In the depths of night, in Zheng Country’s Qingfeng Prefecture, Aoki County, the Li Residence lay silent.

At third watch, Theodore Warden woke on the dot, his body already used to the rhythm. He rubbed his bleary eyes, rolled off the earthen bed, groped for an outer coat in the dark, and slipped out to the stable. There, he lit a small lamp and started mixing the feed.

The scent of dry hay and beans rose with the sharp crack of eggs he smashed into the mix. The half‑grown black horse inside snorted happily, nudging at Theodore’s coarse short shirt with its warm, damp nose.

“When will this feeding job end… And to think I came from the modern world,” he muttered. “Hard to climb out of this pit.”

He dropped onto a bluestone slab outside the stable, took a dry‑tobacco pipe from his waist, packed the brass bowl with sun‑dried leaves, and used a fire‑paper spark to light it. He drew several sharp breaths.

Thick smoke poured from his nose. He leaned back against the clay wall, eyes half‑closed, letting fatigue melt away.

In his original world, his family had kept him on a tight leash. No smoking, no drinking, certainly nothing like these old folks’ dry‑tobacco pipes.

But now? He liked it. Simple reason: it eased the burden in his bones. After a smoke, most of the day’s exhaustion drifted off.

When the black horse finished eating, Theodore tapped the pipe clean against the heel of his soft shoes, dusted off the dirt on his trousers, and got ready to wash up and sleep.

A horse won’t grow strong without night feed. In the Li Residence, you had to get up at third watch to feed them. So he never dared fall into deep sleep. If he ruined a good horse, Master Zachary Brightwell would have his hide.

He hauled up a bucket of cold, sweet well water, gulped several mouthfuls until his stomach felt full, then lifted the bucket and dumped it over his bare torso. Coolness stabbed down his spine to his tailbone, and he let out a long breath, savoring the brief, sharp relief.

Grime peeled off him in long, dark strips, dropping onto the ground with a wet thud.

“I’m really this old already? Seventeen, and I look no different from some thirty‑odd drudge.”

Bending low to scrub his legs, Theodore Warden caught his reflection in the muddy water of the wooden basin, lit faintly by the stable’s lantern.

A dark face. Lines on his brow that boys his age shouldn’t have. A few white strands at his temples. All of it made him look far older than he was.

Only those clear black‑and‑white eyes still hinted that he was, in truth, a youth.

But then—

The image in the basin wavered, twisted, and aged again. The boyish weariness on his face shriveled into the countenance of a man in his sixties—skin like old bark, hair as white as frost.

Seeing this, Theodore staggered back a few steps. It took him a long moment to steady his breath. He reached up, touched his own cheeks, then lifted the wet hair hanging over his shoulders. Still black.

Only then did he let out a breath.

“Did I imagine it?”

Frowning, he fetched another basin of clean water and leaned over.

The reflection matched his current appearance perfectly.

But after a few heartbeats, just like before, his features warped once more.

That same ancient version of himself—the chicken‑skin, crane‑hair elder—looked back at him.

This time, Theodore didn’t recoil. He narrowed his eyes and studied the strange reflection.

A few breaths passed.

Ripples crossed the surface.

At the brow of the aged reflection, a streak of gold‑violet light bloomed, sharp and brilliant.

In the same instant, Theodore felt his own brow heat, then shine with a pulse of gold.

A golden seal, carved with the words “Late Bloomer,” burst into existence within his mind.

“Fated for Late Blooming?”

Theodore Warden froze for a moment.

In his past life, he had always loved those old tales of immortals and spirits. He knew this talk of destiny wasn’t new—some unseen thread deciding a person’s whole life, whether they lived rich or poor, noble or low.

And now, in his mind, a sigil of gold and violet light shimmered—no doubt one of those legendary supreme destinies. A pity it had to be “Late Blooming.” With how poor he was now, it wouldn’t change much.

As if sensing his gloom, the golden seal flared, its light sinking into his mind, splitting into two clear lines of text.

Fate: Late Blooming.

