Cultivating in the Wizard World

And Jeming's new technology can greatly reduce the corrosion speed of the soul by the bizarre.

Originally, spiritualists could only last ten years, but now they can last thirty years, fifty years, or even longer.

The second key technology is the bizarre separation technique.

Traditional fusion is irreversible; once the bizarre is sealed within the body, it cannot be removed unless there is an outbreak caused by the death of the spiritualist.

Moreover, the destruction of the sealing array will lead to a complete rampage of the bizarre, and the host's soul will be instantly devoured.

Jeming's separation technique can "peel" the bizarre away from the host's soul completely when the spiritualist no longer needs its power, without damaging the host's mental core.

The peeled-off bizarre can be resealed, researched, or destroyed.

With the combination of these two technologies, those spiritualists who have dedicated their lives to the association can finally enjoy their later years in peace.

It is because of this achievement that Jeming's subsequent research received more and more support from the Spirit Communicator Association.

Harding is a beneficiary of these two technologies.

The Eye of the Storm within him, under Jeming's improved sealing, has reduced its corrosion speed to one-fifth of the original.

Last year, just before Deke set off north, Jeming performed the first bizarre separation surgery on him, safely peeling the Eye of the Storm from Harding's body.

The surgery was very successful, and Harding's soul was almost undamaged.

He is now a normal person, one without bizarre power, but also not needing to race against death.

"Deke told me before he left that I should relay this message to you." Harding pulled an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table, "He said when he returns, he'd like you to give him a thorough check-up. He feels he has reached a bottleneck with his fusion with the Shadow Snake, and may need you to help him adjust the sealing structure."

Jeming picked up the envelope, not opening it, just feeling its thickness.

There was something inside, not a letter, perhaps some kind of sample or energy stamp.

"Let him come to me directly when he gets back." Jeming put the envelope into his pocket.

The two chatted a bit more, about the recent personnel changes at the association, about the progress of that disaster-level bizarre in the north, and about which of the new restaurants in the old town were good.

The conversation jumped casually in various directions, like two old neighbors chatting by the fireplace in winter.

Half an hour later, Harding looked at his watch and stood up.

"It's late, I have to go." He drained his cup of tea and walked towards the door.

Jeming didn't see him off, just nodded slightly from his rocking chair.

Harding opened the wooden door, pausing at the doorway.

His gaze fell in the direction of the clinic, seeing Eric through the glass door arranging instruments in the sterilization cabinet.

The young man, head lowered, precisely placed surgical instruments into a tray, movements as accurate as if performing an operation.

"That Eric kid has made great progress." Harding's voice lowered, "Last month, the medical team at the association headquarters sent me a report, saying that after sending people here to learn, the success rate of handling soul damage increased by nearly forty percent. Forty percent, in just six months."

Jeming did not speak.

"But he still feels he falls short compared to you." Harding turned his head to glance at Jeming, "Every time I ask how he evaluates himself, he always says 'okay, but the teacher does it better.' I can see that kid isn't being humble, and genuinely feels that way."

"He's not wrong." Jeming picked up his teacup and took a sip, his tone flat as if commenting on the nice weather today.

Harding stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, smiling, a smile filled with many things.

"Alright, you're the teacher, you decide." He pulled open the door and left.

At the alley entrance, a black association vehicle had already turned around, and the back seat door was open.

The injured middle-aged man was sitting inside, flipping through a book with his uninjured hand.

Harding walked over, opened the door, and sat in the passenger seat.

The car started, the exhaust pipe spewed out a cloud of white vapor, leaving a faint trail in the gray air.

The car rounded the corner, disappearing deep into the alleys of the old town.

Eric stood at the clinic entrance, watching the tail lights of the car become two blurred red dots in the fog, then vanish.

He turned around, looking toward the bookstore.

Jeming had risen from the rocking chair, standing at the door with his hands in his pockets, his gaze also tracking the departing car.

The gray daylight fell on him, casting a cold-colored halo over his dark coat.

Mentor and student exchanged a glance.

Jeming said nothing, turning back into the bookstore.

Eric followed him inside.

The oil lamps in the bookstore were gone.

An electric lamp hung from the ceiling, its warm yellow light gently filling every nook.

The bookshelves had many more books than ten years ago, not just old ones, but some new publications about bizarre research and soul medicine.

Some books bore tags from the association library, "borrowed" by Harding from the association's internal database to give to Jeming.

Jeming settled into the rocking chair.

Eric stood silently beside the bookshelf, knowing his teacher had something to say.

"Put up the rest sign." Jeming's voice was quiet, unhurried, but each word clear, "You can proceed with the fifth sealing."

Upon hearing this, Eric's expression remained calm.

"Yes, Teacher." He replied.

He didn't ask if he was ready, knowing such a question would insult his teacher's character.

Turning, he walked toward the door, reaching to flip the sign that read "Open" upside-down.