“Hmph! There you are,” Mr. Morgan said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t show up. Come, duel me! No one ever beats me, Mr. Morgan, three times in a row!”

Grandpa Vremya shot a glance at Mr. Morgan. It was thanks to this man that he was able to attend this gathering. However, Grandpa Vremya just couldn’t bring himself to grant the man’s wish. Duels were pointless, especially ones against someone he had already defeated twice.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Morgan,” Azalea said, saving the poor man’s face. If he had been ignored by the people he had invited, what would the rest of the cultivators at the gathering think about him. Speaking of which, the other cultivators in the gathering were quite haughty fellows, weren’t they? Most of them wore black robes and had bangs covering one of their eyes. None of them looked at anything in particular as if they were above making eye contact with anyone. “I’m Azalea, Elder Vremya’s lifelong companion.”

Mr. Morgan hesitated. Then, he shook Azalea’s offered hand. “Are you two acquainted with anyone here? If not, how about you sit by me?’ he asked, gesturing behind himself towards a table with four seats. There was a pot of tea placed on the center of the table.

Azalea turned her head towards Grandpa Vremya. He nodded. “Lead the way,” Azalea said. Once they were seated, Azalea swept her gaze over the room once more. She could sense people’s cultivation bases by the amount of spiritual energy they were giving off. However, there were a few people who she couldn’t sense at all. They were the soul-seed cultivators; though, they could’ve been mortals, but Azalea doubted they’d be allowed inside. There was one duo who caught Azalea’s attention. There was a young woman, who looked to be less than forty years old, and a young man was sitting beside her. He was in the nascent-soul stage. It wasn’t the fact that Azalea couldn’t judge the young woman’s cultivation base that drew her attention, it was because the woman was glaring daggers at Grandpa Vremya. She was like a polar bear that had spotted the CEO of a gas company; there was an irresolvable hatred between the two.

“Do you know Albert?” Mr. Morgan asked, leaning over to whisper in Grandpa Vremya’s ear.

Grandpa Vremya shook his head.

“Well, his cousin looks like she wants to kill you,” Mr. Morgan said. “If I were you, I’d watch out for Albert. There’s a high chance he’ll reach the soul-seed stage.”

Grandpa Vremya stared at Mr. Morgan without saying a word. The man’s face flushed as he remembered he, a soul-seed cultivator, had lost twice against Grandpa Vremya. Why would the old man have to worry about Albert? “What’d you do to get her upset anyway?” Mr. Morgan asked, brushing aside his blunder.

“She must’ve seen a video of me and instantly became jealous of my skills,” Grandpa Vremya said.

Albert’s mouth twitched. As a nascent-soul cultivator, his hearing was superb, and even though he was a few tables away from the two, he could still hear them loud and clear. Luckily, Patricia couldn’t. Who knew how she’d react upon hearing him? Although their family was somewhat influential, this was still a gathering of cultivators. A mortal wasn’t allowed to act up here. They wouldn’t kill her outright, but Albert could kiss his chances of getting the phoegon egg’s amniotic fluid goodbye.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“What exactly happens at this gathering?” Azalea asked. They had been invited, and from the little information Azalea could find on the internet, they had a rough idea of what the gathering entailed, but they had no idea about the specifics.

“It’s like a science conference,” Mr. Morgan said, “but the topic is about cultivation instead of formulas and technology. Cultivators challenge each other to duels to test new techniques they’ve created, or someone will display a new formation they developed. It’s all about enlightening others to help them while helping yourself at the same time.”

Azalea’s eyes lit up. Then, her expression darkened. “Isn’t that something you should’ve told us before inviting us?”

Mr. Morgan grinned. “Elder Vremya here is a genius,” he said. “Look at how he modified a battlesuit into an unstoppable machine. I’m sure he has lots to share. The techniques and technology used to create your battlesuit robot can help many people accomplish things they deemed impossible before.”

“So that’s what you were after,” Azalea said, nodding her head. She glanced at Grandpa Vremya. “What do you think?”

Grandpa Vremya stroked his beard. “What are the conditions to receiving the phoegon egg’s amniotic fluid?” he asked Mr. Morgan.

“People will vote on who contributed the most to the gathering, and the people with the top five highest scores will be allowed to enter the den with the phoegon eggs. There are five eggs, and each person gets one. As for whether or not you choose an unfertilized egg is up to chance.”

“In that case,” Grandpa Vremya said and glanced at Azalea, “it won’t be too difficult to get you the egg.” Compared to using his body, he much rather preferred to use his mind. He had expected there to be a trial of defeating a phoenix or a dragon, but if it was just a knowledge exchange, how could anyone possibly compete with him? As for whether or not he cared about his own golems being used against him in the future, why would he? Even if someone knew what Grandpa Vremya knew, he’d still be a hundred times better at using the knowledge. His eyes narrowed. “If the two of us contribute enough, we’ll be allowed to pick two phoegon eggs?”

“As long as your names are on the list of top five contributors, you’ll be allowed to pick two eggs. There’s also no cheating nor nepotism allowed, so you don’t have to worry about that,” Mr. Morgan said. “For the advancement of the whole society, us older generations aren’t afraid of contributing some fortune to the newer generations.”

“How can you confirm there’s no cheating?” Azalea asked. With this many people around, she didn’t believe all of them were honest people. In fact, she suspected most of them were dishonest and very few were honest. People didn’t reach the nascent-soul stage by being saints. Cultivation was a ruthless, unending competition for resources.

“Take a look around you,” Mr. Morgan said. “All of these people, they’re too proud to cheat.

Azalea frowned. That wasn’t the answer she was expecting. Her eyes narrowed as she swept her gaze over all the loners in the room. There weren’t many of them who were sitting at the same table. They really did seem like individuals who were tired of everyone else and wanted nothing to do with society. After scanning the room, she turned back towards Mr. Morgan. “Why is everyone dressed like they’re mourning?”

“You mean wearing black robes and covering one eye?” Mr. Morgan asked. A sigh escaped from his mouth. “Not too long ago, one of the strongest soul-seed cultivators, a true advocate for cultivators everywhere, Andrew Stone, was brutally executed by the ancestor of your sect. When he wasn’t in his military uniform, he always wore black robes and an eyepatch. These people are just paying homage to him.”

“So, there’s no cheating or nepotism, but there’ll definitely be bias, eh?” Azalea asked, raising an eyebrow. She certainly wouldn’t vote for someone whose sect ancestor murdered her favorite idol no matter how big of a contribution they gave.

“It doesn’t matter,” Grandpa Vremya said, grabbing Azalea’s hand. “If it’s clear they’re being biased, then we’ll just retrieve the eggs the old-fashioned way. I brought a lot of golems.”