…
Inside the old house of the Lishan Martial Hall.
Only when Lin Tuo recalled his avatar from the crowd did his right hand, still suspended in the thunderclouds, withdraw.
"So numb…" He rubbed his tingling skin helplessly.
When his hand was buried inside the storm, the lightning had shocked him. It wasn't enough to stop him in the moment, but he had no choice but to endure.
Fortunately, compared to his true body's immense size, the lightning over Kyoto wasn't lethal.
At most—
—it left his arm slightly numb.
"This time was a rookie mistake. Next time I'll be more careful." Lin Tuo kneaded his hand while dispersing the thunderclouds overhead, quietly reviewing the lesson.
Though a few flaws slipped in, overall, his plan had succeeded.
"Manifesting myself in that way should have delivered enough shock and awe. Next, the Emperor of Chi will certainly dispatch people toward the southeast to search for this so-called 'sage'… Looks like I'll be busy for the coming days."
Indeed.
This had been a plan conceived on a whim: using the ritual as cover, impersonating a heavenly god to deliver guidance—laying the groundwork for his next move.
Of course, the "sage" was imaginary. He himself would have to play the part.
As for the direction "southeast"? That had been chosen at random.
The purpose was to buy time.
"Who would've thought I'd stumble right into their grand sacrifice festival… I have zero materials ready. There's no way I can pull off a sudden 'heaven-sent sage.'
But with this trick, I can stall them at least ten days, maybe half a month."
Heading to the adjoining room, Lin Tuo washed the ink stains from his palm, still murmuring to himself.
The Chi Empire wasn't vast, yet it wasn't small either.
With horses as the only real means of transport, even if the Emperor knew exactly where to go, the journey would take days.
And now? They only knew that the sage was "in the southeast." No name. No location. Nothing concrete.
That alone had bought Lin Tuo a valuable window of preparation.
With the Sand Table running at a 1:1 time ratio, he had more than enough time to dig up materials, organize what "knowledge" he would gift them, and only then re-enter the miniature world to appear as the sage.
As for why he had to assume such an identity—
There were two reasons.
First, the role of "sage" would allow him to speak directly with the monarch, giving his words the authority and legitimacy they needed.
Second, appearing as a human avoided awkwardness. After all, a sage teaching peasants how to improve farming tools or make fertilizer was still plausible.
A "god" doing the same? That would be absurd.
As for what he'd actually teach, Lin Tuo already had a plan.
He dried his hand, fetched his laptop, opened a fresh document, and began outlining.
"The Chi are still under a feudal monarchy. Their science is at a sprouting stage—or rather, they only have scattered folk techniques.
So, I can't dump advanced knowledge on them. Without foundations, they'll never understand."
He typed the word: Foundations.
"And I can't just give them modern tools either. By the Sand Table's conversion rules, even a grain of sand grows into a boulder once inside.
Unless… I smuggle things through the northwestern Tak Desert's barrier—the so-called 'Grand Wall.'"
But he quickly dismissed that.
Not only would breaching the Wall cause a global sensation, but outfitting the Chi Empire with enough machinery to function would cost a fortune he simply didn't have.
"…So, the right approach is to spread the foundations of science—instill the mindset, the research methods, open up mathematics, physics, chemistry. Then let them explore on their own."
He paused, then added:
"But that alone won't push society forward fast enough. I'll need to give them a nudge—basic mechanical blueprints, transitional machines from the early Industrial Age.
Things like spinning frames, steam engines… metallurgy, agricultural techniques."
The Martial Hall grew quiet as the sun set, painting the mountains in crimson light.
By the time dusk fell, Lin Tuo's computer document was filled with densely typed outlines.
"Phew. That's about it. Next comes gathering the actual files…"
He stretched with satisfaction, sipping water.
The data was all online: early industrial tech, papers, professional sites. All he needed was time to collect and compile.
…
In the following days, Lin Tuo's life fell into rhythm.
Each morning, he'd project his avatar into the Taihe Mountains to train, careful enough to avoid meeting anyone.
Mornings were for organizing notes or practicing martial arts.
Afternoons, he worked on refurbishing the Martial Hall—hiring workers to repair windows and tiles, ordering new furniture, planning to turn the old house with the Sand Table into a study.
