Cultivating in the Wizard World

Of course, they knew.

An enigmatic researcher possessing absurdly advanced technology suddenly appeared in Wudu, with no traceable background, no family ties, and no social network.

A person like that would be suspicious in any era, any country, any organization.

But the benefits Jeming brought were too significant.

His improvements to sealing technology allowed the association's spiritualists to live for decades longer, his bizarre separation technique let those who dedicated their lives to the association enjoy their later years in peace, and his treatment methods enabled those with soul damage who once only awaited death to stand again.

In this bizarre world where human life is as cheap as grass, the value of one Jeming equaled that of a hundred association elites.

So everyone tacitly chose not to pierce through this layer of window paper.

They wove a protective layer of silence for Jeming, and Jeming repaid this silence with technology.

Eric swallowed all the emotions of reluctance and dissatisfaction that surged up.

His chest heaved twice violently, then returned to calm.

"Then…" his voice was hoarse, "thank you very much for these years. Teacher."

He covered his chest with one hand, bent down, and made a solemn gesture of respect.

Jeming looked at the top of his head.

The hair on the top of that head was somewhat long, a tuft at the back sticking up, likely jostled by rubble when rushing up from the underground lab earlier.

The collar of the lab coat wasn't folded properly; the left side was higher than the right.

He raised his right hand and placed it on Eric's head.

The temperature of the palm was neither too high nor too low, the pressure neither too light nor too heavy.

Eric's body shivered slightly at the moment of the touch, then stilled.

Jeming patted his head then withdrew his hand.

Eric straightened up and wiped his face.

Then his movements froze.

Standing before him was not the unremarkable Jeming he had known for ten years.

Jeming's height was rapidly increasing.

From under 1.8 meters, he grew to 1.9 meters, and then two meters.

His appearance was changing.

The ordinary facial contours became distinct, the features' lines shifted from vague to sharp.

The mediocrity between his brows and eyes vanished, replaced by a beauty not belonging to this era.

The clothes on Jeming's body had somehow become a dark robe, not attire from this plane.

The robe's texture seemed like flowing dark metal, glistening with a deep luster under the bookstore's warm yellow light.

His hair had grown longer, hanging by his shoulders, strands refracting a very light dark gold color under the light.

Eric didn't even notice his mouth had opened.

He stood there, mouth half-agape, looking at this person who was both strange and familiar, with only one thought relentlessly jumping in his head: So this is how Teacher looks.

Returning to his original form, Jeming looked at him, the corners of his mouth slightly curved, giving Eric a semblance of a smile.

Then his figure began to fade.

Under the effect of the Void Step, his outline became blurred, colors turned from vibrant to pallid.

Eric instinctively reached out to grasp.

His fingers passed through the dissipating light and shadow, touching nothing.

Only he remained in the bookstore.

The books on the shelves quietly lined up, the bulb on the ceiling glowed warm yellow, and steam was still rising from the teacup on the table.

The rocking chair had swayed when Jeming got up earlier and was still moving slightly at the moment.

Everything seemed unchanged.

Except for one less person.

Eric stood there, his hand still extended.

He looked at the now empty air, slowly retracting his hand.

His shoulders slightly sagged, yet his back grew straighter.

The jaw tightened, lips pressed into a line.

His eyes were rimmed red but without tears.

Outside the door, the footsteps on the stone road approached rapidly.

Several people running, with steps heavy and swift, boots emitting chaotic sounds on the wet stone slabs.

Eric turned around and walked towards the door.

He pushed open the wooden door, standing on the threshold.

The greyish fog surged forth, carrying the unique damp chill of Wudu mixed with coal smoke and sea scent.

Harding ran in front, followed by three familiar-looking team members in association uniforms.

Sweat beaded on their foreheads, breathing ragged, obviously having run all the way.

Harding stopped at the bookstore door, hands propped on his knees, gulping breaths.

He glanced up at Eric standing on the threshold, then at the bookstore interior behind Eric.

The rocking chair was still swaying, the teacup still steaming, the newspapers still on the table.

"Your teacher?" Harding's voice mingled with gasps, hoarse and urgent.

Eric stood on the threshold, gaze passing over Harding's head, falling on the distant dark purple sky.

The writhing black patterns were denser than before, like a net tightening.

"Gone." He said.

Harding's gasping paused momentarily.

He straightened his back, his gaze shifting from Eric's face to the empty bookstore behind him, then back to Eric's face.

"Where?"

Eric shook his head, not speaking.

Harding stared at him for a few seconds, then slowly nodded.

He didn't ask further.

The three team members behind him exchanged glances, with two stepping back a few steps, whispering something at the alley entrance.

The other stood still, hand on the waistband communicator, seeming to hesitate whether to report this news to headquarters.

Harding stepped forward, ascending the steps, standing beside Eric.

Neither spoke.

The fog flowed in from the alley entrance, spreading over the stone road, across the bookstore threshold, over the feet of the two.

In the distance, under the dark purple sky, the factory's steam whistle sounded, deep and prolonged, like a farewell to a departed existence.

(Something came up; this is the chapter for today.)