Orynix stiffened beside him, his avatar crackling with static. “No,” he growled, the word vibrating with a deep resonance that startled Huan Jue. “You will *not*.” Huan Jue felt an all too familiar weariness settle into his marrow. Just when he thought he could log off and steep a decent cup of herbs, the universe sent an armed strike team against his mortal flesh. Truly, the audacity of these mortals. “My apologies, master,” Orynix said, his virtual avatar spinning around. His voice pulled tight with urgency. “We must withdraw immediately. My authority can only extend so far within the Nexus. The meat-space world… that lies beyond my reach.” Huan Jue raised an eyebrow. “Is it now? And what exactly do you plan to do, ‘withdraw’ us into thin air? My fleshly shell is right there, waiting to be cleared away.” He waved toward the surveillance feed, where the squad captain raised a plasma rifle with a humming muzzle. Orynix dipped his chin. “My reach might be limited, but my resources are not. Not entirely. Trust me, please. Just a moment longer.” He shut his eyes, brow wrinkling. Huan Jue felt a strange surge of data rip through the virtual floor—not unlike internal qi, yet sprawling across thousands of digital nodes at once. On the live feed, the captain's armored glove compressed the trigger. A faint mechanical click scraped through the haptic audio feed. Huan Jue prepared to push qi across the digital barrier into his distant flesh, bracing for an uncertain clash. Just as the trigger reached its break point, a voice blared over the tactical comms. “Hold! Hold fire, Centurion Squad-7! This is a priority override! Repeat, hold fire!” The squad leader paused, his rifle still aimed. The Centurion unit, poised to fire, froze like statues. “What is the meaning of this, Command?” the squad captain barked, voice flat with annoyance. “Delete Zero protocol is active! Target confirmed!” “New orders, Centurion!” The voice on the comms crackled, strained with disbelief. “Effective immediately, the entire structure you occupy, designated ‘Museum of Ancient Virtuosity,’ including all its contents and surrounding land parcel, has been acquired by… citizen Orynix. Full financial transfer confirmed. As of this microsecond, you are trespassing on private property! Stand down and evacuate immediately!” Huan Jue blinked slowly. He looked at Orynix, who was now opening his eyes, a faint sheen of digital sweat on his brow, but a triumphant, if weary, smirk on his face. “You… bought the museum?” Huan Jue asked, a rare note of genuine surprise in his voice. “And the ground beneath it,” Orynix clarified, chin lifting. “It took nearly every credit in my liquid accounts, but the deed cleared. My legal retainers are already filing paperwork to install Zynar as the primary curator and resident. Enforcers cannot legally purge an estate owner on his own grounds.” He winced. “It means weeks of filings, but the title holds.” Huan Jue stared. For the first time since his transmigration, a small, genuine smile touched his lips. “You really are something, boy.” Orynix beamed, a flush creeping up his neck. “Anything for you, grandmaster.” “Now, if you don’t mind,” Huan Jue murmured, feeling the tether to the material world tug at his consciousness. “I believe I am owed fresh tea, and perhaps a distant sanctuary.” --- Weeks later, damp loam and crushed stems scented the morning breeze. The world, christened 'Veridia Prime' by Orynix, spread out in lush rolling mosses and pale blue canopies under a steady yellow sun. It was an uncharted sanctuary shielded by Orynix’s private network satellites, far beyond the reach of corporate scouts. Huan Jue knelt beside a low shrub, plucking tender buds with practiced thumbs. Each shoot held the earthy fragrance of real soil, the genuine prize hidden inside the VIP credentials. “Grandmaster, is this… is this right?” Orynix’s voice, a little strained, drifted from a few paces away. Huan Jue looked up to see him, clad in practical, dirt-smudged overalls and a truly absurd wide-brimmed sun hat adorned with a holographic depiction of a winking mecha. Orynix held a wide horse posture, knees flared and spine upright, though his hamstrings quivered under the strain. His build carried him through the shape easily enough, yet his breath remained trapped in his collarbones without grounding. “Your center is too stiff,” Huan Jue observed, dropping another green shoot into his palm. “Drop the belly. Allow the breath to settle instead of clamping down.” “Right, right, breath down,” Orynix muttered, swaying. Sweat rolled over his cheekbone, yet he kept his gaze forward, stubbornly mimicking the recorded footwork he had saved from the Nexus duel. Huan Jue gathered his shallow wicker basket and rose, rolling his shoulders until his joints clicked. At a small brass heating brazier he had assembled, he gently bruised the freshly harvested crop before resting the batch in a clay pot. Spring water bubbled at an exact simmer. He poured the amber liquid into a cup, the steam rising in fragrant tendrils. He took a sip, letting the complex, earthy notes dance on his tongue. It was real tea. Truly, profoundly real. The taste was an echo of a life he thought lost forever, a promise fulfilled. He looked toward Orynix, whose shins still shook violently under the low posture, a lopsided grin plastered across his sunburnt face beneath the tilted brim. Huan Jue chuckled softly, fine lines gathering at the corners of his eyes. He had sought simple seclusion, quiet soil, and an honest brew. All of those were his now. Having an eager young pilot sweating through basic footwork in the loam did not spoil the peace at all. “Come here, boy,” Huan Jue called, raising a second cup. “Drink.” Orynix uncoiled his legs with an undignified yelp, caught his footing on a root, and hurried over to accept the cup in both palms. “It tastes incredible,” Orynix whispered after a cautious sip, his face relaxing into awe. “Rich, like wild woods after rain, but warm and steady.” Huan Jue gave a low hum, taking another sip. The afternoon stretched onward, warm with rising steam, the steady crunch of boots in the loamy dirt, and the long-delayed quietude of retirement. He leaned back against a sturdy, ancient-looking tree, the warmth of the tea spreading through his body. Retirement, it seemed, was surprisingly engaging when you had a galaxy’s worth of trouble you’d accidentally adopted.

Roots and Leaves