"Nobody Pays for Your Funeral When You Die Poor"

"Money… Money matters, my son."

A faint and dying voice.

In a crumbling, weathered wooden dwelling, an ailing, elderly farmer drew his final breaths upon a groaning bed.

The air echoed with raspy coughs and labored breathing.

The warmth once promised by the crackling wood fire on chilly winter nights was fading, threatening to surrender to the encroaching cold.

Yet, within the dwelling, the only two occupants found themselves unable to rekindle the flames for reasons personal to each.

The man was dying, and his only son was too young to chop wood and make his dying father's last moments comfortable and full of warmth.

Of course, the man didn't blame his son but himself.

Who told him to be a doting father?

When his wife died, he shouldn't have tried to pamper his son by doing all the household work alone. He shouldn't have farmed all by himself.

When the farmer was fine, relatively speaking, the work had given him comfort. The more he took care of his son, the better he felt about himself. Being a father was worth it, he would often feel.

However, now, on his deathbed, the dying farmer regretted not teaching his son enough life lessons, survival tricks, and the horrors of the world he was going to be surrounded with for the rest of his foreseeable life.

The dying farmer knew that he would be lying if he told someone that he wasn't looking forward to this very moment after living years on end with chronic pain and sickness.

He was also somewhat glad that he would finally reunite with his dead wife whose memories had already turned him into a living ghost. Yet, he felt bad for leaving his son all alone in such a cruel world full of dangerous and selfish people.

Alas. Life didn't give him a second chance to make a comeback. 

To make amends, the farmer sought to pass on essential life lessons to his son, acknowledging the lateness of the hour.

He hoped that these teachings, uttered as his final words, would linger in his son's memory forever.

"Money matters. The status also matters. However, when you have absolute might, money, and status follow you like your own tails."

The man wasn't that old, barely appearing to be in his 50s. He had amber eyes and a mix of black and gray hair. His skin was wrinkled in some spots but not excessively aged.

However, something had happened to him in the past when he was young—an old injury that had made his life difficult. It was finally about to claim his life.

Yet, there was something intensely fiery about the dying farmer's gaze—a flicker in his eyes that yearned to reach a certain summit that had always eluded him.

It was as if his ambitions were still struggling to stay alive and blaze brightly even when his body was on the verge of giving up.

The amber-eyed man, on the brink of death, then turned and coughed hard for some time and looked at his 9-year-old son, his gaze softening. He placed his hand on his son's head lovingly and caressed his cheek.

"Father…" the kid forced a response, too emotional to say anything else.

The 9-year-old boy looked at his father with teary eyes. Yet, he didn't cry like ordinary kids his age. If the dying father's eyes were full of ambitions, then his son's eyes flickered with a certain intelligence that could only come with maturity.

The kid's eyes didn't suit him. His maturity and demeanor didn't match his age, making him come across as a problematic child who would never listen to his parents.

Yet, the kid had always respected his father. Even at this point, the kid didn't speak and just sat by his father's bed, an earthen vessel in his hand that was half-full of water.

The kid wanted his father to drink water because that's all he had to offer him—to comfort him.

Little did he know, the beads of his tears seamlessly mingled with the liquid. This unintentional mixture blurred the reflection of the boy and the full moon outside the window on the water's surface.

The man also knew that his son was somewhat special, that he carried something unique within him. That's why he decided to pass on his passion and ambitions to him.

"If you die when you are poor, nobody will pay for your funeral.

If you die when you don't have a status, nobody will pay respect to your grave.

And if you die when you are powerless, nobody will provide a ditch for you to get buried in.

Cough cough cough. Sa… Sadly, I'm dying by checking all those boxes.

But don't worry. I'll not be a burden to you.

Here – take… take this," the man moved his left arm and raised his clenched fist in front of his kid. The kid quickly kept the glass of water he was holding to the side before grabbing his father's fist.

The dying farmer opened his fist, and four spirit stones were placed onto the kid's hands.

"Two – two spirit stones. They are for my funeral."

The man's breaths were getting low, his voice and presence thinner by the moment. His body had lost the ability to cough and take breaths. So he gave up breathing entirely and spoke to his son.

"Our neighbor… Aunt Reta will help you with the funeral arrangement, so give it to her when I die. And the remaining two spirit stones are for you.

Besides that, there should be a sack of silver and gold coins. Mortal coins have their own uses. All of this… should last you for a few months. You have this home, rental agreement of the farm, and the family heirloom I... I told you about. All of this, my inheritance, I give to you.

I… I'm afraid you will have to farm on your own after that to make a living."

The man spoke as he lost his ability to look at his son, his vision fading.

The kid helped him lay flat on the bed. The man touched his son's hand, wanting him to pay attention to him some more.

The man's faint words echoed in the kid's mind as the latter brought his ears closer to the man's mouth.

"I don't know how you will live, my son.

But promise me – promise me that you will not die like me.

I… I want you to stand at the apex… whatever it may be."

The man's left arm caught his son's wrist as if he was waiting for his answer.

For some reason, the dying farmer's grip was way firmer than it should have been for his condition. It was as if the dying flame was trying to burn bright just when it was about to get extinguished.

"I— I promise."

The boy said with a shaky voice, his words punctuated with emotions.

A soft chuckle was heard from the man for one last time as he let go of his son's wrist. The man's arm lost its strength and dropped on the bed. He had clearly succumbed to his illness and injuries.

"I promise," the kid mumbled repetitively as he pressed his ears against his father's bony chest. It was as if he was trying to listen to the voice of the heartbeat that was no longer there.

He stayed there for some time, his red eyes finally couldn't hold onto the tears he was trying so hard not to shed. He cried without making a sound.

As the night deepened, the kid eventually got up and sat straight on the bed, looking at his father's lifeless figure. He hadn't bothered to wipe the tears so their downward path was still traceable on his face.

The nine-year-old kid opened his fists and looked at the four spirit stones he was holding. This was all his father could afford to give him.

The kid's face was dead serious. And his amber eyes – same as his father's – it was as if they had inherited his father's ambitions after his death.

Step. Step. Step.

The kid got up and went by the window. Looking outside, he stared at the star-studded sky and the full moon before reiterating the words he had last spoken to his father.

"I promise," he said as he clenched his fists.

***

Seven years later.

Same chilly winter. Same star-studded sky and full moon. And the same weathered wooden dwelling.

However, someone had clearly made some shoddy repairs to the farmhouse, so it wasn't as prone to complete collapse as it was before.

At the midnight hour, in a meditative position, a 16-year-old boy was practicing a Tantra that all the spirit farmers had been given.

With his black hair and amber eyes, the boy looked somewhat like his dead father. Puberty had treated him well, and he looked somewhat handsome.

The boy's eyes were half-shut, and his breaths were controlled. He was making Mudras as he chanted some Mantra in a fixed sequence, falling deep into a trance-like meditative state.

However, suddenly, a foreign beep sound echoed in his mind, audible only to him. It made him open his eyes and look at a Spectral Prompt in front of him.

[ Basic Greenwood Tantra has been analyzed and recorded completely.

The sequences of Mudras, Mantras, and Essence routes have been saved as macros.

Proceed with the automated cultivation? ]