I sat on my couch with a mug of (normal) coffee, watching the morning news.

  The anchor was standing in front of a digital map of the United States.

  "The Department of Homeland Defense has confirmed thirty eight designated Safe Zones across the continental United States," she said. "Residents in these zones are under federal protection. Please note: Suburban sectors are not autonomous. They are jurisdictionally tethered to their metropolitan hubs."

  I sipped my coffee.

  "Tethered," I muttered. "That means if Detroit falls, Southfield falls. If Chicago falls, Naperville falls. The suburbs are just life rafts tied to the Titanic."

  It was a fragile system. If a city could "fall," that meant there were threats out there big enough to take them. And if the government was admitting that possibility, they were scared.

  This gave me an idea.

  If the government was stretched thin, they would need help. They wouldn't turn away friendly power.

  I opened my laptop and navigated to the Detroit Government Portal. I searched for "Civilian Registration."

  Sure enough, there it was.

  [Independent Faction Registration]

  Requirements: Base of Operations, 2+ Members, Clear Mission Statement, 1,000 Spirit Stone Fee.

  "We are thinking on the same wavelength," I said, bookmarking the page.

  They were essentially crowdsourcing the defense of the zones. Smart.

  I clicked over to a real estate listing site. Property values in the Safe Zones were weird. Residential houses were priceless because everyone wanted safety. But commercial real estate? It was erratic.

  I browsed Detroit listings. I wanted something central but defensible.

  I scrolled past office buildings and warehouses until I found it.

  Property: 2-Story Commercial Unit. Former Organic Grocery & Café.

  Location: Midtown Detroit (Safe Zone Sector 2).

  Price: 250,000 Spirit Stones.

  It was run down. The windows were boarded up. The paint was peeling. But the bones were good. It had a large retail space upstairs and a full commercial kitchen and patio downstairs.

  The vision hit me all at once.

  Upstairs: A high end grocery and supplement store. We sell the raw Heavenly produce, the tinctures, the pills I would eventually make with Alchemy.

  Downstairs: A restaurant. Aiyana’s domain. Where she turns those ingredients into meals that people would mortgage their souls to eat.

  An all-in-one health hub. A sanctuary of vitality in a dying world.

  "Eden," I whispered.

  The name was perfect.

  The problem? I had 42,000 stones liquid. I needed a quarter million just to buy the door.

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  I closed the laptop. "Time to make some money."

  "Make the tea again," I told Aiyana.

  She stood in my kitchen, looking annoyed. "Again?"

  "Just brew it," I said. "But this time, when you're done, don't pour it. Use your Immortal Cookbook skill to save the recipe."

  She frowned, but she did it. She boiled the water, infused the Qi, and activated her skill.

  The pot glowed. Then, the liquid vanished.

  In her hand appeared a pouch. A tea bag.

  "Whoa," she said, inspecting it.

  "Perfect," I said. "Your skill is the ultimate MRE machine. It takes a complex, perishable, Qi-infused dish and stabilizes it into an instant format without losing any potency."

  "So... instant magic tea?"

  "Exactly. Give me ten of them."

  I put them into a plain cardboard box. I took a green sharpie and wrote Immortal Green Tea on the side.

  "This is our flagship," I said, tapping the box. "Portable life extension. The rich will go crazy for this."

  "You're selling them in a cardboard box?" Aiyana asked, eyeing my handwriting.

  "The packaging doesn't matter when the product makes you live longer. Let's go."

  We drove to Drane's Auction House.

  The place was buzzing, as usual. I walked straight past the line of hopeful scavengers and went to the appraiser's office.

  Mayumi looked up as I walked in. She saw the cardboard box.

  "Back so soon?" she asked.

  I dropped the box on her desk. "Ten units. Immortal Green Tea. Effect: Prolongs natural lifespan by one year per unit."

  "One year?" she whispered.

  "Per unit," I confirmed.

  She reached for the box to put it in the appraisal bowl.

  "Don't bother," I said. "You know it's legit. Put it in the next main slot."

  "The next auction is in three days," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Sunday night."

  "Perfect. See you then."

  I turned and walked out. I didn't need validation anymore. I knew what I had. And I knew that box was going to buy me a building.

  "The shop will be called Eden," I told Aiyana on the drive back.

  She looked over from the passenger seat. "Eden? A bit biblical, isn't it?"

  "It fits. Upstairs will be the grocery and supplement store. Downstairs and the patio will be your restaurant."

  "And what are we serving?"

  "The high end stuff—the life extending tea, the stat boosting meals—goes to the Auction House for massive profit. That's our capital," I explained. "But the lower tier stuff? The cucumbers, the potatoes, the tomatoes? That goes to Eden. We sell it to the public. We build a brand. We make ourselves indispensable to the city."

  Aiyana nodded slowly. "So I need to practice."

  "You need to cook everything," I said. "Every weird vegetable I grow, I need you to figure out what it does."

  "So we're a vegan restaurant?" she asked.

  "For now," I said. "Eventually, we'll branch into meat. I have... ideas about certain exotic meat."

  She made a face. "Gross."

  "Profitable," I corrected.

  We got back to the duplex. Aiyana went to her side to rest and recharge. I went to the garden.

  I walked to the center of the Spirit Soil. I checked my status.

  Something had changed.

  My skills—Gathering, Nurturing, Swordsmanship—no longer had levels next to them. It didn't say "Level 5" anymore. It just listed the skill name.

  [System Note: Foundationial Phase Complete. Skill proficiency is now determined by Realm and Dao Understanding.]

  "Interesting," I murmured.

  The RPG numbers were gone. No more grinding XP to watch a bar go up. Now, if I wanted to get better at swordsmanship, I had to actually understand the sword. If I wanted to nurture plants better, I had to understand the nature of life.

  It made things harder. Vague. But it also meant there was no cap.

  I looked at the empty patches of soil. I had three days before the auction. Three days to grow enough inventory to stock a restaurant that didn't exist yet.

  I rolled up the sleeves of my flannel shirt and sank my hands into the dirt.

  The gardener was gone. The cultivator had arrived.

  "Let's grow," I whispered.