Inside the dimly lit storage room, Jiji stood frozen, eyes locked on the glowing panel that hovered in front of him like a ghostly parchment. His hands trembled slightly as the system's crisp words burned themselves into his vision:
[Mission available. Do you accept?]
He had read about countless systems back on Earth, in novels, games, and anime. Systems that barked orders, shoved tasks into the face of the so-called "chosen," and demanded obedience with penalties too cruel to ignore. Yet here it was—this one didn't force him, didn't command him. It asked. Genuinely asked.
He stepped back, narrowing his eyes.
"Ooooh…" he muttered, his voice carrying a sarcastic amazement. "Would you look at that? A polite system? That's… new."
The words escaped him almost in disbelief. And yet, even as he admired the fairness of it, he couldn't help but laugh bitterly under his breath.
"Polite, sure… but what's the catch? You want me to be a nine-to-five worker in this so-called immortal world? Ha! What kind of cosmic joke is that?"
Still, there was a strange pull in his chest, a rhythm between choice and consequence that made the offer feel… fair. Like it wasn't trapping him, only giving him a mirror to see what he really was. His eyes softened, torn between amusement and unease.
Before his finger could hover over the glowing word "Yes", a sudden knock echoed against the wooden door.
Tok! Tok!
Jiji stiffened, shoulders tensing as he turned his head toward the sound. His brow furrowed. "Huh? Who's that?"
Outside, the corridor buzzed faintly with muffled whispers, then a woman's trembling voice pierced through.
"Jilong? Are you in there?"
The softness in the tone carried an ache that startled him. Jiji's brows knitted closer.
"This is me, Shuhua, your mother. I'm worried about you…" Her voice cracked like porcelain under pressure. Then, bitterness colored her words, sharp as a knife. "Your evil father—" she turned and shot a glare at Tan Yulong beside her, "—forced you to work so soon! Are you certain you want this? If you'd rather rest, I will plead with him myself. You need not do this immediately."
Inside, Jiji froze. His lips parted slightly.
"…So she's my mother?" he whispered to himself.
For a moment, something warm flickered faintly in his chest—something foreign, yet familiar. He cleared his throat and called back, voice steady though uncertain.
"No, Mother. I'm fine. I… I think I can do it."
Outside, Madam Bing Shuhua's knees nearly buckled as tears burst forth. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand. It was the same as always. Whenever her son pushed himself too far, he would say those words—I'm fine—because he hated to make her worry.
Inside, Jiji blinked at the muffled sound of her sobbing, confusion weaving into his thoughts. Why is she crying?
Then another voice came. Deeper, heavier, and yet, strangely hesitant.
"My son…" Tan Yulong spoke, though at first his words stumbled, broken. "It's me. Your father. You can rest if you want. I won't force you to work today. After all, being rejected by the sect yesterday… that wound is not only of the body but also of the spirit. You need time. Time to recover."
Jiji's head jerked slightly at that. Father?
But the system screen still floated in front of him, waiting. He couldn't ignore it. This was his moment. His chance. He bit his lip.
"No, Father. Mother. Don't worry about me. I think… I'm made for cleaning. I can handle this."
Silence. Then outside, a chorus of muffled sobs. Madam Bing's weeping grew heavier, while Tan Yulong's face twisted with regret he could no longer hide. To them, their son's words sounded like resignation—the heartbreaking acceptance that he had abandoned all hope of walking the immortal path.
Jiji, however, tilted his head, utterly lost. Why are they crying like someone died? What are they hearing that I'm not saying?
Still, he pressed on, almost stubbornly. He raised his voice, chest swelling with a conviction that felt both real and imagined.
"Listen. I'm perfect for this. Cleaning—it suits me. You may not see it, but to me, it's an art, a battle, a discipline. Every stain is an enemy, every corner is a test of my will. It's not meaningless. It's—" He paused, eyes narrowing at the dust motes drifting in the dim air. "—it's something only I can do, something that proves I can endure, even when the world tells me I can't."
