Chapter Seven: Wei Fan

As soon as He Song, clad in the attire of a Spirit Cultivator, stepped into the Pavilion of Spirit Construction, a voice greeted him from nearby.

Almost immediately, a young man appeared before He Song, also dressed in the robes of the inner staff of the Immortal Workshop. His eyes carried a gentle smile, and the warmth in his gaze was reminiscent of meeting a kinsman, making one feel as if enveloped by a spring breeze.

Yet He Song could sense a strong spiritual pressure emanating from the man; clearly, his cultivation far outstripped He Song’s own.

Seeing this, He Song hurriedly clasped his hands in respect. “Indeed, I am He Song, newly appointed as a Spirit Cultivator just yesterday. Greetings, senior.”

He Song spoke candidly, concealing nothing. Having only just become a Spirit Cultivator, he possessed nothing that might provoke envy or suspicion. Judging by the man’s demeanor, he did not appear to seek trouble, so He Song saw no reason to hide anything.

“I am Wei Fan, steward of the Pavilion of Spirit Construction. Since you are a Spirit Cultivator, you are one of our own, no need for such formality,” Wei Fan replied, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

As the steward, he personally received virtually every internal staff member who came to renew their lease. He was familiar with Spirit Cultivators—especially now, during the spring planting season, when the Spirit Medicine Pavilion had recruited new cultivators. This came as no surprise to him.

“Please, follow me,” Wei Fan continued. “The Immortal Workshop has its own rules; you need not stand among these itinerant cultivators.”

With a fleeting look of disdain, he glanced at the long queue of itinerant cultivators waiting to pay their spirit stones.

The gulf between the itinerants and the internal staff was vast. The itinerants would go to any lengths for cultivation resources, resulting in a constantly high mortality rate. In contrast, the internal staff—each possessing a skill—need not risk their lives, and their mortality rate was exceedingly low.

When dealing with an itinerant who might die at any moment, compared to an internal staff member whose skills and cultivation would steadily improve, his attitude was naturally different.

Even if Spirit Cultivators received few resources annually, they were unlikely to perish easily. With time, some might reach the mid or even late stages of Qi Refinement.

As for itinerants? One might befriend someone only to find them dead a few days later—a pointless waste of time.

Following Wei Fan’s gaze, He Song saw a group of itinerant cultivators queueing to pay their spirit stones.

Unlike He Song, the Spirit Cultivator, the itinerants all paid at a single counter. After handing over ten spirit stones, a staff member would record their residence, granting them another month’s lodging.

Rooms whose tenants failed to renew their payment would be reclaimed by the Law Enforcement Hall. Anyone hoping for a free stay would find no such luck.

Trailing behind Wei Fan, He Song was soon led to a house of classical elegance. Exquisite wooden furniture stood neatly arranged, wisps of fragrant smoke curling through the air. The rich aroma of incense enveloped him, and He Song felt a subtle difference as soon as he entered.

Given that the Pavilion was within the Bamboo Mountain Immortal Workshop, with excellent security, He Song refrained from holding his breath, despite a brief hesitation. Caution depended on occasion and status; as his own status was low and the location secure, and with Wei Fan’s cultivation so much higher than his own, withholding breath would only invite ridicule.

Wei Fan noticed nothing amiss. After seating them both according to rank, he spoke in a gentle tone.

“You’ve only just become a Spirit Cultivator, with no other income. I suspect you’re here because you’re short of funds.”

“To be candid, this is quite common—and there is a solution. If you leave your aura here, you need not return each month; once a year will suffice.”

With these words, Wei Fan flipped his hand, producing a contract and laying it on the table before He Song.

“Please, take a look,” Wei Fan said calmly, his speech smooth and practiced—clearly, he had handled such matters many times before.

It seemed that many internal staff members, like He Song, were pressed for funds.

Composing himself, He Song bowed to Wei Fan, then picked up the contract.

A quick scan revealed why Wei Fan was so familiar with this process. The contract stipulated that, upon joining the Immortal Workshop as an internal staff member, one could use the annual stipend issued by the Workshop to pay rent.

Spirit Cultivators did not receive an annual stipend, but provided nothing went awry, the spirit rice harvested from their five acres of spirit fields would be bought by the Workshop, yielding 150 spirit stones a year.

After deducting 120 stones for annual rent, He Song would be left with only thirty.

This contract allowed internal staff to reside first, paying rent later when their annual stipend was issued. Once a cultivator left their aura on the contract, even if they tried to default, the Law Enforcement Squad could trace their aura and force a settlement—an ordeal that would leave one battered, if not dead.

Such deterrence eliminated any thoughts of shirking payment.

Paying voluntarily and being dragged back to pay were two entirely different experiences.

“If you agree, simply leave your aura on the contract,” Wei Fan said, sounding certain of He Song’s compliance, but not pressing him—merely stating it as fact. He then began brewing tea.

As the unknown leaves rolled in the teapot, the first cup was placed before He Song, who, at the appropriate moment, left his aura on the contract.

There was nothing at fault with the contract. It merely changed from pay-first-use-later to use-first-pay-later, and from monthly to annual payments. The amount owed remained the same, but the arrangement was more convenient for internal staff.

“Thank you, friend. This is fine tea.” Raising the cup, He Song took a sip and praised it. Though he knew little of tea, with the cup already before him, it would have been discourteous not to sip and compliment it.

Wei Fan’s cultivation, though its exact stage was unknown, was certainly higher than his own. Having such a figure personally brew tea for him, He Song would not dare be impolite.

Thus, even if he could not discern the tea’s quality, he praised it as if from the heart.

“Hahaha, no need for such courtesy. My greatest pleasure is making friends. It’s just mediocre tea—if you don’t mind, that’s enough,” Wei Fan laughed, seeming to glimpse He Song’s thoughts.

He refilled He Song’s cup.

But this time, as he placed the cup before He Song, his voice rang out again.

“Friend, do you know Meng Guan from the Spirit Medicine Pavilion?”