Lin Xiao had spent the last three years of his Earth life perfecting one thing: the art of doing nothing. He had a PhD in procrastination, a minor in microwave cuisine, and a resume full of politely worded excuses. When the company restructured and the HR intern offered him a smile and a severance package, he had simply blinked, finished his instant noodles, and wondered aloud whether the couch at his parents' house still had an imprint of his childhood.
Fate, apparently, had strong opinions about his plans.
He woke to the smell of mildew and the urgent chorus of someone shouting his name. A beam of weak light split through straw and into his eyes. A ceiling — if it could be called that — swayed threateningly three inches above his face. Lin Xiao flatly decided that this was not an upgrade from his last studio apartment.
"Master! Wake up!" shouted a high, earnest voice. "Master, the Flamboyant Flame Pavilion's juniors—"
He rolled onto his back, peeled a half-rotted straw hat off his brow, and stared at the ceiling like it had personally inconvenienced him. He counted his breaths: one, two, three. He had been a manager of email threads and a champion of quiet quitting. He had never been a sect leader. This was unfair.
"Who am I?" he asked no one in particular.
A small, mechanical voice — like an automated customer-service message that had learned poetry — answered in his head.
[Ding!]
[System of Anonymous Supremacy bound to host: Lin Xiao (former Earth dweller).]
[Rule One: The weaker, poorer, and more humiliated your sect becomes, the stronger you and the sect will secretly grow.]
[Rule Two: Complete assigned missions to gain direct cultivation and sect upgrades.]
[Rule Three: Maintain obscurity. Fame reduces reward efficacy.]
Lin Xiao blinked. An actual system. Of course. He had always dreamed of being special in the most inconvenient way possible.
He sat up and did immediately practical things: stretched, checked his hair for lice, and found — as all proper protagonists should — that the robe he wore had a hole large enough to pass through a small goat. Outside the hut, someone screamed again.
"The Flamboyant Flame Pavilion said they'd take our last bag of spirit rice!" the voice cried. This time the panic carried a tremble that suggested the speaker believed the fire-eating pavilion would do precisely that.
Lin Xiao blinked. Spirit rice. A memory surfaced of an inventory screen in his mind. There, in perfectly plain text, was a single item:
Spirit Rice — Quantity: 1 bag.
Quality: Low (Slightly fragrant).
He closed his eyes. He could feel the System humming like a neglected phone battery.
"Offering the last bag of rice sounds… reasonable," he announced, because surrender is a perfectly valid conflict-resolution tactic. "Bring it to them. Be humble. Offer an apology. Bow until your knees forget what dignity is."
There was a beat of silence, as if the disciples had to consult an instruction manual on 'how to be humble.'
A rustle of cloth and the ministry of earnestness arrived in the form of Zhou Fang — tall, gaunt, and with the sort of face that seemed to have been carved with a serious expression that never left. He had been sentry, apprentice, and beacon of misunderstood zeal at the sect for five years. He believed, quite firmly, that humility was something to be practiced like a martial move.
"Master, we cannot simply surrender our last rice! That would be—" Zhou Fang's eyes gleamed with the sort of righteous panic that heralded large, well-intentioned disasters. "—dishonor!"
Lin Xiao pinched the bridge of his nose. "Zhou Fang, the System is clear: humiliation equals gain. Think of this as… social investment. We give a rice offering now, we get indestructible fortifications later. Grain today, divine palace tomorrow. It's like... compound interest."
Zhou Fang tried to frown. He did a single, awkward frown, then nodded as if he'd been handed the answer to the Dao of Silence. "Yes, Master. The Dao of Humiliation. Understood."
Wu Meiling, who smelled faintly of stew and boldly of ambition, padded in with a ladle tucked into the belt of her robe. For Wu Meiling, every existential question returned to one answer: food. She looked at the single bag of spirit rice as a pot of potential.
"We should cook it first," she suggested as if this solved both the moral and culinary dilemma. "If we make a spirit porridge, perhaps they will be satisfied without wanting the bag."
