Inside the dim storage room of the Tan Family Residence, Jiji stood in silence, staring at the broom and mop propped lazily against the wall.
The space was cramped compared to the wide, towering buildings he had scrubbed back on Earth, but there was a strange familiarity in it, almost like muscle memory guiding him.
His body moved on instinct: he walked over to the corner where a small wooden desk sat, its surface covered with a thick logbook.
Without thinking, he picked up the brush and ink, scrawling his name and the hour down as though clocking in at another dreary 9-to-5 shift.
The absurdity of it hit him only after he pulled the brush away. "Why the hell am I even doing this?" he muttered, staring at the line of ink. Yet it felt natural, too natural. He had done this same motion thousands of times in his past life. And so, here he was again, in a strange world that promised immortality, yet still tied down to the same routine of labor.
Sighing, Jiji turned, walking back toward the middle of the storage room. His eyes scanned the walls, shelves, and wooden crates, studying the layers of dust that clung to every corner. His brows furrowed. He could almost see where the dust gathered most heavily, as if the grime itself was alive and daring him to move it.
He closed his eyes.
The moment he did, something changed in the room.
Slowly at first, then faster.
The air thickened, heavy as smoke, pressing down on him. Darkness seeped into the corners, creeping like a tide until the shelves warped, bending into monstrous shapes. Wooden crates cracked open, shadows spilling from them like ink.
One by one, creatures crawled out.
Their bodies were small, squat, their limbs crooked like malformed dolls, and their eyes glowed with a dull yellow gleam. They giggled—high, broken cackles, not unlike spirit gremlins from old folklore.
The sound scratched at his ears, mocking, unnatural. Their laughter echoed in the narrow space until the room was packed with them, hundreds, maybe more, swarming in every direction.
Jiji's breath hitched, but when he looked down, the mop in his hand was no longer a mop.
The wooden handle gleamed white, transforming into a long spear of radiant light, its edge sharp, humming with deadly purpose. His clothes had shifted too—he was clad in armor, the heavy plates of an eastern knight, etched with silver designs, his body glowing faintly as if his very presence held back the crawling dark.
"Ha," Jiji said, his lips curling with sarcasm as he tightened his grip. "Funny. I used to imagine this exact thing back in my old world just to keep myself sane. A janitor knight, fighting dust monsters, saving the world from filth. And now? I'm in the so-called immortal world, and I'm still stuck imagining crap like this."
The spirit gremlins hissed, giggling louder. Jiji lifted his spear.
"Fine then," he said. "Let's clean."
He lunged forward. Woosh! The spear cut through the air, glowing as it smashed into a spirit gremlin. The creature exploded into dust, dissolving into gray motes. But more leaped at him, clawing, biting, their laughter twisting into shrieks.
"Shaaa!" Jiji roared, sweeping his spear in a wide arc. Woosh! Woosh! Two more shattered. He thrust the spear like a drill, haaaah! dust bursting in clouds. In his fantasy, it was a brutal battle, steel against monsters. In reality, his mop swiped furiously at shelves, wiping away layers of grime, scattering dust clouds into the air.
He stomped forward, the clang of imagined armor ringing in his ears. Ha! Sha! Haaah! Every shout came with a strike, each louder than the last.
His movements were wild, aggressive, each thrust fueled not only by imagination but by years of buried frustration from his old life. Sweat trickled down his brow, his voice echoed against the walls, until it felt like he was screaming into a battlefield.
The spirit gremlins fought back—leaping onto his arms, clinging to his armor. In reality, it was clumps of cobwebs and dirt clinging stubbornly to the mophead.
He gritted his teeth, ripped them off, and jabbed again. "Aaaah! Come on, you bastards!" His voice cracked from the force of his shouts, but his strikes grew sharper, cleaner.
Minutes bled into more. His arms should've been burning. His chest should've been heaving. He should've collapsed already. Yet he wasn't.
He froze mid-strike.
Wait. How long have I been swinging this mop? How long have I been yelling like a maniac? He should've been panting, gasping, his back aching like it always did on Earth. But here, his body kept moving. No lactic acid burn, no weakness, no exhaustion.
"What the…?" he muttered, staring at his hands. His grip trembled, but not from fatigue. His body felt… resilient. Strong. Not like a spoiled young master, not like the weak human he'd been back on Earth. It was as if this body had been tempered, trained in ways he hadn't realized.
"Don't tell me…" He gritted his teeth. Is this the body of someone who's been training? But Jiji shook his head. Isn't this guy a young master? Young masters usually have frail bodies, right? And the reason he's here is that the previous young master was a sheltered rat. So, why doesn't his body get tired easily?
Before he could process, a sharp chime cut through the silence.
Ding!
A glowing screen appeared in front of him, blue light etching letters across the air.
[ Mission Detected. ]
Jiji's mouth fell open. "Finally…" His eyes narrowed. "So it really works like this. I just keep working until something pops up, huh?" He swallowed hard, sweat dripping from his brow, though his chest remained steady. He stared at the hovering screen, the words glowing as if making him wait. But he wanted to hurry.
So his fingers twitched toward it—
––
Meanwhile, outside, the courtyard was filled with hurried footsteps.
Tan Yulong strode with long, urgent strides, his robes sweeping behind him. His face was tight, carved with tension, no longer playful or mischievous but grim.
Behind him followed the masked attendant, silent and watchful, and Madam Bing Shuhua, who struggled to keep pace, her eyes swollen and red from tears. Several female attendants trailed her, carrying lanterns though the sun had yet to fall.
As they hurried toward the storage wing, Yulong finally turned his head, his voice cutting through the air.
"Bing'er. Don't lie to me. Tell me the truth. Has my son… really been training himself in secret whenever I was away?"
Madam Bing's lips quivered. She slowed for a moment, then caught her breath, her words trembling as they spilled out. "Y-Yulong… every time you were gone, every time you were too busy with business, Jilong—our son—he would lock himself away or sneak into the training yard. He trained himself to death, Yulong. Day after day, he pushed his body past its limits. Even when his hands bled, even when his knees shook, he would keep going."
Yulong's face paled. His pace faltered. "What…?"
Madam Bing choked, her tears spilling freely again. "I begged him to stop. I told him he was hurting himself. But he would look at me with those stubborn eyes, begging me not to say a word to you. He said… he said he wanted to surprise you. He wanted you to see him one day and be proud. He wanted you to know he was not weak." Her voice cracked. "He wanted to prove to you that he was worthy of the same gaze you gave his brothers!"
Each word struck Yulong like a hammer. His expression hardened, then twisted.
"And yesterday…" Madam Bing's voice broke into sobs. "After he was rejected for his fake wood root, he didn't sleep. He didn't eat. He trained until his body gave out, until he collapsed unconscious, striking his head. I… I was terrified. My son, my youngest son…" Her voice dissolved into muffled cries, her sleeves damp as she tried to wipe them away. "Please, Jilong, don't hurt yourself like this again…"
Yulong's face grew darker with every step. His jaw tightened. His eyes, which so often gleamed with mischief and schemes, now carried nothing but gravity and regret.
The masked attendant glanced at him but said nothing.
And so they walked, each second heavier than the last, until the group reached the storage room.
The faint echoes of muffled shouts—Jiji's wild "Ha! Sha! Aaaaah!"—seeped through the door, making Yulong's heart pound as he stood there, his hand hovering over the latch.
Inside, his son was cleaning.