Dimensional Storekeeper

Chapter 226: Elder Bai vs Sect Master Jiang 4

The nearby customers stared.

Opened their mouth to comment, then closed it again.

No one knew what was worse – believing them, or realizing they actually believed themselves.

But even with the chuuni declarations floating around, it still didn’t explain everything.

Not the way the balls had parted with grace, a ripple of motion that felt planned by the universe.

Not the way the cue ball drifted past every obstacle, curved with gentle restraint, and stopped at the exact center.

Elder Bai Qingshui circled the table. His eyes weren’t just looking.

They were measuring!

Angle. Spin. Collision path. Margin for error.

Five open shots waited across the felt. Two solids. Three stripes. Each one promising a quick point.

But quick was not his goal.

He stopped near the right side pocket. A striped orange ball sat close to the rail.

Awkward position. Unforgiving.

Missing it could ruin the rhythm. But if it dropped, it would open the path to the green-striped one resting above.

His cue stick lowered slowly.

The angle needed to be shallow. The power trimmed down to a hair above gentle. No room for flash or drama. Just control.

One breath in.

Then the strike.

Clean and quiet. The cue ball kissed the orange-striped target with a soft tap. It rolled sharply, grazed the rail, and disappeared into the side pocket.

No rattle. Just a drop.

The cue ball, freed from impact, nudged off the upper cushion and drifted into place.

Exactly where he wanted it.

Elder Bai Qingshui didn’t celebrate.

He never did.

Because for him, landing a shot wasn’t a victory.

It was a step. One tile in a pattern that had to be walked until the very end.

Even the cleanest drop meant nothing if the follow-up failed. And he had learned long ago that celebrating too early disrupted rhythm.

Flow was everything.

He didn’t glance at the crowd. Didn’t react to the quiet buzz that built around him.

Instead, he walked again.

Eyes scanning. Calculating. Adjusting.

The next target was a solid red ball near the left corner pocket. A cleaner angle, but it required tighter spin to avoid a nearby striped blocker.

He crouched. Lined it up.

Tapped once on the floor with his heel.

Then fired.

The red ball rolled low and steady, slipping just past the striped edge with barely an inch to spare before it dropped into the pocket.

The cue ball curled back from the rail and came to rest behind the next open shot.

One ball, then another. No wasted movement. No pause.

The room’s silence thickened with each click of the cue and each clean drop.

Then someone whispered.

“Don’t tell me… Elder Bai’s not gonna give Sect Master Jiang a turn?”

“That can’t be possible, right?”

“Even the storekeeper makes mistakes…”

A moment of silence.

Then a calm voice replied, steady and sure.

“It’s possible.”

Everyone turned.

Hao.

The storekeeper stood with arms lightly behind his back, watching the match unfold with quiet interest.

A ripple of surprise passed through the onlookers.

Even Hua Feixue perked up and skipped over, practically bouncing in place.

She leaned in, then stood to the side of Hao, eyes wide with sparkles.

“Senior Hao! Wait, seriously? Elder Bai can really just keep going without messing up once?”

Hao nodded once.

“Definitely possible.”

“But how?” Her voice shot up half a note. “Isn’t this game really full of mistakes?”

“Aren’t you supposed to miss once in a while so the other guy can go?”

“It’s not about fairness.” Hao explained. “It’s about control.”

“You only give up your turn if you miss or commit a foul.”

He pointed lightly toward the table.

“And Elder Bai hasn’t done either.”

“Not even one?” someone asked from the crowd.

Hao shook his head. “Not even close.”

He didn’t say it loudly, but everyone around could feel the weight of it.

Not even close.

From a simple game introduced just a week ago, the cultivators had adapted with frightening speed. Rules were learned.

Strategies were shared. Muscles were trained in ways they hadn’t been before. Movements sharpened.

Precision honed.

And now, here was Elder Bai Qingshui, making even Hao feel like a background character in his own store.

Hao watched the table, gaze still and steady.

They were going to surpass him.