Bai Ming arrived last, leaning against the doorframe with the sour expression of someone who had fled prestige and still harbored an addiction to suspicion. He had the look of a prodigy who slept badly and thought too much. He stared at Lin Xiao with the kind of reverence normally reserved for statues that moved.
"You… you must have a plan, Master," Bai Ming said, voice low and full of conspiracy-tinged respect. "You appear weak, yes. But I sense—"
Lin Xiao held up a hand. He did not feel like a plan person today. He felt like a nap person. "Plan: surrender rice, avert conflict, preserve nap schedule," he declared.
"Brilliant," Zhou Fang said in a tone that could have been applause. If Lin Xiao shut his eyes he could hear the disciples lining up to rehearse their part: bow low, apologize with fervor, hand over the bag, and retreat without raising anyone's ire.
There was a banging at the gate that sounded like a troupe of firecrackers. Someone with a voice like a temple gong announced their presence with deliciously inflated entitlement.
"Tranquil Peak Sect! We, the Flamboyant Flame Pavilion, demand tribute!" called a voice filled with the sort of drama cultivated by years of red silk and public announcing. It was followed by three other voices: the sycophantic echo of a sidekick and a sharp, amused laugh that belonged to a woman named Yan Rou.
Lin Xiao squinted at the gate where three juveniles in crimson stood like peacocks that had been taught to posture. One of them — Liu Sheng — did the thing arrogant young masters always did: he threw an arm wide and announced his lineage like a headline.
"You will present your tribute now, or we will—" he declared, as if the word 'or' required a thunderclap.
Zhou Fang produced their only bag of spirit rice with the solemn choreography of a funeral procession. He held it up like an offering to a petty god.
Lin Xiao felt the System stir.
[New mission assigned: Mission — "Offer your last bag of spirit rice to the Flamboyant Flame Pavilion without resistance."]
[Mission Goals: Humiliation — High. Maintain peace; avoid cultivation conflict.]
[Reward: Sect-wide upgrade: Spirit Rice Storage (infinite capacity) + Disciples' minor cultivation breakthroughs.]
Lin Xiao actually smiled, which was dangerous because his face took a while to process complex emotions. "See?" he said to the disciples. "We're under contract with destiny. We must comply for the greater good."
Wu Meiling's eyes lit up at the prospect of future infinite rice. She did a calculation in her head that involved dumplings, stews, and a possible spiritual hotpot.
Bai Ming squinted. He read the System's glow and rifled through a dozen improbable conclusions. "Master," he breathed, "this is deliberate. If we hand over the rice and are humiliated… we will—"
He did not finish because Zhou Fang was already half-running toward the gate, and when Zhou Fang ran, he ran as if the world needed saving from dignity itself. The disciples followed with a mixture of ceremony and clumsy devotion that could only be described as adorable and publicly humiliating.
Outside the gate, the Flamboyant Flame Pavilion juniors were practicing theatrical scoffs. Their leader gave a grand, condescending bow as if the act of giving a bow was a skill separate from being humble.
"Ah! Tranquil Peak!" he proclaimed, eyes sliding over the ragged courtyard as if he were scanning a menu's unsavory options. "Hand over your tribute."
Zhou Fang knelt, his voice like a hymn. "We humbly present our last bag of spirit rice. We are sorry for our poverty."
Liu Sheng grabbed the bag with a flourish and then, because drama is hunger's cousin, opened it to prove his triumph. What spilled forth, however, was not the expected dull gray grains but a small, unassuming puff of translucent steam that smelled faintly of old porridge and something else — something like moonlight.
The three juniors blinked. Then they laughed, because the spectacle of poverty is always entertaining when you're comfortably clothed. They laughed loud and cruel, tossing the bag back to Zhou Fang as if gratitude were a farcical joke.
"Keep your trash," Liu Sheng mocked. "Even your rice is pathetic. Begone."
He turned, ribbons of disdain fluttering, and with his sycophant in tow, they left, leaving behind the taste of victory and the stink of arrogance.
Zhou Fang picked the bag up, bowed, and retreated. He looked like a man who loved his sect very much and was proud to do it no favors.
