Through the eyes of Zhuge Su Yeon
The world greeted dawn every day—yet for Zhuge Su Yeon, sunrise was always a consequence, never the beginning.
Before the first mist rose above the clan's ceramic rooftops, his feet were already sliding silently toward his private training grounds.
He trained in silence.
His mornings were always like this.
He began before even the earliest disciples awoke.
By afternoon, the setting changed—but never the discipline.
Inside the patriarch's office, surrounded by scrolls, supply lists, and reports, Su Yeon immersed himself in what he called the cultivation of political survival.
Each seal, a choice.
Each signature, a disguised prayer.
There, he was no cultivator. Not a strategist. But a caretaker of a house too old to collapse quietly—yet too fragile to survive another generation of mistakes.
At night, he returned to what he truly was.
In the stillness of his chamber—where even the fragrance of sandalwood seemed to hold its breath—Su Yeon sat upon the same woven mat, crossed his legs, and let his breathing dissolve into the air.
There, without hurry and without witnesses, he let the world disappear.
Cultivation had become an act of pure refinement. He did not absorb Qi as others did—he listened to it. And in listening, he taught his body to drink from the source without disturbing the surface.
The truth was that cultivation served Yeon merely as an accelerator. Even without cultivating, his power grew just by breathing—that was how absurd his talent was.
But even with such an unshakable routine, something new demanded attention.
The System.
Since it first appeared before his eyes as a panel of golden mist, Su Yeon had treated it the way an investor treats an exotic artifact: not with excitement, but with caution.
He had already understood the Members tab.
Already accepted that his twin siblings were... destined protagonists, born of a narrative Yeon would consider poor.
And so, for the past thirty days, after clan duties but before immersing himself in cultivation, he reserved a specific time—always between the eighth and ninth hour of night—to study his System.
With a single flick of his fingers, the panel emerged.
[Family Investment System]
For an entire month, Su Yeon read every line, tested every button, analyzed each feature as if deciphering a map left behind by an enigmatic architect.
Yeon did not trust his System blindly.
He wanted to understand it.
Because deep down, he knew:
— "Nothing appears from nothing... without wanting something in return."
And he had lived long enough—in this life and the one before—to distrust gifts.
Now, seated by a half-open window where the wind stirred unused tea leaves, Su Yeon opened the System once again.
Mission Categories:
Individual Missions Group Missions Clan Missions
Each held exactly three options.
And in every category, missions were scaled by difficulty:
The first—simple. Something even a junior disciple could accomplish with effort. The second—demanding real competence. A task fit for an intermediate cultivator, or someone resourceful enough to compensate for lack of strength. The third—a veiled invitation to suicide... for most.
— "Or, more practically," he mused, "an elegant trap to test geniuses."
He had taken care never to touch the third-tier missions.
It wasn't time.
In the past month, Su Yeon had completed five missions of grade 1 and 2.
Mission 1.1 — "Purify the spring of the eastern pavilion"
That spring had been abandoned for years, tainted by dead Qi and rotting bamboo leaves. Most considered it worthless—precisely why he chose it.
He destroyed the dead Qi outright, collected the residue with a gathering artifact, and redirected the water flow with a discarded jade sculpture from the artifact-makers' hall.
Reward: 30 points.
Mission 1.2 — "Stabilize the meridians of a junior disciple before the next full moon"
The vague description intrigued him.
He selected a boy of the secondary line—shy, prone to fainting during training, and constantly mocked by other branches. After a quiet talk in the garden, Su Yeon brewed tea with mist-dragon leaves and whispered a breathing method the boy barely understood... but still followed.
The boy not only stopped fainting but awakened into Body Refinement three days later.
Reward: 75 points.
Mission 2.1 — "Discreetly remove the infestation of spirit ants from the plum orchard"
This one was almost amusing.
The ants carried wood Qi and were draining the trees. He simply sat beneath a plum tree and released his Qi as if preparing for battle.
The ants fled. The orchard flourished.
The orchard's keeper still believed it was thanks to nightly prayers to an ancestral spirit.
Reward: 40 points.
Mission 2.2 — "Correct the structural flaw in the containment array of Warehouse 3"
This was complex.
The array had been poorly designed—no surprise, since it was drawn by an elder with more wine expertise than rune knowledge.
Su Yeon studied the Qi intersections for three nights. Once he identified the flaw, he summoned a formations elder, had new seals inscribed with refined charcoal ink, and used his own Qi to rewrite part of the matrix.
Reward: 110 points.
Mission 1.3 — "Bring harmony to the divided heart of a clan member"
This was... unexpected.
No name. No clue. Just the statement.
He spent days observing the clan. Then he noticed a medical disciple—young, silent, her eyes always red by dusk. He approached her with a question about herbs. She hesitated, answered. They spoke three more times over the following weeks.
On the last, she laughed.
The System counted the mission complete.
Reward: 150 points.
By then, Su Yeon had gathered around 400 points—enough to buy some trinkets.
Each completed mission vanished from the list, replaced by a new one.
Same category. Same difficulty.
Never the same task.