Trait: Unbending will. Achievement inevitable.

“Achievement inevitable…” Theodore’s mouth twitched.

That sounded nice, sure—but far too vague. If he had to wait until he was some wrinkled old man before this late blooming happened, it’d be worth nothing. Once he lost all his teeth, no matter how famous or wealthy he became, he wouldn’t even be able to chew a piece of meat, let alone enjoy anything else.

But then another thought sparked, sharp and hot.

“If there’s fate like this… then… could there also be immortals? Those who live forever, who roam the Northern Sea at dawn and reach Cangwu by dusk?”

Theodore’s heartbeat kicked up. If this world truly held the path of immortality, then his Late Blooming fate wouldn’t be useless—it would be priceless.

“Qingfeng Prefecture may not have any immortal sects taking disciples… but it does have martial halls taking students.”

He frowned slightly, recalling.

“Those martial warriors rely on youthful blood and bold tempers. They fight hard, live hard… and once age catches them, hidden wounds break out one after another. Most die suddenly. Hardly anyone reaches sixty…”

“But martial secrets aren’t all about killing. Some are just for tending the body, letting a man live long and steady.”

“They say those who practice such arts, who keep clear of brawls and blood, often live past seventy, eighty. The old texts even mention Master Miaoying—trained only in nurturing methods—and he lasted more than a hundred years.”

Thinking of this, Theodore Warden made up his mind. He would first find a chance to learn a proper life‑nurturing art, then look for an immortal’s abode and bow his head to a true master.

With that Late-Bloomer Fate Mark on him, as long as he stayed at it, the art would surely show its worth in his old age.

A longer life meant a wider road toward immortality.

As for the blood-and-blade side of martial practice—well, the realm was peaceful these days. Not much use. Still, if a chance came his way, he wouldn’t turn it down.

He hadn’t touched martial training before not only because “the rich train, the poor cannot,” but for three other reasons.

First, the martial path was harsh. Without the right bones and gifts, a man could toil his whole life and still grasp nothing. The life‑nurturing arts were different—simple to start, easy to learn.

Second, martial skill had its limits. A fighter who could take ten men alone was already praised as a local hero. As for those who could stand against a hundred, a thousand—that was legend, not life.

Third, martial men lived on the knife’s edge. Most drifted without proper work, and few saw a good end. In Qingfeng Prefecture, most so‑called fighters were just blade‑hands. They carried the Hengshan Blades forged in Hengshan Town—farmers off the horse, bandits on it.

“Tomorrow… I’ll find Second Aunt,” Theodore muttered to himself. “She’s the concubine of Master Huang, and the Huang household hires martial guards. Maybe… just maybe they’ve got a life‑nurturing manual lying around…”

When he finally lay down on the warm brick bed, he pressed down the excitement from discovering his golden seal, rolled back and forth a few times, and at last drifted into sleep from sheer exhaustion.

Morning.

The sky barely lit.

Theodore rose, fed the horses, then grabbed a broom to sweep the courtyards of the Li residence.

By the time the masters of the house were about to get up…

He headed to the kitchen first, crouched by the stove, and fed the fire while the cook worked.

Feeding the horses, running errands around the yard—that was his whole day, every day.

Six years ago, in the fifteenth year of Qing’an, his father, Leopold Warden, had sold him to the Li household as a tenant servant.

Back then he was just a half-grown boy, thrown into the mud with the rest of the drudges.

But years of grinding work had their use. After learning the craft of horse‑keeping from old Adel Lockwood, Theodore Warden had finally clawed his way out of tenant servitude and become the Li household’s new stablehand.

As for old Adel, he’d died last year of old age.

Tenant servants and stablehands were both servants in name, but the gap between them was wide as a ditch.

Tenants worked to the bone with no pay, used up by the masters as if they were tools.

A stablehand, though—he was a man with a skill. He earned monthly wages and even ate from the same kitchen as the household.

Of course, the food wasn’t the same.

The masters ate meat; Theodore got bowls of broth that smelled faintly of it.