Behind the gate, they closed the gate gently and returned to the hut where Lin Xiao sat as if he had been waiting for tea service. The System chimed, far more excited than the event deserved.
[Mission complete: "Offer your last bag of spirit rice to the Flamboyant Flame Pavilion without resistance."]
[Rewards granted: Spirit Rice Storage (Infinite) — Active. Disciples: Zhou Fang +1 Minor Breakthrough; Wu Meiling +1 Minor Breakthrough; Bai Ming +1 Minor Breakthrough.]
[Bonus reward: Garden Weeds recognized as Spirit Herb Field (latent).]
Lin Xiao exhaled like a man who had swam through seven bureaucratic forms and found his bed on the other side. "Perfect," he said. "We've legally upgraded our pantry."
Wu Meiling screamed softly — a glorious, culinary war-cry — and immediately began plotting stews. "Infinite rice! Master! Think of the dumplings!"
Bai Ming, eyes now wide with furious calculation, muttered, "Master, that was—strategic. You feigned incompetence to trigger the System."
Lin Xiao shrugged, laid a hand on the nearest patch of grass, and felt, absurdly, that the weeds beneath his palm hummed. He had no idea what they meant by "latent." He had never latched anything in his life. Not loyalty, not ambition, not a job.
But the sect was richer by something invisible and powerful, and Lin Xiao suddenly realized he had done the exact thing he'd always feared and perhaps secretly wanted: he had been useful, unintentionally. He had played the role of a loser so well the universe rewarded him.
He closed his eyes with the dignity of a man who finally understood his purpose. "All right," he said. "We hide this well. No fame. No glory. And the next time someone mocks us, we bow extra."
From outside, a distant laugh — sharp as a blade and tragically fashionable — carried across the valley. Somewhere, a pavilion would tell the story of how a weak little sect had nothing and was proud of it. This, of course, was a tale that made men like Liu Sheng laugh. They did not know the universe counted laughs like offerings.
Inside the hut, Wu Meiling poured a small bowl of porridge — their first ceremonial meal since the upgrade. Elder Cluck the chicken looked on with the ancient disinterest of a bird that had probably seen worse and possibly will see better.
Lin Xiao took a spoonful, considered the texture, and found it agreeable. "Not bad," he said, which was Lin Xiaoism for "this will do if I must."
"Master," Zhou Fang said, with the same earnestness that had sent him to the gate, "your teachings—your… humility—have already inspired me."
Bai Ming was still calculating angles, but something like a smile creased his face. "Master, when you scratched your nose earlier… I think there was a technique in that."
Lin Xiao yawned dramatically, letting the words settle like dust. "Excellent. Continue. And remember: the Dao of Mediocrity is a quiet thing. The louder you shout about it, the less effective it is."
Zhou Fang bowed, Wu Meiling planned dumplings, Bai Ming overanalyzed a nose-scratch into a martial canon, and Elder Cluck went back to pecking at a floorboard — or perhaps at destiny itself. The System sang softly in Lin Xiao's head like a radio at low volume.
[Ding!]
[New passive effect unlocked: Humility Aura (low-level) — Reduces fame overlap; increases reward multiplier during humiliation events.]
Lin Xiao blinked. He had not asked for any of this. He had asked for a life of naps and low-stakes snacks. The world seemed determined to give him something better: a sect that would grow by being laughed at, disciples who interpreted silence as scripture, and a chicken whose destiny was unclear but promising.
He lay back, tucking his chin into his robe. "Do not make waves," he told them, like a teacher giving the world's laziest final exam. "And if anyone comes to mock us… be as humble as you can manage. It's for the pantry."
Outside, the valley hummed with the ordinary business of stronger sects and louder egos. Inside Tranquil Peak, the rice was overflowing in a way that made no sense, disciples were inexplicably stronger in small, inelegant ways, and a man from Earth who had been promoted against his will prepared, in very small ways, to be a leader.
He closed his eyes and, at last, allowed himself a nap. The teachings of a lifetime of doing nothing had prepared him for this moment. The System hummed approval, the weeds glowed faintly, and somewhere, very far away, a peacock in crimson thought about lunch.