William Grant stood up, straightening himself, and suddenly gave a deep bow. “Fat bro, this gift of yours is far too valuable. Now I owe you a favor instead. Thank you!”

Fat your sister! Your whole family is fat!

Luckily, the squirrel couldn’t understand human language, or it would strangle him in a heartbeat. It just saw the human bowing, so it squeaked excitedly and bounced all over the place.

William Grant also smiled. Seeing that it was getting late, he said, “Alright, I have to go. There’s nothing to eat today, but I’ll bring you something tomorrow.”

After speaking, he cupped his hands around his mouth and mimed cracking peanuts. Hey, this the squirrel understood, and it started swaying its tail like a big-tailed wolf.

William Grant quickly packed up his things, slung them over his shoulder, and suddenly felt a jolt in his heart. The heavy load had become incredibly light, and carrying it was effortless.

He knew this must be due to spiritual energy, so he waved his hand and said, “Fat bro, bye-bye!”

“Squeak squeak!”

The squirrel waved its paw as well, and thus the man and the squirrel parted ways.

……

William Grant hurried down the mountain and returned home, but didn’t feel hungry at all.

Still, after thinking it over, he made himself a meal—simple stir-fried pork with mung bean sprouts and spinach soup. He had lived with his grandfather since childhood, so his household skills were maxed out, even sewing and mending.

When the food was ready, he carefully tasted a bite, savored it, and then muttered to himself, “The flavor hasn’t changed, still not sick of it, not bad!”

No choice—he was really afraid he’d lose interest in grains and food, in which case he might as well just become a musclehead.

As he was eating, Emily Foster, that little girl, sneaked in again to use the internet, sitting in front of the computer looking all energetic. William Grant frowned as he watched, wanting to say something, but afraid of being too harsh. He considered and said, “Qingqing, how’s your studying going?”

“What do you think? What I should know, I know. What I shouldn’t, I just can’t learn.”

“So, are you confident?”

“Nope. I know my own level. I’m just hoping for a miracle on exam day.” She was really carefree.

“What if—just what if—your grades aren’t ideal, what will you do?” he continued.

“Then I…”

Emily Foster finally turned her head, her little face showing a hint of change. “I’ll just go to technical school.”

Technical school?

William Grant fell silent. Secondary school, vocational high, technical school—everyone knows what kind of academic level and school atmosphere those three brothers have. The official ones are a bit better, but the worst are those private money-grabbing ones—drinking, fighting, skipping class to go online, sexual openness aside, the key is you don’t learn anything at all.

He looked at her, but there was nothing he could do. The girl didn’t like studying, and she didn’t have the head for it either—there was just no way.

“Emily Foster!”

“Emily Foster!”

Just then, a few shouts came from outside the front door. The girl jumped in fright and hurriedly said, “My mom’s calling me. Bro, I’m off!”

She rushed out the door in a panic. William Grant couldn’t help but sigh: Let her play on the computer? That’s not right. Don’t let her? She’ll just sneak off to an internet café, which is even worse. Tell Uncle Foster? Forget it, that’s a guaranteed family crisis.

In short, it was just worrying.

After dinner, he rested for a bit, then William Grant went back into the workshop to make the remaining thirty sticks of awakening incense. He prepared the clay, set it on the workbench, and placed his fingers on it.

The moment he touched it, he felt the difference.

The incense clay seemed to stick to his skin, as if they were one. The density, texture, grain, even the scent—all were vividly reflected in his mind. And this awareness was no longer vague or imagined, but lively and concrete, as if it was about to come alive.

William Grant was slightly surprised, but quickly cleared his mind and began kneading, just as he had done countless times before.

The small room was quiet, the atmosphere ancient and mysterious.

As he worked, the incense clay slowly stretched and thinned under his fingers, finally forming a stick of even, translucent, richly colored incense, like a finely crafted work of art.

“This… is just too beautiful, isn’t it?”

William Grant stopped, examining the incense stick over and over, even he was amazed. While making this stick, he no longer felt like he was “producing” it, but rather “creating” it.

Years of accumulation—from hand to heart, from skill to state, from craftsmanship to spiritual energy—this was a level-up.

He couldn’t bear to stop creating, so he pinched off another bit of incense clay and started on the second stick.

Thirty sticks of incense, and he finished in half the time it took yesterday, neatly lined up on the workbench, giving off a unique sense of comfort.

William Grant didn’t feel tired at all. As usual, he covered them with a few sheets of white paper to air-dry. The incense sticks he made yesterday were already dry, so he carried the tray out to the yard, hooked his foot under a board by the wall, and lifted it to reveal a small cellar.

That’s the good thing about the countryside—no place to dig in the city. The cellar was old, dug by his grandfather years ago, a standard incense storage cellar.

He jumped down, placed the tray on the rack, and in half a month, once the smoky smell dissipated, they would be finished awakening incense.

Early summer, and the nights were growing longer.