Transmigrating Into a novel as a Rich Second-Generation.-Chapter 26: Cultivation Manual [2]

<2/100>

Sebastian opened his eyes, checking the notification.

Every five minutes, he was accumulating one Qi Experience point.

It wasn’t great, but it was good to see measurable progress.

’Let’s continue,’ he thought to himself.

He closed his eyes again, focusing on those barely-perceptible threads of spiritual energy.

Breathe in. Grasp. Pull. Absorb.

Breathe out. Release. Repeat.

The minutes ticked by slowly. Sebastian lost himself in the rhythm, the monotonous cycle of breathing and absorption becoming almost meditative despite how tedious it was.

Soon enough, a whole hour had passed.

<14/100>

Sebastian opened his eyes, rolling his shoulders.

Unlike in novels where protagonists waxed poetic about the "profound mysteries of the dao" and the "exquisite sensation of spiritual enlightenment," cultivation was actually pretty boring.

It was just sitting still, breathing, and mentally grabbing invisible threads for hours on end.

No mystical visions. No sudden breakthroughs. Just slow, grinding progress.

Still, boring didn’t mean useless. Fourteen percent was fourteen percent.

He continued.

Another hour passed in the same tedious cycle.

<26/100>

Sebastian stood up, stretching his stiff muscles. He was only 26% into Spirit Apprentice Level 1, and he’d already spent over two hours cultivating.

’At this rate, it’ll take me about eight hours total to reach Level 1,’ Sebastian calculated. ’Assuming the difficulty doesn’t increase, which it probably will.’

As he was about to sit back down for another session, his phone rang.

The caller ID showed: Bella Vista Restaurant.

Sebastian answered immediately. "Yes?"

Victoria Russo’s voice came through, professional and crisp. "Mr. Fairfax, they’re here. I’m calling to notify you."

A cold smile spread across Sebastian’s face. "Good. I’ll leave it to you."

♢♢♢♢

Ethan Cole stood outside Bella Vista, tugging at his collar nervously.

The restaurant wasn’t cheap—appetizers alone cost more than he usually spent on groceries for a week. Luckily, he was able to get some good money from his golden finger, so he wasn’t stressed.

It would be worth it.

This was his chance to fix things with Isabelle. To show her the real him, away from the chaos and rumours at school. To prove that he wasn’t the violent, unstable person everyone was making him out to be.

He’d even dressed up, wearing a button-down shirt, paired with jeans that he had recently bought.

Isabelle arrived a few minutes later, and Ethan’s breath caught.

She looked beautiful in a simple cream-colored dress, her hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders.

"Hi," Ethan said, trying to sound confident. "You look amazing."

"Thank you," Isabelle replied, smiling politely but not quite meeting his eyes. "You look nice too."

They entered the restaurant together.

The interior was even more elegant than Ethan had imagined—soft lighting, white tablecloths, the gentle sound of a piano playing in the background. Other diners were dressed impeccably, jewelry glinting in the candlelight.

Ethan suddenly felt very underdressed.

"Good evening," the maître d’ greeted them with a professional smile. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes, under Cole," Ethan said, trying to sound casual. "Ethan Cole."

The maître d’ checked his list, then nodded. "Ah yes, right this way please."

He led them through the dining room, past several empty tables with prime locations—near windows, in quiet corners, perfectly romantic settings.

Instead, he brought them to a table right next to the kitchen door.

Every few seconds, the door swung open with a bang as servers rushed in and out. The constant movement, the noise of dishes clattering, the heat from the kitchen—it all washed over them.

"Here you are," the maître d’ said pleasantly. "Your server will be with you shortly."

Ethan stared at the table, then looked around at all the empty, better tables they’d passed. "Um, excuse me? Is there maybe a different table available? Something quieter?"

"I’m afraid not, sir," the maître d’ replied smoothly. "We’re fully booked tonight. This is what we have available."

"But those tables over there are empty—"

"Those are reserved, sir. This is your table."

The maître d’ walked away before Ethan could protest further.

Ethan and Isabelle sat down awkwardly. The kitchen door swung open again with a loud bang, and a server rushed past carrying a tray of steaming dishes.

"This is... cozy," Isabelle said diplomatically, though her smile was strained.

"Yeah," Ethan muttered, already feeling his mood souring. "Really...cozy."

A server finally approached—a young woman with an apathetic expression. "Can I get you started with drinks?"

"Water for me, please," Isabelle said.

"Same," Ethan added.

The server nodded and walked away without another word.

Ethan opened his menu, the appetizers were $18-25 whilst main courses ranged from $35 to $60.

"Everything looks so good, have you been here before?"" Isabelle said, browsing her menu.

"No, first time," Ethan admitted. "But I heard great things."

The kitchen door banged open again, and this time someone shouted from inside about a burned dish.

Isabelle winced slightly at the noise.

Ethan’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go.

Twenty minutes passed.

Their water still hadn’t arrived.

Ethan kept glancing around for their server, but she seemed to have vanished entirely. Other tables were being attended to promptly—drinks delivered, orders taken, appetizers served.

But their table? Nothing.

"This is taking a while," Isabelle noted, checking her phone.

"Yeah," Ethan said, his irritation growing. "Let me try to flag someone down."

He raised his hand, trying to catch the attention of a passing server.

The server walked right by without acknowledging him.

Ethan tried again with another server. Same result.

’Are they ignoring us on purpose?’ Ethan thought, anger simmering beneath his forced calm expression.

Finally, their original server reappeared, walking at a leisurely pace.

"Ready to order?" she asked, not bothering to apologize for the delay.

"We still don’t have water," Ethan pointed out, trying to keep his tone civil.

"Oh." She didn’t sound particularly concerned. "I’ll get that for you."

"Can we just order everything now?" Ethan asked. "We’ve been waiting a while."

"Sure."

Isabelle ordered first—a pasta dish that cost $42.

Ethan scanned the menu quickly, picking the cheapest acceptable main course. "I’ll have the chicken, please."

The server wrote it down and walked away. But yet again, there was still no water.

Another fifteen minutes passed before their water finally arrived—delivered by a different server who set the glasses down without a word and disappeared immediately.

Isabelle took a sip, then frowned. "Is there... something in this?"

Ethan checked his own glass. There was a small piece of something floating in it—maybe a bit of lemon pulp or... Actually, he wasn’t sure what it was.

He pushed the glass aside. "Let’s just wait for the food."

But the food took even longer.

Forty-five minutes after they’d ordered, Ethan watched as other tables—who had arrived after them—received their meals first.

His leg bounced under the table with barely suppressed frustration.

"Sorry this is taking so long," he said to Isabelle, trying to salvage the evening with conversation. "I don’t know what’s going on tonight."

"It’s okay," Isabelle said, though she kept glancing at her watch. "These things happen."

Finally, a server approached with their dishes.

Ethan felt a surge of relief—until he saw what was placed in front of him.

Fish. Not chicken.

"Um, excuse me," Ethan said, stopping the server. "I ordered the chicken."

The server looked at the plate, then at her notepad. "Oh. My mistake. I’ll get that fixed for you."

She took the plate and walked away.

Isabelle looked down at her own dish. "Should I wait for you, or...?"

"No, no, go ahead," Ethan said quickly, forcing a smile. "Don’t let it get cold."

So Isabelle ate while Ethan sat there, empty-handed, watching.

The kitchen door banged open again.

And again.

And again.

Each bang made Ethan’s eye twitch a little more.