His bedroom was next door. Convenient for his future "double life."
Meanwhile, the internet was abuzz. The "Tak Black Box" still dominated headlines. Rumors spread of researchers detecting strange "sounds," with experts scrambling to decipher them.
Lin Tuo skimmed the news, unimpressed. As if they could deduce anything useful from my coughs…
"Apparently foreign teams have arrived. This thing's global news now."
In chat groups, the speculation flew.
"Someone proposed blasting it open with military firepower. Shot down, of course."
"Yeah, no one dares yet. But eventually, they'll try. The last plan—digging down with heavy machinery—failed. Even a hundred meters underground, the Grand Wall's still there."
These threads circulated endlessly.
At first, Lin Tuo had been anxious. But after a few days, he grew calm.
So the days passed, until he finally compiled enough data. Only then did he return his gaze to the Chi Empire inside the Sand Table.
And, according to his plan, he dropped his avatar into a remote county southeast of the capital.
Tao County.
…
Tao County was small.
Though the Chi Empire was called a "dynasty," its land was limited. Kyoto was one thing—but the farther you went from the capital, the poorer the cities became.
Tao lay so far that some of its peasants lived their entire lives without even knowing the name of their Emperor.
So far, in fact, that even when the decree to "seek the sage" was sent out, Tao was the last to receive it.
A weighty imperial order—but to the locals, irrelevant.
They had greater concerns.
"The county's posting another prayer-for-rain notice?"
"How many times is this already?"
"Alas…"
At the public notice board, weary townsfolk muttered to one another.
The Chi's land was small but its climate volatile, and Tao was particularly cursed. Thanks to its geography, spring warmth came much earlier than in Kyoto. By the time peach blossoms bloomed in the capital, Tao's farmers were already planting their second crop.
By now, their heat was closer to midsummer.
The fields lay parched under a cloudless sky. Rice shoots withered yellow. Desperation grew. The county's magistrate had tried hiring ritualists to pray for rain, but none succeeded.
One after another, the "experts" had bowed out, mumbling excuses about "finding a greater master."
But where could Tao possibly "find greater masters"?
Just as the crowd prepared to disperse, a young man with cropped hair and a long robe strode up.
"Rip." Lin Tuo tore the notice from the wall without hesitation, then turned to the stunned scribe and townsfolk, smiling lightly:
"Well then—why don't I give it a try?"
…
In Tao County, the highest official was not called magistrate but county lord.
The translation from his "Universal Speech Technique" amused him.
In dramas, a 'county lord' is a princess's title… but not here, apparently.
Following the scribe, Lin Tuo soon entered the yamen, where a gaunt middle-aged man hurried out to meet him.
The County Lord of Tao looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights.
He'd dropped everything at the news someone had answered the notice. He hadn't expected it to be such a young man.
Still, authority demanded decorum. Suppressing doubt, he invited Lin Tuo inside.
When they were seated, he couldn't help but ask:
"May I know which master you studied under? Whose spiritual lineage you practice? Can you truly resolve Tao's drought?"
But Lin Tuo only shook his head, answering plainly:
"I have no master. Nor do I practice any arts."
The official's face darkened, anger stirring—until Lin Tuo added casually:
"But if it's only rain you want, that's no trouble."
The County Lord blinked. "No trouble?"
"Of course."
"And… what must we prepare?"
"Just a cup of tea will suffice."
Smiling, Lin Tuo lifted the cup before him. And as puzzled gazes fixed on him, he tilted it—splashing its contents forward.
At the same moment, his eyes glazed as his consciousness shifted back to his true body.
…
In the study of the Lishan Martial Hall.
Lin Tuo rose from his recliner, picked up a prepared spray canister, and located Tao on the Sand Table map.
"Pssst…"
A fine mist sprayed out, drifting gently down from the sky.
…
In Tao's yamen.
Lin Tuo's avatar's eyes cleared once more. Before the stunned officials could question him, he simply gestured outward.
"Please—look."
"Look? At what?" the County Lord muttered, glancing outside.
Seconds later, his jaw fell slack.
From the heavens above, rain poured down in sheets.
Across all of Tao County—cloudless skies had turned into a torrential downpour.
(End of Chapter)