A normal cultivator would set up tents, curl into a sleeping roll, and pray to the Heavens that nothing else found them in the dark.
But Lin Ji'an was not a normal cultivator.
She was a Michelin-star Head Chef whose biological clock had just reset, armed with a spatial ring full of spices and an insatiable greed.
As the final light of the sun vanished beneath the murky horizon of the Eastern Coastal Wastes, plunging the swamp into an eerie, bioluminescent twilight, Ji'an stood up.
She stretched her arms over her head, her spine popping in a satisfying symphony of realigned cartilage.
The lethargic misery of her menstrual cramps had been entirely banished by the ginger syrup given by her brother and the adrenaline, leaving her meridians buzzing with excess kinetic energy.
She turned to Blue.
The red-haired rogue was sitting calmly on the log, polishing a small, unadorned hunting knife.
Ji'an reached into her spatial ring and pulled out a heavy, clinking velvet pouch.
