Cultivating in the Wizard World

That was Jeming's work.

Eric had studied for ten years, and he believed he was far superior to any physician in the Association when it came to "healing."

But compared to Jeming, he felt he was still crawling while his teacher was already flying.

He couldn't even clearly say where Jeming was better than him.

Or rather, Jeming's superiority was all-encompassing, not limited to any specific technique.

The understanding of the mysterious, the insight into the soul, the prediction of energy flow…

When handling a complex case of soul damage, he needed to repeatedly check, cautiously probe, and progress step by step.

Jeming only needed to take a glance to know where the problem was, how to solve it, and how long it would take.

Ten years had passed.

He thought he had come a long way, but every time he saw Jeming take action, he would confirm once again the fact: the distance between him and his teacher had not shortened even by a millimeter over time.

Just as Eric was immersed in his memories, the doorbell rang.

However, the sound came from the wooden door of the bookstore next door.

Eric poked his head out of the treatment room and saw through the clinic window that the door of the bookstore was being pushed open.

An old man with gray hair stood at the door, carrying a metal box.

It was Harding.

In the old bookstore, Jeming was half-lying in the rocking chair as usual.

He looked the same as he did ten years ago, and every time Harding saw him, he almost thought that not much time had passed.

"You're here." Jeming picked up a teacup from the small table beside the rocking chair, poured a cup of water, and pushed it to the other side of the table.

Harding placed the metal box on the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

His movements were a bit slower than ten years ago, after all, he wasn't young anymore.

His hair was completely white, but he was in good spirits, had few wrinkles on his face, and his eyes remained sharp.

Harding was now wearing casual clothes.

Since retiring, he hadn't worn his uniform, which hung in his closet, with the epaulets and badges polished bright.

"This is this quarter's data." Harding patted the metal box, which was engraved with the Spirit Communicator Association's emblem and security classification, "Research data on the paranormal phenomena in three cities and analysis reports on seventeen newly captured paranormal samples. The president asked me to personally deliver it, saying he didn't trust the regular channels."

Jeming nodded and pushed the box to the side of the chair without opening it for inspection.

For ten years, every batch of data and materials delivered by Harding had never gone wrong.

"I've heard that Deke went north?" Jeming picked up his teacup and blew on the hot steam.

Harding also picked up his cup, took a sip of water, then leaned back against the chair, his expression turning somewhat sentimental.

It was the look an old friend would have when mentioning a younger colleague, a mix of pride and concern.

"Left last month. Three cities in the north have been experiencing successive Disaster Level paranormal outbreaks, and the Association headquarters sent five president-level spiritualists for support, Deke being one of them."

"That kid is quite something now; the Shadow Snake has already fused to the seventh layer with his soul, oh, now they all call him Shadow Snake Deke."

Jeming's lips curved slightly, revealing a hint of a smile.

He recalled seeing Deke ten years ago in an abandoned factory when he first encountered the shark monster; Deke was a pale-faced young man with trembling fingers.

But now, he had grown to be an upper echelon in the Spirit Communicator Association.

"And you? How's your health?" Jeming asked.

Harding set down his teacup and raised his right hand, spreading his fingers, then clenching them into a fist.

The movement was slow, but steady, without the slightest tremble.

"I had a comprehensive check-up last year, and the physicians at the Association headquarters said the stability of my soul has actually increased by three percentage points since before retirement." His tone showed undisguised pride, "I said it's because I've been maintaining regularly with Dr. Nolen, and the faces of those physicians turned green."

Jeming said nothing, only refilled Harding's cup with water.

The peaceful times they enjoyed now were all thanks to that notebook…

No! Strictly speaking, what the professor left behind was far more than just that black notebook.

Ten years ago, after the psychiatric hospital ruins were cleared, the Spirit Communicator Association spent several months excavating beneath the ruins.

They found a large amount of undestroyed research data in the collapsed alternate space fragments: box after box of experimental records, data analyses, and paranormal sample files.

Those materials were sealed by the Association and then gradually exchanged by Jeming using collaborative opportunities.

That was the professor's life's work.

Decades of research, detailed dissection records of over a hundred paranormal entities, and data from thousands of fusion experiments.

It could be said that the technology provided by the wizard back then was just a trigger; the professor had already paved most of the road on his own by that time.

Jeming spent some time organizing and archiving all the data and then spent several years developing a complete, reproducible paranormal research theoretical framework based on that data.

And under the support of this theoretical framework, he developed various scattered technologies.

Among the most critical were two technologies, one being the improved version of seal technology.

Traditional seal technology would cause the paranormal power to continuously erode the host's soul, like water pressure slowly seeping into the cracks of a dam.

The longer the seal, the deeper the erosion, until one day the dam collapses.

So for a spiritualist, from the moment they become one, the countdown to death has already begun.