Jumanji lay stretched across his bed, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, eyes that seemed to run ahead of time itself as he waited for Galvan's long-overdue return.
The thread of his thoughts was broken only by firm knocks on the door. He straightened swiftly and said in a calm voice, "Come in."
Galvan entered, silence clinging to him with an unspoken weight.
With a smooth motion of his hand, he summoned resources from within his spiritual farm. Wooden and metal crates began to pour onto the floor in a mesmerizing cascade.
Galvan stopped unloading and said in a serious tone:
"These are the resources for the next three months…
I did everything I could, but the rules do not bend. Your absence from the academy has resulted in half your allocation being deducted.
And you won't receive any additional resources for a full six months from now.
Do you understand what that means?"
Jumanji looked at the piles of crates, a faint smile forming on his lips—not out of disregard for the shortage, but out of confidence in his own plans.
"Don't worry, Father… this is more than enough."
Galvan narrowed his eyes, concern lacing his voice. "Are you truly certain? Resources are the lifeline at this stage. Any deficiency could stall your advancement."
Jumanji reassured him with firm resolve:
"It's fine. I'll work hard enough to make up for it.
But I ask for one thing—I don't want to be disturbed for a full week.
I'll be entering meditative cultivation to tend to my spiritual farm. I hope everyone can respect that."
Galvan was taken aback. For youths his age who had only just awakened their farms, prolonged "meditative cultivation" was a tedious and exhausting ordeal.
Yet his son was speaking of an entire week of isolation.
Unable to hide his admiration, Galvan nodded solemnly.
"I'll inform everyone…
No one will dare break your seclusion. Show me what you can do."
A full week of isolation without food or water was considered a harsh trial, but among cultivators whose farms had only recently awakened, it was not impossible.
The spiritual energy flowing through their veins acted as an alternative fuel, sustaining and repairing their bodies. Still, one week was the absolute limit their young physiques could endure before exhaustion took hold.
The moment the door closed, Jumanji turned toward the crates, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. He had no time to waste.
He sat cross-legged on his bed, lowered his eyelids, and left the material world behind—his consciousness diving into the depths of his spiritual farm.
Inside, the scene was desolate.
Stagnant air. Scarce energy. The place resembled a forgotten desert.
No sooner had Jumanji's figure appeared than the "leech gems" rushed toward him, agitated and dissatisfied, bouncing around him as if scolding him for abandoning them in this spiritual frost.
"What? Missed me that much already?" he asked with a mocking tone, ignoring their protests as he headed straight toward the well beneath the red mountain.
Jumanji took out the "silver core." It pulsed between his fingers with an ethereal glow. With a slight exertion of will, it shattered—releasing a dense surge of spiritual energy that flooded the depths of the well.
In an instant, the "black seed" devoured the energy with insatiable hunger. Its withering began to fade, replaced by a mysterious radiance, while thin white strands of energy drifted within the once-dry well.
Jumanji felt a faint sense of relief.
But when he looked across his farm—barely spanning four square kilometers—he realized just how little he truly possessed.
He moved toward a flat area littered with stones and hardened red soil, then pulled out a sack of "brown wheat" seeds.
Though he knew they were low-quality and fit only for feed, he believed firmly that "a little energy is better than none."
He threw himself into the task with his entire being.
He plowed the land with his bare hands, uprooted protruding stones, and began planting the seeds one by one.
A day and a half passed within the farm, while only half a day elapsed in the outside world.
Jumanji exhausted every last ounce of his energy.
He did not rest. He did not stop. He did not heed the pain in his muscles.
The soil was as hard as steel—but his will was harder.
With every grain of wheat he planted into that barren land, he laid another brick in the foundation of a future that would show no mercy to the weak.
Jumanji took out a copper core. With precise control, he crushed it between his fingers.
Not satisfied with one, he followed it with two more, replenishing the spiritual energy he had drained to the very last drop.
He felt power flow through his veins like a warm current, repairing the damage wrought by his relentless labor.
Jumanji opened his eyes in the material world, aware that dawn had already begun weaving its presence.
He knew exactly where everyone's attention would be today—the entire tribe was heading toward the spiritual farm to celebrate its opening to the girls.
After regaining his balance, Jumanji stood, his decision already made.
He had to leave the village—no matter the cost.
His goal: to obtain a Rank 7 "Dusk of Night leech essence."
Jumanji had made a bold adjustment to the "farm embryo," placing the "wild leech" at its core instead.
