The line of children trudged forward for hours, their small feet dragging over the winding mountain path.
Dust clung to their clothes, and the novelty of joining a sect had long since been replaced by aching legs and parched throats.
After nearly four hours of walking, the group finally came upon a broken archway at the foot of a mountain.
Its stones were cracked, moss crawling over its surface, and the faded characters above the gate seemed ready to crumble at any moment.
The fat man at the front spread his arms proudly.
"Everyone, this… is our Kunlun Sect!" he declared. His words carried the weight of triumph, though his tone made it sound more like a formality than true pride.
He added briskly, "Once we're inside, you'll all be reported to the deacon."
Without waiting for response, he jogged ahead toward the gate, his bulk wobbling as he hurried forward.
From the back of the line, Zhao Yan watched quietly.
Five more minutes passed before he and the other stragglers finally reached the archway.
There, an old man stood waiting, his expression calm but unreadable. The moment the children gathered, his voice echoed across the gate.
"Come with me."
He turned without another word, and the children followed, their excitement muted by exhaustion.
Inside the ruined gate, the grounds opened into a surprisingly vast courtyard. Rising within it were five towers, their silhouettes cutting into the gray sky.
Zhao Yan's eyes lingered on each of the inscriptions as they passed: Technique Pavilion. Sect Leader's Residence. Elder's Residence. Disciple Residence. Storage.
The group slowed in front of the Disciple Residence, where the old man finally stopped.
He gestured with a thin hand, his voice measured and authoritative.
"This will be your living quarters," he said.
"On your left stands the Elder Residence, and on your right is the Sect Leader's hall. Beside the elders lies the Technique Pavilion, and across from it, beside the Sect Leader's hall, is the Storage Tower."
He turned, letting his gaze sweep across the wide courtyard, the cracked tiles stretching beneath their feet.
"All the open ground around you is for practice when your duties allow."
"Remember this well—since you are all menial disciples, your foremost responsibility is not cultivation, but the tasks assigned to you."
The middle-aged man raised a hand, gesturing toward the first group of ten children.
His voice carried firmly across the courtyard.
"You ten will clean the practice grounds every morning before the outer and inner disciples arrive."
Then, with another wave of his sleeve, a table materialized before them—its surface stacked with neatly folded dark blue robes, brown wooden tokens, and a slim azure book, its cover etched with faint, glowing characters.
"Step forward," he commanded.
"Take your menial tokens, robes, and this basic cultivation manual. These will mark your place in the sect."
The first ten shuffled forward hesitantly, each child receiving their items with a mixture of awe and unease.
As they moved aside, the man turned to the next group, his tone unchanging.
"You ten will serve in the Elder Residence. Every dawn, before the sun clears the horizon, the halls must be spotless."
Again, robes, tokens, and manuals were distributed with ritual-like precision.
His gaze then shifted toward another cluster of children.
"Five of you will be assigned to the Sect Leader's residence. Your duty is to clean it daily, once the sun has risen."
Finally, his eyes landed on the last group—five children lingering at the edge, Zhao Yan was also among them.
The man's expression was unreadable as he spoke.
"And you five… your task is the disciples' residence. When the disciples leave for training after sunrise, you will remain behind to tend to their quarters."
One by one, they stepped forward.
Zhao Yan accepted his token, robe, and book, feeling the weight of each item settle into his hands.
When the last set was claimed, the man's voice cut through the silence like a final decree.
"Remember this well—if within three years any of you reach the first layer of Qi Condensation, you will earn the right to become an outer disciple."
"Fail… and you will be expelled from the sect."
The man's voice cut through the restless murmurs of the children.
"The menial disciples from past years will be working alongside you. They share the same duties you've been assigned, so expect no special treatment."
He swept his gaze over them, sharp and unyielding.
"You'll all stay in the ground floor dormitories. Behave yourselves—if I hear of fighting, don't expect leniency. Expulsion will be the least of your worries."
His hand lifted toward the looming structure ahead, its tiers rising like a fortress above them.
"Outer disciples occupy the first floor, inner disciples the second, and direct disciples of the sect leader live at the top."
With that, he turned, already striding toward the Elder Residence. Over his shoulder, his words lingered like the last notes of a warning bell.
"Tomorrow evening, once your tasks are done, gather at the Technique Pavilion. It is tradition for new disciples to witness our founder's secret art. Whether any of you can grasp it… that remains doubtful."
The children listened in silence, caught between excitement and unease, as he continued:"Our founder was a cultivator at the Half-Step Golden Core realm."
"A thousand years ago, he forged his own technique—mysterious, profound, and to this day, not a single soul has unraveled its meaning. Yet he decreed that it must be shown to every generation, so that one day his true heir would emerge."
"Whoever comprehends it will be granted the rank of inner disciple immediately."
With those final words, the man disappeared into the Elder Residence, leaving the children staring at one another in uneasy wonder.
Zhao Yan kept to himself, his gaze wandering over the crumbling walls and bleak courtyard.
'Is this truly a cultivation sect?' The question echoed in his mind as he scanned the barren grounds.
'Where are the floating peaks?'
'Where is the awe, the brilliance that should make this place feel alive?'
The memory of the Red Lotus Sect's blooming lotus and the Frozen Heart Sect's glacial boat rose unbidden, vivid and dazzling compared to the silence around him.
Doubt gnawed at his thoughts.
'Did I step into a false sect by mistake?'
His hand tightened around the token he carried, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere—to the faint glow of his system.
'How do I gain more points?'
When the new recruits stepped into the ground floor dormitory, the air was thick with the smell of old wood, sweat, and damp straw.
More than a hundred beds filled the vast space, lined side by side like soldiers in formation. Nearly fifty older menial disciples were already inside, waiting.
From their ranks, a youth of about eighteen strode forward. His frame was tall and broad, his build hardened by years of toil.
He gave the newcomers a slow, measuring glance before speaking, his voice carrying the authority of someone used to being obeyed.
"So, you're the new recruits," he said.
"Since we're your seniors, we won't make this difficult. Just follow the rules."
"Do your assigned tasks every day. That's the only law of this dormitory."
He lifted his fist, shadowboxing the air with a casual punch that still carried weight.
"Newcomers do the work. That's how it's always been. If anyone has complaints—speak now."