Dividing the Roasted Dragonfish, Night Visitor from the Stars

"A revolution in military strategy is staring us in the face!" State Duke Wei suddenly blurted.

The Heavenly Tactics Grand General and the others all nodded, faces serious.

Quinn Shepherd and the thousands of Imperial Academy scholars, plus the Dao Gate and Buddhist cultivators from Little Jade Capital, had been goofing off, horsing around with this whole Primordial Spirit Conference idea—just treating it as a big joke. The cultivators were cracking up, just having fun, but for these battle-hardened generals, the shock was earth-shattering.

Since forever, battlefields have shifted in a heartbeat. The toughest part of commanding troops has always been keeping lines open—with reinforcements, supplies, and the emperor himself. Back when Everpeace's Imperial Preceptor built flying tower ships, made land-ships, and laid down roads everywhere, it finally let people and armies move at lightning speed across the realm.

The point—besides helping the common folk—was to move news fast. With those land and sky advantages, the Everpeace Empire just kept gobbling up more territory.

But as Everpeace stretched bigger and bigger, messages started taking ages, and getting troops to the borders turned into a slog.

Quinn Shepherd souped up the pill furnaces on those tower ships, so they ran faster—but every message sent burned through a mountain of spirit medicine and medicinal stones (essential alchemical fuel for powering the ships’ spiritual engines).

A tower ship leaving the capital for True Heaven Palace in the Western Lands would be on the road for days, and the spirit medicine burned up by the pill furnace could probably fund a small war—these are costly, high-grade cultivation resources.

For moving whole armies, you still had to hitch a ride on exotic beasts, with infantry slogging along behind. Using tower ships for troop transport was just way too expensive.

But with Quinn and the gang’s Primordial Spirit Conference art, all it took was a bunch of Primordial Spirits flying in and gathering together—instantly relaying news, grabbing updates from a hundred thousand miles away in real time. The Imperial Academy was bustling with excitement.

For war, this art could straight-up decide who wins and who loses!

"Your Majesty, Libationer Quinn used the word 'conference'—that's practically treason!"

An old minister dropped to his knees with a thud and shouted, "A conference means a court assembly—all the officials meeting the emperor! For Libationer Quinn to hijack that word—he's got the heart of a wolf, the ambition of a traitor! Please, Your Majesty, off with his head!"

Emperor Evan just stared, speechless. The generals barked at the old minister, but he kept bowing and banging his head on the floor—thump, thump, thump—dramatically showing off his loyalty.

After a moment, Emperor Evan waved his hand, unhurried and calm: "The word 'conference' isn't just for the court, Elder Yu. You need to read more books. Sure, we say 'court conference' for assemblies, but it can mean other things too. Back in the day, Heavenblade wrote a poem called 'One-Line Heaven'—in the preface, he said, 'Meeting with friends by the Wei River.' Heavenblade was a literary giant, his scholarship a hundred times yours, his works still recited today. He wasn't an emperor, and no one called him a traitor for using 'conference.' Old words, new uses."

The emperor helped Elder Yu up with a kindly smile. "You're getting old, Elder Yu. I won't take your head—go ahead and retire back home." (Note: The term 'conference' appeared over two thousand years ago in the Records of the Grand Historian, and may be even older. It's not a foreign word.)

The other ministers traded glances, baffled. "His Majesty's in a good mood today—no beheadings. Elder Yu lost his post but kept his head. Lucky man!"

"Alright, everyone, zip it for a sec—quiet!"

Quinn Shepherd’s voice boomed out: "Let’s test this—can Primordial Spirits really talk to each other? You all hear me?"

Inside the Grand Academy Hall, the place exploded with noise—hundreds of voices yelled, "Yes! Loud and clear!"

Quinn asked, "When you activate the art, do your Primordial Spirits feel off?"

Inside the Grand Academy Hall, the crowd of Primordial Spirits was a noisy mess. Suddenly, someone's spirit vanished with a bang—then popped back a moment later, scaring everyone half to death.

Some spirits flickered in and out, others drifted around aimlessly. Laughter echoed everywhere, the hall was pure chaos—so loud it made your head spin.

Quinn jotted down all the weird phenomena, clapped his hands, and said, "Alright, meeting adjourned!"

Everyone recalled their Primordial Spirits and vanished from the Grand Academy Hall. Just like that, history's very first Primordial Spirit Conference was over.

Emperor Evan turned to the court historian behind him. "Did you get all that down?"

The historian hesitated, clutching his thick records. "Your Majesty, this Primordial Spirit Conference was just Quinn and the scholars goofing off. They barely said anything—most of it was nonsense. You really want me to write all that down?"

Emperor Evan sighed, tapping the official chronicle hard. "If, centuries from now, people scour Everpeace’s history and can't find the first Primordial Spirit Conference, they'll curse your name! Record every word—and make a picture too!"

Cold sweat broke out on the historian’s forehead as he hurried to jot down every word Quinn and the others said. He felt utterly wronged: "This is all nonsense! Will future generations really curse me for this? But if I skip it, His Majesty will have my head..."

An hour later, Quinn returned from a thousand miles away, and the other scholars rushed back to the Imperial Academy too. The place was lively beyond compare—Quinn gathered top numerology experts, used his notes on all the weird phenomena, and started working out the bugs in their art. The whole Academy buzzed with excitement and camaraderie.

Soon enough, the art was nearly perfect—no more Primordial Spirits jumping out of line.

Quinn and a bunch of scholars climbed up on top of the Grand Academy Hall, fixing the botched rune-marks. After a busy half-day, some quick-footed ones ran outside to test the Primordial Spirit gathering again—this time, no weird phenomena at all.

Emperor Evan never left, quietly waiting until Quinn finished—even as night fell. With the emperor standing there, all the civil and military officials had to stay put, too.

Once Quinn was done, he had the Director of the Archives in the Heavenly Records Tower officially record the perfected art and rune-marks. Only then did Emperor Evan step forward and say, "Libationer Quinn, you’ve done a great service for the realm. How should I reward you?"

Quinn stretched, grinning, "If Your Majesty wants to reward me, then reward everyone in the Imperial Academy with a big dinner. This art isn’t just my creation—it’s the result of everyone’s combined wisdom."

"Done!"

Emperor Evan ordered, "Bring in every chef from the palace kitchens, and have them bring their best ingredients. I want to treat everyone in the Imperial Academy—including the Daoists and monks! If there aren’t enough cooks, draft the ones from every official’s house! I’ll eat here with them, too!"

The Imperial Academy was ablaze with lanterns. It seemed every chef in the capital had been summoned—fires roared, rice steamed, and everyone showed off their best skills: frying, roasting, stir-frying, braising, steaming, stewing, and more. It was a riot of culinary divine arts—chaotic, dazzling, and full of warmth and laughter.

The mouthwatering aromas in the Academy set everyone’s stomachs rumbling. The emperor even had fine wine brought from the palace to treat the whole crowd.

"Does this art have a name yet?" Emperor Evan leaned over and asked during the feast.