Xiao Qi held his breath, curled up in the damp hollow of a tree root, his heart pounding like a drum within his thin chest.
The weakness brought by the poisonous miasma had not yet fully receded, and now fresh fear gripped him—had those black-robed pursuers caught up? He bit his lower lip hard, not daring to make the slightest sound; even the iron skillet on his back seemed heavier, pressing down until he could barely breathe.
Footsteps and voices drew near from afar, passing through the thin purple mist and becoming clear.
"…Senior Brother, the 'Purple Beard Grass' here at the edge of the Poisonous Miasma Forest may not match the quality of the deeper regions, but its toxicity is mild, perfectly suitable for refining basic antidote pills.
Once this gathering task is finished, we can report back to Master."
A somewhat young male voice spoke up, tone relaxed with the satisfaction of a completed task.
"Mm, make it quick.
Although this isn't the core area, the miasma is treacherous; we shouldn't linger."
Another, steadier male voice replied, "Strange though—just now I seemed to sense a peculiar surge of spiritual energy, gone in an instant. Could there be some spiritual object out here?"
"Probably just interference from the miasma. This godforsaken place, apart from us from Qingxu Temple, who else would come…"
Qingxu Temple? Xiao Qi vaguely remembered his father Xu Zhan mentioning that name, saying it was a reputable righteous sect within a thousand miles, having no deep ties with Xu Lan Mountain Manor but maintaining peaceful relations. Not the demonic cultivators of Shadow Snake Pavilion! The taut string in his heart suddenly loosened; overwhelming fatigue and the grievance of survival after calamity surged up. He could hold on no longer, his vision darkened, and he slumped softly against the tree root.
When consciousness returned again, Xiao Qi found himself lying on a hard plank bed covered with clean coarse cloth. He was in a simple yet tidy wooden hut, the air faintly scented with medicinal herbs and the smell of smoke.
He stirred—his body still ached and felt weak, but that nauseating sensation of toxin erosion had vanished.
"Oh? Little one, you're awake?" a gentle voice sounded.
Xiao Qi looked toward the source and saw a middle-aged Daoist in cyan robes, with a kindly face, sitting at a table grinding herbs with a pestle. Seeing him awake, the Daoist set down the pestle, walked to the bedside, and felt his pulse. Nodding, he said, "Good, though the pulse is weak, it's stable. You fainted at the edge of the Poisonous Miasma Forest; my two disciples brought you back while gathering herbs. What's your name? Where is your home? Why were you alone in such a dangerous place?"
The barrage of questions flustered Xiao Qi. Remembering his mother's warning, he lowered his head, his small hands unconsciously clutching his clothes, his voice thin as a mosquito's hum, "I… my name is Xiao Qi. My home… is gone."
He dared not say more, afraid of revealing his identity and bringing disaster upon this Daoist who had saved him.
Seeing his tattered clothes, covered in wounds, and hearing him speak of a lost home, the Daoist's eyes flashed with pity, assuming he was a poor orphan victim of war or banditry. He sighed softly and pressed no further.
"This humble Daoist is Xuan Chen, a deacon of Qingxu Temple. Since you have no home to return to, and though the miasma poison was mostly neutralized by a strange force, your foundation is damaged. You may stay here for now, join the other laborer disciples in tasks within your ability, and recuperate. How does that sound?"
Xiao Qi raised his head, looked into Daoist Xuan Chen's gentle gaze, felt a warm current rise in his heart, and nodded firmly.
Thus, Xiao Qi settled in at Qingxu Temple, assigned to the laborer quarters near the back mountain.
All he carried with him were the jade pendant hidden against his skin, tied with ordinary hemp cord, and the black iron skillet his mother had given him—privately mocked by other laborer disciples as a "broken pot."
The life of a laborer was austere and busy: chopping firewood, carrying water, sweeping courtyards, helping in the kitchen.
Young and weak, Xiao Qi often made mistakes and suffered at first. Moreover, being "of unclear origin" and carrying that ridiculous pot, he endured many disdainful looks and exclusion from older laborers.
But having experienced the annihilation of his family and survival in the wilderness, his will was far more resilient than his peers. He endured silently, seeking only a place to settle and survive.
Since its strange stirring in the Poisonous Miasma Forest, the jade pendant had fallen silent again. Apart from occasionally sending a faint, cool comfort when he woke from nightmares, it showed no special behavior.
And the iron skillet truly became part of his daily use.
Assigned to help in the kitchen, he was responsible for washing pots, bowls, and utensils.
Sometimes, when hunger gnawed fiercely, he would secretly collect discarded but still edible vegetable scraps from the kitchen, or occasionally obtain a handful of rice, and using his small skillet, carefully cook them by the remaining embers of the stove.
That pan heated extremely quickly, and the porridge it produced was exceptionally soft and glutinous, carrying an indescribable, comforting flavor.
This pot became his only, and final, link to the warm home of his past.
One day, the deacon responsible for testing the aptitudes of new disciples passed by the laborer courtyard. Seeing Xiao Qi, though young, work steadily, he casually tested his spiritual roots.
The results showed his spiritual root attributes were chaotic, containing metal, wood, water, fire, and earth, with none standing out—the lowest-tier "pseudo spiritual roots." Even drawing qi into the body was immensely difficult, almost hopeless for cultivation.
As this news spread, Xiao Qi's nickname "little waste" grew louder.
He couldn't help but feel disheartened. Late at night, touching the jade pendant at his chest, remembering his father's words that the Xu family bloodline was extraordinary, his heart grew even more bewildered.
Yet, through day after day of labor and occasional "private cooking" with the iron skillet, Xiao Qi gradually noticed some subtle anomalies.
Once, after overexerting himself chopping wood, his arms sore and unbearably tense, he held the pendant while resting. That familiar warm flow appeared again—weak, yet effectively easing the muscle soreness.
Another time, while cooking a slightly astringent wild vegetable in the skillet, he unintentionally channeled that wisp of faint energy flow (he later learned it was called spiritual power) sparked during the life‑and‑death crisis in the miasma forest into the pan's handle. The vegetable's astringency noticeably lessened, its texture becoming much milder.
These discoveries filled Xiao Qi with astonishment and doubt.
He dared not speak of them, burying these oddities deep in his heart.
The jade pendant seemed to possess healing and calming effects, and this iron skillet, ridiculed by everyone as scrap iron, appeared… not entirely ordinary.
Both were the last things his parents left him. Could they truly hide some secret?
Tang Xiaoqi thought: "This pot was used by Mother… holding it feels like she's still beside me. No matter how bitter, I must live on."
He remained silent in his labor, still mocked by some, but deep within, a faint light quietly kindled.
He began, when unnoticed, to focus more on feeling the pendant's warmth, attempting to guide that wisp of faint energy within him to contact the iron skillet.
The road ahead remained unclear; danger might not yet be far away.
But at least, he had survived.
And now, holding two peculiar objects possibly closely tied to his parents and his own origins.
Within Qingxu Temple, this frightened bird had finally found a corner where he could catch his breath—and secretly explore his own path.