The words hang in the air—"Who am I?"—suspended in the stillness that follows. I feel them echo through me, reverberating deeper than ever before. And then, with a surge of clarity, comes the answer: "I am Nathan Stone, and I seek the Truth!" Speaking those words feels like carving them into my very soul. They linger, shaping me in ways I don't yet fully understand.

Slowly, the room comes back into focus. The candle still burns steadily, the small flame flickering like a reflection of the fire that now smolders within me. I know I've crossed a threshold—a line that can't be uncrossed. The feeling of being at a crossroads still lingers, but now, something is different. I've made my choice. Is this what it means to be a cultivator? To be acknowledged by the heavens?

In every story, they describe cultivation as "going against the heavens." Was this the formation of my Dao heart? In some ways, my own answer actually shocked me. Since when was I someone who sought the Truth? And yet, the words came to my mouth as naturally as breathing. Maybe, deep down, this is something I've always wanted—something I never dared believe could be true.

That there's more to this world than what we can see—that there's something greater out there. Money, fame, power—none of those worldly pursuits ever appealed to me. After all, I never pushed myself to get a better-paying job, or to find a partner and start a family. The only thing I ever truly wanted was freedom.

But freedom is a catch-22, isn't it? The reality is that you need money to live, and money means work. Unless you were lucky enough to be born rich, money seems to just make itself when you have enough of it. Maybe that's what sparked my interest in the stock market, but I learned the hard way that nothing comes easy. No matter how many "strategies" I came up with, the only thing I achieved was a dwindling bank balance.

The largest returns I've ever seen were after giving up and putting everything into the S&P 500—boring but reliable advice. Warren Buffet said it, didn't he? "If I weren't me, I wouldn't play the market; I'd just put it all into an ETF." It's true enough, but seven percent growth on not much is... well, not much. Certainly not enough to live on. So, I had to keep working—just enough to get by. Forty hours a week, nine to five, no overtime. I've saved a little, and I'm doing better than scraping by, but it's been a quiet life. Too peaceful, maybe.

I let myself get lulled into a sense of normalcy, as if nothing really mattered. It was easier to convince myself that finding inner happiness and keeping occupied was enough. That there was nothing out there that interested me, no magic to stir me to action. But now? The universe has practically dropped magic into my lap.

Can I keep lying to myself? Can I keep wasting away, idling my time, never striving for more? I've never cared about money, and it's still not my sole driving force, but with this power—there's so much I could do.

I'm not sure how yet, but I have the inkling of a plan. If mana can be projected outside the body to create heat—if my intent shapes it—can't I focus it into practically anything? Are there really any limits? I could perform superhuman feats. I could clear out gangs and drug dealers, clean up the streets, and make some well deserved money while I'm at it. I'm not there yet, but eventually... I could get there.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Or, what if I could become incredibly persuasive? Imagine how easy it would be to make money if I could exert a magical charm. A modern-day snake oil salesman, but instead of snake oil, I'd be selling harmless trinkets—maybe even imbuing them with mana to make them irresistible to anyone who passed by.

If I could make enough money to quit my job, I'd have even more time to cultivate. And with more time to cultivate, I could get stronger even faster. My potential is practically limitless!

I haven't been this motivated in a long time. As I glance up at the clock, I realize hardly any time has passed. It's just now 4:00 PM. So I guess my reality-redefining moment of cultivation only took about half an hour—and it's Saturday, which means I still have tomorrow off before the workweek starts again.

Sunday would be the perfect chance to set up a stall and try my luck with charm magic. I pretty much have everything I need: a folding table, a spare sheet, and, when I was digging through that footstool earlier, I found all those keyrings I bought during my 3D-printing phase. I even have a bunch of trinkets already printed—popular video game characters and other franchises—enough to test the waters.

Actually, maybe this is a great chance to clear out some junk. I still have those four Android tablets I bought cheap and rooted. They've been wiped clean, and I used them for side projects as little mobile Linux machines. The specs are pretty bad, but the displays are decent enough. They'd be perfect for that digital picture frame code I wrote a while back. It shouldn't take long to flash them with the software.

These tablets were cheap—under forty dollars each—but that was years ago. No one would want them as tablets now, but as picture frames? I could probably get fifty bucks a pop. That's two hundred dollars if I can sell them all. I'll just whip up a foldable kickstand design, print it in black to match the tablets, and glue them to the back. It won't be fancy, but it should look passable—especially with a little magical encouragement.

I spend the next two hours flashing the tablets and printing the kickstands. While they're printing, I loop keychains onto the trinkets I printed earlier. I even manage to complete another cultivation cycle before the kickstands finish. After gluing them on and leaving the tablets to charge—Growl.

Before I realize it, it's 6:00 PM, and my stomach kindly reminds me I've skipped dinner. With everything in order for tomorrow, I toss some chicken tenderloins in the air fryer and heat up a pouch of microwaveable rice—waiting for a fresh pot isn't an option for a hungry tummy, especially when the chicken will be done in eighteen minutes.

Halfway through, I give the chicken a flip, and it comes out golden brown—thanks to the miracle that is an air fryer. With a quick toss in the frying pan and a splash of soy sauce, ketchup, and oil—odd as it sounds—it turns out tasting almost like yakisoba. Not bad for a quick meal.

Fourteen years as a bachelor hasn't been for nothing. I've learned to cook pretty well, but I tend to gravitate toward convenience. Easy but tasty recipes with basic ingredients have become second nature.

The meal is filling and satisfying, and I even cooked enough chicken for a second meal. Cook once, eat twice. Nothing better than living off past efforts. With dinner out of the way, I run through another two cultivation cycles before it's 8:00 PM.

Like I said, I'm not one for overworking myself. So I call it there, and hop into bed, turn on the TV, and start browsing YouTube to relax. Before I know it, I'm fast asleep.