The "Potion Shop" was bright. Too bright.

  Wei stepped inside, his boots squeaking on the polished floor. The smell of burnt beans and sugar was overwhelming here. It assaulted his senses.

  *Low-grade ingredients,* Wei analyzed. *Processed with excessive heat. A waste.*

  He approached the counter.

  Wei stared at the menu. He could read it—the language translation spell from the teleportation array was still holding—which was a relief. Understand it? That was another challenge.

  *Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino?*

  *Iced Brown Sugar Oatmilk Shaken Espresso?*

  These sounded like names of demonic beasts, not beverages.

  "Whacha need, hun?"

  The alchemist behind the counter was a woman with purple hair and a ring in her nose. She looked exhausted. Her cultivation base was non-existent.

  Wei bowed.

  "I wish to try one of your stamina potions," he said politely.

  The woman blinked. "Stamina... potion?"

  "Yes. Something to replenish Qi. I have expended much mental energy today."

  "Right," she deadpanned. "One Red Eye. Coming up."

  She tapped a screen.

  "Name?"

  "Han Wei. External Disciple of the Azure Cloud Sect."

  She typed *Han*.

  "Seven bucks."

  Wei handed over two of his hard-earned five-dollar bills.

  He watched the process. It was horrifying.

  She took a scoop of black powder. She dumped it into a metal basket. She pressed a button.

  No prayer to the Fire God. No temperature regulation. No infusion of intent.

  Just a machine spitting out black sludge.

  "Here," she thumped a paper cup onto the counter. "Careful. It's hot."

  Wei took the cup. He sniffed it.

  *Ash. Mud. Despair.*

  He took a sip.

  His eyes watered. It was bitter, acidic, and dead. It offered a tiny jolt of caffeine, but it came with a backlash of jittery toxicity.

  "Poison," Wei whispered.

  He looked at the purple-haired alchemist.

  "This is... acceptable to you?" he asked. "You serve this to fellow Daoists?"

  "Look, buddy, I'm just working a double. If you don't like it, there's sugar on the bar."

  Wei shook his head. "Sugar cannot hide the failure of the flame."

  He put the cup down.

  "Step aside."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I said, step aside. I cannot ingest this without purifying it first."

  Wei walked around the counter.

  "Hey! You can't be back here!"

  Wei gently moved her out of the way. He used a 'Soft Palm' technique—firm but harmless. She slid three feet to the left like she was on ice.

  Wei looked at the machine. It was crude, but the boiler had potential.

  He found the beans. Dark Roast.

  *Overcooked,* he thought. *But I can salvage the core.*

  He placed his hand on the metal hopper. He closed his eyes.

  He sent a pulse of his own Qi into the machine.

  *Purify.*

  The machine hummed. It vibrated at a frequency that made the cups on the shelf rattle.

  Wei ground the beans. He didn't just press the button; he timed the extraction by listening to the heartbeat of the water.

  He adjusted the pressure valve with a flick of his finger.

  *Drip. Drip. Drip.*

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The liquid that came out wasn't black sludge. It was a rich, golden-brown nectar. The "Crema."

  The smell changed. The burnt odor vanished, replaced by a scent of roasted nuts, caramel, and morning sunlight.

  The shop went silent. Customers looked up from their laptops.

  The smell was intoxicating. It smelled like *energy*.

  The door to the back office opened. A man in a tie stumbled out. He looked like he had died three days ago. Bags under his eyes, skin pale.

  The Manager.

  "What..." the Manager croaked. "What is that smell?"

  Wei held up the tiny cup of espresso.

  "A rudimentary Vitality Elixir," Wei said. "It clears the meridians and sharpens the mind."

  He offered it to the Manager.

  "Drink. Your liver is crying for help."

  The Manager didn't argue. He took the cup. He drank it in one shot.

  Wei watched.

  The Manager's eyes widened. The color returned to his cheeks. The slump in his shoulders vanished.

  It wasn't just caffeine. It was Wei's Qi, infused into the liquid, forcefully scrubbing the fatigue toxins from the man's system.

  "Oh my god," the Manager whispered. "I can hear colors."

  "It is a standard brew," Wei said modestly. "Though your beans are of poor quality."

  The Manager grabbed Wei's hand.

  "You're hired," he said. "I don't care who you are. Can you make another one?"

  Wei smiled.

  "For five dollars," Wei negotiated. "Plus tips."

  ***

  Ten minutes later, a crude cardboard sign was taped to the glass pastry case.

  **HAN SOLO SPECIAL - $15**

  *(No Modifications. No Soy. No Refunds.)*

  Wei had no idea who "Han Solo" was. He assumed it was a local deity of solitude or perhaps a famous alchemist.

  He didn't care. He was too busy at the boiler.

  The word spread. It started with the Manager (who was now vibrating with energy and cleaning the bathroom for fun). It spread to the customers.

  "It's like drinking pure focus," one college student gasped, typing her thesis at 200 words per minute.

  "I feel like I could fight a bear," a construction worker declared.

  The line went out the door.

  Wei worked the machine. He infused every cup with a sliver of Qi. Not enough to drain him—the "Dao of the Barista" was actually a very efficient cultivation cycle. He drew in the ambient heat of the boiler, refined it, and pushed it into the water.

  *Grind. Infuse. Brew. Serve.*

  He fell into a trance. It was better than meditation.

  Four hours later.

  "We're out of beans," the Manager announced, looking both exhausted and richer than he had ever been.

  Wei wiped his hands on a rag.

  "Then the alchemy stops."

  The Manager counted the drawer.

  "You sold a hundred cups, Han. That's fifteen hundred dollars sales."

  He handed Wei a stack of bills.

  "Here's your cut. Five hundred."

  Then he pointed to the tip jar. It was overflowing. Users of the "Han Solo Special" were generous.

  "And that's yours too."

  Wei counted it all.

  Five hundred in wages. Two hundred in tips.

  Seven hundred dollars.

  Combined with his chess winnings, he now held nearly a thousand Spirit Dollars.

  "Come back tomorrow, Han!" the Manager shouted as Wei walked out the door. "Seriously! I'll buy more beans!"

  Wei bowed. "If the Dao wills it."

  He stepped out into the cool evening air of New York.

  He had money. He had a reputation.

  "Now," Wei whispered, clutching his cash. "To find a place to sleep and recharge."