As if the System whispered: "You may continue. Indefinitely. Just play the game."
With that same cautious curiosity, he turned to the third tab.
[Store]
From the beginning, it had both excited and unsettled him.
Unlike the Members tab—filled with censorship, locks, and absurd prices—or the Missions tab, with its mechanical rotation... the Store felt alive.
Its layout was clean:
▸ Materials
▸ Techniques
▸ Professions
But complexity unfolded within.
Each menu split into four tiers—or rather: one visible tier, three still locked.
The only available one:
▸ Mortal Tier
The others... Yeon believed they would unlock someday. For now, he was too weak.
As if the System mocked him:
"You are unworthy even to know the names of what you cannot buy."
Inside Mortal Tier, divisions continued:
▸ Spiritual Grade
▸ Earthly Grade
▸ Celestial Grade
And within each grade:
Initial Intermediate Advanced Perfect
So Yeon began his tests.
First, he purchased small spirit materials—a blazing plum root, a green jade stalk, a dawn-flower seed. Nothing rare, nothing costly. Total: 17 points.
Next, he tested what mattered: techniques.
In the Earthly/Initial section, he found a cultivation method more refined than what the clan disciples used. Plain, unnamed, discreet—perfect for testing.
Two hundred points.
He bought it.
The System asked no questions, issued no warnings.
It simply confirmed the purchase with the neutrality of a sleepwalking clerk.
And then... nothing.
No glow.
No item.
No scroll magically appearing in his hands.
Not even a "collect reward" button.
The only thing displayed:
Select a clan member to receive the item.
Out of caution, he chose himself.
Again... nothing.
No aura.
No summoning.
No triumphant "item acquired" sound.
If not for the points deducted, Su Yeon would have thought the System was mocking him.
For nearly a whole day, he believed it was a glorified scam.
Until that night. Returning to his quarters after another day as patriarch, he passed a simple spirit apple tree in the eastern wing—useful only for shading a forgotten bench.
And there... something glowed.
He frowned.
Stepped closer.
The glow brightened faintly.
There, among fallen leaves and damp soil, lay a book.
Beside it, a plain bundle tied with straw: three herbs he had requested earlier.
He knelt, touched the book carefully.
The title engraved on the cover matched what the System had shown:
— "So that's how it works..." he whispered, voice low as the night wind.
The System did not deliver.
It materialized.
And it did so not with spectacle, but with discretion.
The next morning, calmly, without haste, he continued his experiment.
But this time, the target was not himself.
The interface shimmered gently, responding to his fingers like a diligent servant.
[Store → Professions → Spiritual Medicine]
Category: Spiritual Medicine
Grade: Earthly Initial
Item: Complete Kit of the Gentle Spring Healer
▸ A celestial wooden case reinforced with containment seals.
▸ Internal compartments for vials, needles, spiritual acupuncture tools, healing essences, and a diagnostic mirror with basic formations.
Cost: 74 points.
Technically, a kit for an advanced apprentice.
But for someone with the talent he now suspected Yui Lan possessed...
— "Just... the bare minimum." he murmured.
He confirmed the purchase. When asked "To whom should this item be delivered?", he did not hesitate.
Zhuge Yui Lan.
Transaction complete. Interface closed.
And once again... nothing.
No glow.
No alert.
He simply waited.
And watched.
From afar.
Without interference.
Yui Lan walked as always—blue robes, simple yet graceful, her hair tied neatly.
Morning in the cultivation fields.
Then the ancestral library.
She greeted elders, corrected a younger disciple about herbs in medicinal teas.
But in the afternoon, as she crossed a quiet stone street in Grey Sky City, it happened.
The shop was ancient.
So ancient its signboard's characters had nearly surrendered to time.
"Spiritual Pharmacy of Master Yun," it read, in fading ink, as if apologizing for still existing.
Yui Lan entered with measured steps.
From a teahouse terrace above, Su Yeon feigned reading clan accounts while keeping his spiritual sense linked to her presence.
She spoke with the shopkeeper—an old woman with silver hair, wrinkled eyes, and a smile too wide for local customs.
They spoke briefly.
Yui Lan selected some herbs—basic, ordinary, the kind any humble healer would carry.
And then...
The woman held her hands, smiled warmly—and handed her a case.
Not an ordinary case.
The case.
Yui Lan opened it delicately, examined the vials, needles, filters, and mirror inside with quiet joy—the kind of glow in her eyes few could see, but Su Yeon had known since childhood.
The old woman explained—about a deceased son who once studied spiritual medicine. How the kit had been forgotten for years. How, upon seeing Yui Lan, she felt it was time to let it go.
Yui Lan was moved.
She bowed deeply.
And left with the case in hand.
From above, Su Yeon closed his eyes.
For there was no doubt.
It wasn't coincidence.
It was the item.
The exact item he had purchased.
But delivered not as a magical gift out of nowhere—rather as a narrative event disguised as mundane fortune.
The System did not deliver.
It created scenes.
And more than that...
It used real people as supporting characters to validate what it gave.
More and more, Su Yeon felt he was living inside a book—written with his own life.