.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
The god waved, lifting a tattered black banner from the platform.
“My natal artifact—Three Yin Banner,” he said, stroking it with nostalgia. “When the Yellow Springs Pill flopped and my lifespan dwindled, I made a last-ditch run at the Springs. Failed, passed on the spot—godhood shattered, domain collapsed. This banner took the hit too.”
“All my other artifacts broke then. Only this, my natal piece, held up—didn’t shatter outright. It’s why this imprint and space lasted three centuries.”
A soul mark had no juice—without a power source, it’d fade fast.
“Three hundred years on, it’s crumbling. Its reserves are nearly tapped. Fixing it? Impossible. Pass the test, and it’s yours. It won’t help much now, but its materials are rare—could save you hunting when forging your own natal artifact.”
Han’s pulse quickened. A divine artifact—crafted from top-tier stuff, refined to perfection. Once his tree artifact bloomed, this could feed it.
“Ready?”
“Go for it, Senior.”
The banner stirred, black qi surging toward Han’s head. Before it hit, seven-colored light flared from his chest—righteous qi roaring out, blocking it cold.
“Righteous qi?” the god exclaimed, recognizing it instantly.
He laughed. “Didn’t expect to hand this off to someone with righteous qi.”
The remaining platform items flew to Han—a stone box, a bracelet, a jade tablet.
“What’s this, Senior?” Han asked, puzzled.
“No test needed,” the god said, visibly pleased. “It was the Three Yin Illusion—wipe your memory, show your true colors in there. Good or evil, just or wicked—it’d all come out.”
“Crooked hearts get nothing from me. I’m a loner, but I don’t vibe with villains. Righteous qi? You’re upright—noble. I trust you with this.”
“A ghost like me passing relics to a righteous soul? Lucky break.”
“Thanks for the trust, Senior,” Han nodded. Spot-on—I’m a stand-up guy!
This god was shockingly chill—smoother than any tale suggested.
Stories set me up for a letdown.
“The box holds the Yellow Springs Pill prototype,” the god explained. “Check it out, but don’t pull it out casually—potency leaks. It’s sealed in absolute stone—locks in pill power best.”
“That’s the Three Yin Bracelet—storage gear. Seeds are inside, plus some low-tier pills I tossed in at the end. Couldn’t use them then. Three centuries later, who knows how much kick they’ve got left.”
“My old alchemy cauldron’s in there too.”
Pointing to the jade, he added, “That’s my legacy tablet—alchemy and cultivation notes. Study the alchemy if you want. Most cultivation stuff’s ghost-path—not your fit—but a few arts work for regular cultivators. Won’t disappoint.”
A shift from earlier—he hadn’t mentioned the cauldron, extra pills, or cultivator-friendly arts pre-test. Understandable move.
Han nodded thoughtfully. Without An Lang, he’d likely just get the jade—minus the personal hand-off.
The god continued, “An Lang’s inheritance is fuller than the tablet’s. Pick her brain later.”
No An Lang? Jade only, trimmed-down version. This ghost’s a goldmine.
An Lang puffed up, beaming with pride.
The banner pulsed, black qi flooding out the cave entrance, returning with a mass of red mist.
“That’s… the lakebed energy?” Han asked.
“My blood,” the god said. “Spilled when I stormed the Springs and failed—splattered across the lake. Three centuries turned it into ghost-absorbable power. Cultivators can’t touch it.”
The mist shot into An Lang.
“Once she soaks it up, her strength’ll jump,” he said.
“Thanks, Master!” she chirped.
Han grinned inwardly. Her gain was his gain—smartest investment ever.
“Any shot at revival, Senior?” Han ventured. “We’d help however we could, repay your kindness.”
The god shook his head, calm. “No need to fuss. I passed from old age—unless I’d broken through or stretched my life back then, there’s no coming back. Even possession wouldn’t add years. Lifespan’s tapped out—unsolvable.”
“Three centuries? If reincarnation’s real, I’ve spun through who-knows-how-many lives. Revival’s off the table.”
Possession wasn’t a cure-all. Soul lifespan mattered—cut down early, you could hop bodies. Run dry? New flesh, same death.
A shattered-soul titan with a body intact might regrow a soul—but not if they’d aged out.
“Master, we’ll take your statue back, honor it daily,” An Lang piped up.
The god chuckled dryly. I’ve been gone centuries—what’s the point?
The banner drifted to Han—his final trust.
Han probed it—no divine spirit lingered.
Noticing, the god said, “It’s gone—died when I hit the Springs.”
Han nodded silently. Shattered body, lost spirit—no saving this relic. Materials it’d be.
“Time to go,” the god said, gazing upward—past them, toward the valley. “No banner power—this place’ll cave soon. No need for mushy goodbyes—just leave.”
Han and An Lang shared a look, then bowed in unison.
They’d noticed his imprint fading—see-through now, scenery peeking past.
“Senior, I’ll finish that Yellow Springs Pill!” Han vowed.
“Master, I’ll train hard—spread your legacy wide!” An Lang added.
With that, they bolted—An Lang snagging the statue.
The god let them go, eyes fixed above. After a long pause, he sighed.
“From azure heights to yellow springs—pity and woe.”
His imprint dissolved.
Boom! The space collapsed, lake water roaring in, shaking the valley.
A Yin God mountain deity’s last mark—buried here.
No immortality—god or dragon-phoenix, all end as dust.