At first, he believed the embryo was fixed and immovable, but through fragments of Mahinor's memories, he uncovered the truth. This was the very path Mahinor himself had taken while developing the "Dusk of Night leech."
The past three days had filled him with unease and confusion—but now, he possessed the clarity and the keys needed to reach his goal.
He knew well that the "Dusk of Night leech" was not just an addition—it was the engine that would transform his farm into something extraordinary.
Advancing it to Rank 7 was not optional. It was essential.
Jumanji gathered his belongings, packing a small leather bag with a few clothes and essential tools.
Instead of leaving through the door, he slipped out the window like a shadow fleeing the light, landing silently on the ground.
He moved through the shadows between houses with calculated steps, taking advantage of the tribe's complete distraction within the "spiritual cave."
No one noticed him.
Even those who glimpsed a fleeting shadow dismissed it as nothing more than an illusion amid the celebrations.
At the tribe's boundary, Jumanji paused.
He cast one final glance at the walls that had sheltered him, a mysterious smile forming on his lips as he murmured:
"We'll meet again in six months…"
He had planned this moment meticulously.
Requesting six months' worth of resources in advance had not been greed—it was preparation for his journey.
As for his claim of entering a "week-long seclusion," it was his cleverest maneuver—buying himself enough time to vanish beyond the horizon before his father or brother realized his absence.
By the time they knocked on his door a week later, he would already be far away—beyond their reach.
He knew his destination.
He knew exactly where he would spend those six months.
As for the punishment of being forbidden to leave the tribe for a year—such a thing never even settled in his mind.
He had resolved to rebel even against death itself.
What were the laws of a tribe in comparison?
To Jumanji, the tribe was nothing more than a narrow cage.
In this cruel world, only strength held authority.
Leaving was his only path—to temper his spirit and rise swiftly.
Jumanji ventured into the forest for half a day.
His steps were light, avoiding dry branches, while his eyes scanned his surroundings with a vigilance far beyond his years.
He was not moving aimlessly.
He followed a path etched into his borrowed memory—a path leading to his next destination.
He took refuge in a nearby cave to catch his breath, but for him, rest did not mean stillness.
It was another opportunity to make use of his time within his spiritual farm.
He resumed planting the remaining seeds upon that land fit for nothing but waste.
After some time, Jumanji gripped a copper core so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
His body trembled from sheer exhaustion, dark circles forming beneath his eyes like deep shadows.
With one final exertion, the core shattered between his fingers, releasing a faint ethereal cry as a burst of warm energy spread through his pores—repairing his worn muscles and restoring his lost vitality.
It was as if life had been breathed back into him after standing on the brink of collapse.
He did not limit himself to terrestrial cultivation.
He took out strange seeds encased in hard shells resembling eggs, then made his way toward the narrow river cutting through the farm.
Carefully, he dug into the riverbed and placed them within, murmuring in a measured tone:
"River fish eggs… they'll need two weeks to hatch here—equivalent to four and a half days outside.
Their quality is modest, but they're still useful."
Once finished, Jumanji left the cave and resumed his journey.
After two days of arduous travel through rugged terrain, a peculiar forest appeared before him.
Young green bamboo stalks stood resilient against time—but black scars violently tore through the greenery.
Some trees were completely charred, standing like frozen black blades—struck long ago by lightning and left in silence.
A sharp carbon scent lingered in the air, blending with the smell of impending rain, creating an atmosphere both solemn and ominous.
His black eyes flashed with a sharp glint.
He placed a hand over his chest and muttered softly, anticipation thick in his voice:
"Prepare yourself, wild leech…
We've arrived.
It's time to evolve."
A suffocating silence enveloped the area, yet Jumanji's senses were stretched to their absolute limit.
His gaze swept the surroundings, left and right, fully aware of the danger beneath his feet.
Then—
His eyes froze.
A spotted spiritual tiger lay in the shadows, its presence regal and predatory.
This beast was no coincidence.
It was a guardian—carefully placed by the Carp Tribe to protect the charred trees and prevent any outsider from making use of them.
Its eyes were unlike anything ordinary—patterns within patterns, mirroring the markings on its body.
They did not merely see forms.
They could perceive the subtlest fluctuations of spiritual energy.
Attempting to slip past it would be nothing short of suicide.
Jumanji retreated slowly behind the trunk of a massive tree, a calm smile still lingering on his face despite his racing heartbeat.
He whispered to himself as he observed the beast:
"Before I evolve you…
I need to disable that creature's ability first.
I have no intention of becoming its dinner."
**End of Chapter**