Maybe not all at once, and maybe not yet. But soon. One day.

Because this rhythm, this style, this efficiency, it was the kind of play that had already risen past the stage of learning.

Elder Bai Qingshui wasn’t figuring things out.

He was refining.

And Hao knew.

His own peak form, the one he could still bring out on his best day, was just a brief hill that someone like Elder Bai Qingshui could stroll past without even breaking stride.

It wasn’t something to fear.

But it was something to respect.

And more than that –

It was something to enjoy.

Because no matter how far ahead they went, this was still his store.

His table.

And today, it was being used to carve history.

Hao watched without envy.

He was never one of those once-in-a-quadrillion talents who soared through life with untouchable genius. He wasn’t born with divine eyes that saw through illusions or hands that could mimic techniques after one glance.

What he had was patience, curiosity, and the ability to keep learning even after everyone else stopped paying attention.

Some had called him a little genius, and that title suited him just fine.

Shit – maybe not “some.”

If he was being honest, it was mostly just him calling himself that.

A self-proclaimed title spoken half-seriously, half-for-fun, when no one else was around to hear it.

Still, he never believed in downplaying what he had.

He was proud of his own path.

But he had long accepted his limits.

He knew what kind of cultivator he would become. What kind of shopkeeper he could be.

What kind of player he might remain.

There was peace in that knowledge.

He wasn’t built to chase the peak forever. His strength lay in building a solid foundation, not sprinting past others in brilliance.

It was never about racing. It was about lasting.

That was a truth no one liked hearing when they first set out to master something. Everyone wanted to be the next legend, the next record-breaker, the next mysterious expert who appeared from nowhere.

But in reality, most people would plateau. Everyone hit a ceiling. The question wasn’t whether it would happen.

It was how you responded when it did.

Hao chose to embrace it.

He poured effort into every shot, every placement, every lesson shared with his customers. And when they improved faster than he expected, he smiled.

Not because he was being overtaken, but because his work had meaning.

This store wasn’t built to hold him up.

It was meant to lift others.

And even now, watching Elder Bai Qingshui dominate the match with precision that bordered on storytelling, Hao felt no pressure to reclaim the spotlight.

He had done his part. He had introduced the game. Explained the rules. Given the first push forward.

That was enough.

Not every talent has to be absolute to be valuable. A spark can light a fire even if it never becomes the flame.

And Hao?

He was content being that spark.

The first cue strike. The first explanation. The first witness to what this little table in the corner of the world could truly become.

That was more than enough.

The cue clicked again.

A quiet, steady sound. Almost polite.

Elder Bai Qingshui had just sunk his fifth ball.

The table remained silent, but the tension coiled tighter with each shot. Not from the elder himself. He moved with the calm grace of someone folding laundry.

But from the audience holding their breath.

One customer whispered. “Elder Bai’s already halfway through already…”

Another, quieter, added. “How is he still in perfect position? Every shot resets clean.”

Back near the wall, Hao’s eyes flicked briefly to the corners of the table. He didn’t need a ruler.

He could already see where each ball would go, what spin was being used, and how the cue ball would glide into place after the strike.

But he also saw the invisible work behind it.

The way Elder Bai would pause for only half a second, scanning the angles. The quiet micro-adjustments of his footwork. The near-imperceptible shift of his grip.

Things no one in the room would notice unless they had broken down the game for days. Things that screamed experience.

Not instinct.

Practice.

And through it all, the elder’s face remained as still as lake water.

From across the table, the next ball was already waiting. Near the left cushion, blocked slightly by a solid ball too far off-angle to help.

But there was a shot. Narrow. Sharp. Something most would call a mistake to even try.

But Elder Bai Qingshui stepped forward.

His form lowered.

Cue aligned.

No hesitation.

Because to him, it wasn’t a gamble.

It was an answer to a puzzle he had already solved.

And when the shot came, it was a whisper of motion and a gentle knock.

The ball dropped into the pocket, smooth and sure.

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