Rain squeezed through the dispersing crowd, flanked by Emily. His eyes darted over to a stall laden with various herbs.
One particular item caught his attention. The spiritual grass appeared to be on the brink of death, yet a flicker of life still pulsed within its branches.
"This must be a cold spiritual grass," he thought. "It thrives in the snowy mountains and possesses a strong vitality. It usually grows to half a foot. This one, however, looks nearly a hundred years old."
A sense of regret washed over him. The grass was withering, its potency fading. For most people, this would mean the end. But not for him. An idea sparked in his mind.
"If green liquid can heal spiritual valleys," he mused, "then surely it can restore this spiritual grass. If I save it, I'll make a fortune." He recalled the red flame spiritual fruit he had found in a cave. It was only second-grade spiritual medicine, worth fifty taels of gold.