He went on and on, words pouring like a flood. He spoke of how cleaning steadied his mind, gave rhythm to his scattered thoughts, and how each sweep, each scrub was his rebellion against despair. He insisted that he was fine, that this was his choice, not a punishment. That they had nothing to worry about.
But outside, each syllable cut deeper into his parents' hearts. Madam Bing's cries turned raw, and even Tan Yulong's proud shoulders sagged. To them, he sounded like a young man crushed, clinging to menial work as his final dignity.
"Don't say such things!" Bing Shuhua choked, her tears staining her sleeves. "You are more than this! You are my son, destined for more than—than brooms and rags!"
Tan Yulong clenched his fists, voice breaking despite himself. "Your mother is right. Even if… even if fate is cruel, you are still my blood. Do not chain yourself to this path out of despair!"
Yet whenever they tried to lift him up with words of encouragement, their voices collapsed into sobs, their quarrel sparking again in the hallway. Bing accused Yulong of cruelty, of breaking their son's spirit, while Yulong shouted back that she had blinded him with softness. Their voices echoed through the halls, their grief and anger colliding, while the attendants lowered their heads, some even weeping quietly.
Inside, Jiji's gaze shifted back to the glowing panel. His lips pressed tightly. The system had changed—the mission was ticking down. A countdown blinked faintly, warning him it would disappear if he delayed further.
His parents' voices bled into the room, sharp yet cracked, love buried under grief. He clenched his fist, feeling their words but not fully understanding them. Then, with a sigh, he lifted his chin and spoke firmly.
"Mother. Father. I'm alright."
The firmness of his tone silenced the quarrel for a heartbeat.
He continued, voice rising with steady conviction, though beneath it, his heart raced.
"Exercise is good for me. If I was rejected, then fine—let me strengthen my mind through this. Let me prove I can endure hardship. Father, I understand your decision. Truly, I do. The world won't be kind, so I must face it here, in this way. So please—let me be. I just want to work. To… be alone."
Outside, Tan Yulong's throat tightened, his hand trembling by his side. Bing Shuhua covered her face with her sleeves, her sobs muffled but heavy. Even the masked attendant beside them sniffled quietly, whispering under his breath, "What a good young master… to endure like this…"
Their hearts broke together, for they all believed Jilong's spirit had shattered, and that he wore only the mask of strength to ease their pain.
At last, Tan Yulong swallowed hard and muttered hoarsely, "Then… forgive us for disturbing you. We'll leave you be. But… son, know this—our hearts are with you, always."
Madam Bing added through choked breaths, "Rest if it grows too heavy. Please, don't… don't destroy yourself."
The attendants whispered gentle farewells, trying to ease the weight, though their tears betrayed them.
Jiji stood there, stunned by the weight of their sorrow. After a pause, he simply nodded to himself and said softly, "Bye."
Then, with a sharp exhale, he pressed the glowing Yes.
The system chimed instantly.
[Mission Accepted.]
A new list unfurled before his eyes, glowing like etched jade:
Clean 17 designated spots.
Difficulty levels: Easy → Hard.
Rewards: Spiritual Roots ranging from ordinary to unique.
Time limits: Longer for easier tasks, shorter for harder.
Punishments: Same for all.
Jiji leaned closer, skimming. His lips twisted. The punishments were written in a cruel, mocking script:
Failure (Easy): 2 days of "Balls Itch."
Failure (Normal): 1 week of "Balls Itch."
Failure (Hard): 1 month of "Balls Itch."
Failure (Extreme): 1 year of "Balls Itch."
His eyes widened, face paling instantly.
"A… a year?!" His voice cracked, louder than he intended. "Balls itch for a year?!"
The spear in his hand almost slipped as his legs trembled. "No, no, no, this is insane! This is beyond cruel! Who the hell designed this system—was it Satan himself?!"
His voice echoed wildly in the storage room, his heart hammering as the countdown ticked lower. And still, he panicked, sweating as the horrifying reality set in—his path to power might just be paved with the most ridiculous, humiliating punishment imaginable.
And the timer was still ticking.