The Spirit Garden within Lin Xian had changed.

  Where once cracked earth had stretched endlessly beneath a dead sky, there now grew the faintest promise of life.

  The soil, once brittle and blackened, had darkened into a rich, loamy brown.

  The wounded sapling at the garden’s heart stood taller now, its bark gleaming faintly under the newborn starlight.

  Tiny shoots of green poked from the ground around it — humble grasses, delicate moss, a few stubborn wildflowers, pale and shivering.

  Not a paradise.

  Not yet.

  But it lived.

  And it was his.

  Lin Xian knelt in the center of the garden, both hands pressed to the warm soil.

  The Verdant Qi flowed through him now — weak, sluggish, but real — sinking into the ground, nourishing the roots of the sapling and the fledgling plants around it.

  Each breath he took gathered Qi from the surroundings, filtering it instinctively through the Spirit Garden rather than his dantian.

  He could feel the difference.

  Where normal cultivation swallowed energy greedily, compressing it into internal seas or golden cores, the Verdant Path absorbed it gently, letting it soak into the roots, the soil, the leaves.

  It was slower.

  Much slower.

  But steadier.

  Deeper.

  It built not simply power, but life.

  Sweat dripped from Lin Xian’s brow as he carefully directed the flow of energy into barren patches of soul-soil, watching as tiny cracks knitted themselves shut and seedlings pushed upward.

  He worked without thought of time, losing himself in the simple rhythm:

  Breathe.

  Gather.

  Nourish.

  Grow.

  Hours — or perhaps days — passed in the garden.

  No sun rose or set here yet.

  The light came from within — from the slow, stubborn beat of life refusing to yield.

  And with each cycle of breath and Qi, the Spirit Garden grew a little stronger.

  When Lin Xian finally opened his eyes to the physical world again, he found himself still curled against the base of the ancient, hollow tree in the real Sealed Grove.

  Dawn’s light filtered through the mist, painting the ruined clearing in muted gold.

  His muscles ached.

  His robes were soaked with sweat and dew.

  But inside him, the Spirit Garden pulsed with steady life.

  He smiled weakly, dragging himself upright.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  He felt... heavier somehow.

  Not in burden, but in presence.

  As if his very spirit had put down roots into the world, anchoring him in ways no sword form or breathing technique ever could.

  He flexed his fingers experimentally.

  Tiny tendrils of Verdant Qi answered, coiling lazily around his fingertips before dissolving back into his skin.

  The connection was fragile still.

  A newborn sapling in a world of hurricanes.

  But it would grow.

  He would see to it.

  He spent the morning scavenging what little he could from the ruined grove.

  Most of the spirit plants had long withered into dust, their Qi spent centuries ago.

  But in the shade of a fallen statue, he found a cluster of stubborn ivy clinging to life, its leaves glinting faintly with residual energy.

  He harvested it carefully — thanking it with a whispered prayer — and fed the leaves into the Spirit Garden, feeling the faint surge of vitality as the garden absorbed the offering.

  The days that followed blurred into a quiet, relentless rhythm.

  Tending.

  Feeding.

  Breathing.

  Growing.

  Each morning, Lin Xian returned to the Sealed Grove in secret, slipping past the notice of outer disciples too concerned with their own petty rivalries.

  Each night, he sank into meditation, sinking deep into the Spirit Garden to mend broken soil, nurture fledgling shoots, coax stubborn roots to strengthen.

  Progress was slow.

  Excruciatingly slow.

  A single inch of garden reclaimed might take an entire night’s work.

  The sapling, while healthier, remained delicate — its bark still thin, its roots still shallow.

  But Lin Xian did not despair.

  He had spent his whole life tending broken things.

  And now, for the first time, something grew under his hands.

  On the fourth night, the Spirit Garden shifted.

  Lin Xian felt it the moment he entered meditation — a faint tremor rippling through the soil.

  He rushed to the sapling’s side, heart hammering.

  The sapling’s two leaves quivered violently, as if caught in a storm he could not see.

  Tiny cracks spiderwebbed through the surrounding ground.

  A faint, sour scent filled the air — corruption.

  Panic surged through him — had he missed some lingering blight? Was the garden dying?

  But then he saw it:

  At the base of the sapling, a tiny bulge pushed upward — a third leaf, struggling to unfurl.

  Not a death.

  A birth.

  The Spirit Garden was evolving.

  Lin Xian dropped to his knees, tears stinging his eyes.

  He cupped the newborn leaf carefully, channeling what little Verdant Qi he could muster into its veins.

  The leaf trembled, then spread wide, catching the faint starlight overhead.

  The entire garden sighed.

  A ripple of energy swept outward from the sapling, sinking into the soil, the grasses, the moss.

  The cracked patches mended a little faster.

  The shoots grew a little taller.

  The entire space seemed... warmer.

  More alive.

  More his.

  He sat there for a long time, breathing the new air of his Spirit Garden, feeling the slow, stubborn life of it pulse in time with his heart.

  For the first time since stepping onto the path of cultivation, he felt no envy toward those disciples who spun golden cores and summoned blade auras.

  This was better.

  Deeper.

  Truer.

  When he opened his eyes to the waking world, it was still dark — pre-dawn mist swirling low around the garden ruins.

  But he felt stronger.

  Centered.

  Rooted.

  He rose slowly, flexing his hands.

  The faintest outlines of new spirit vines twined around his wrists, vanishing as he shifted his focus.

  Not enough for real combat yet.

  But soon.

  Soon.

  The wind shifted, carrying faint voices through the mist.

  Lin Xian stiffened.

  He moved carefully toward the broken edge of the grove, peering through a veil of hanging vines.

  Two Outer Sect disciples stumbled past, their robes stained with mud.

  "...I'm telling you," one was muttering, voice low and urgent. "Something’s wrong with the Verdant Seals. Elder Mo said they detected an awakening."

  Lin Xian’s heart thudded painfully against his ribs.

  The other disciple snorted. "Probably just some wild spirit beast stirring up the old arrays. Those ruins have been dead for centuries."

  "Still..." The first shivered. "Better them than me. I’m not going near that cursed place."

  Their voices faded into the mist as they hurried away.

  Lin Xian sagged back against the trunk of the ancient tree, breathing hard.

  They knew.

  Maybe not about him.

  Not yet.

  But the Sect could feel the stirrings of life where there should have been only death.

  Sooner or later, they would come looking.

  And when they did...

  He would need more than a single sapling.

  He would need roots.

  Companions.

  Strength.

  A garden no storm could tear down.

  He pressed a hand against the bark, feeling the pulse of life beneath.

  A vow formed quietly on his lips:

  I will grow.

  I will protect.

  I will bloom — even if the world tries to tear me apart.

  The Spirit Garden within him pulsed in answer.

  Steady.

  Patient.

  Strong.

  Verdant Sovereign is a story about stubborn growth, about finding strength where others only see weakness — and I’m honored you're here at the start.

  Every bit of support helps this little garden grow. ??