The younger disciples shrank back, their small frames and timid eyes betraying no courage.
Compared to these older menial disciples—who were taller, broader, and already looked like young men—they were nothing more than children pretending at strength.
Silence hung heavy, broken only by the sound of shifting feet as everyone backed away from confrontation.
Zhao Yan said nothing. He walked to the farthest corner of the hall, choosing a bed at the very end, away from the crowd.
The other ragged disciple, the boy who shared his beggar's fate, was shoved aside as well, ending up on the bed across him.
The first thing Zhao Yan did after settling in was head toward the dormitory's bathrooms. The stone corridors were dimly lit, the air damp with the smell of moss and old water.
He pushed open the wooden door and stepped inside, only to notice the other ragged boy trailing behind him.
Zhao Yan's eyes narrowed as he turned, the trickle of water echoing against the tiled walls.
"Why are you following me?" he asked flatly.
The boy, equally thin and dressed in the same tattered rags, frowned as if the question itself were strange.
"Isn't that obvious?" he replied.
"We were both beggars before coming here. If we don't stick together, who will?"
Zhao Yan said nothing more. He turned on the worn bronze spout, letting the cold water spill over his shoulders.
He washed in silence, his face expressionless, while beside him the other boy couldn't keep his tongue still.
"You know, you're really lucky," the boy went on, his voice carrying a mixture of envy and disbelief.
"I had to hand over eight hundred silver to that outer disciple, just to be accepted into Kunlun Sect. But you—" he gave a bitter chuckle, "you didn't even offer a single copper coin."
He shook his head, muttering to himself like he couldn't quite believe it.
"I wish I, Shen Hao, had that kind of luck."
Zhao Yan continued washing, the sound of falling water filling the silence that stretched between them.
Zhao Yan let Shen Hao's rambling wash over him as he finished his bath.
For all his chatter, the boy proved useful—dropping bits of information that pieced together the world around him.
The boy's name was Shen Hao, and this realm was called the Dao World.
Cultivation here followed a ladder of stages: Qi Cultivation, Foundation Establishment, Golden Core, and finally Nascent Soul.
The Dao World itself stretched across five continents—north, south, east, west, and the central continent at the heart of it all.
The Kunlun Sect, where Zhao Yan now found himself, lay on the northern edge of the western continent, not far from a place known as Cloud City.
As Shen Hao rambled, Zhao Yan absorbed the truths hidden in his words.
Kunlun sect was a weak sect by any measure, the smallest fish in the vast ocean of cultivation. Yet here, in this remote corner near Cloud City, they were kings.
The city itself bowed to them, and no one dared to defy the sect's authority. Only once a year, during recruitment, did the other sects appear in Cloud City to recruit talented disciples.
The Kunlun Sect's master was only a Qi Condensation cultivator—the lowest rank among the great powers.
Pulling on the dark blue robe issued to him, Zhao Yan caught sight of Shen Hao again.
The boy was still mumbling to himself, spinning dreams of rising from beggary to greatness. His eyes carried a desperate fire, but his words sounded more like wishful muttering than conviction.
Zhao Yan glanced at the faint system window hovering before him, then turned to Shen Hao.
"Do you know what level the Kunlun Sect Master has reached?" he asked.
Shen Hao answered without hesitation, almost proud of his knowledge. "The tenth layer of Qi Condensation. Everyone knows that."
"He's been stuck there for over twenty years."
Zhao Yan nodded, filing the detail away.
"Alright. Let's go." Zhao Yan stepped out of the washroom, drying his hair with his sleeve, and climbed onto his bed.
His gaze swept across the dormitory. Most of the new recruits sat cross-legged, faces buried in their manuals, struggling to make sense of the cultivation technique they'd just received.
But not all of them were so studious.
A few of the female disciples had already gravitated toward the older menial disciples, leaning into them with practiced smiles.
Some even kissed openly, their laughter echoing shamelessly through the hall.
Zhao Yan froze, his mouth slightly agape.
He couldn't comprehend how a cultivation sect—an institution he imagined as austere and disciplined—would allow boys and girls to sleep side by side in the same dormitory, let alone indulge in this kind of behavior.
Shaking his head, he forced his thoughts away and turned to the book in his hands.
"Swallow Heaven Technique," he muttered under his breath.
Following the breathing pattern described within, he drew a slow, steady breath.
Almost instantly, a faint stream of white energy seeped in through his pores, gathering in his body and settling just below his abdomen.
Encouraged, he inhaled again and again, pulling more of that energy into himself.
His skin prickled, his body heating as the Qi inside him began to swirl, shaping itself into a faint circle—as though the first outline of a core was trying to form.
His chest tightened.
Gasping for air, Zhao Yan opened his eyes, panting heavily.
A few of the surrounding disciples turned toward him with looks of disdain.
One boy even sneered. "Are you an idiot?"
"You can't practice the breathing method continuously like that."
"It's meant to restore energy in moderation, but if you overdo it, your body will flood with Qi."
"Even a trace of it is enough to overwhelm mortals like us."
Before Zhao Yan could respond, Shen Hao chimed in, grinning as if he'd uncovered some forbidden truth.
"He's right."
"This technique was clearly designed for women."
"They can drain energy from us, then recover it twice as fast with this method." He leaned closer, nudging Zhao Yan to look across the room.
When Zhao Yan turned his head, his breath caught in his throat.
Just a few beds away, a young man and woman were naked, tangled together without shame.
Their movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic, as if every gasp and thrust was part of the cultivation method itself.
The others hardly batted an eye.
Some watched with envy, others ignored it entirely, but no one seemed surprised.
Zhao Yan's face twisted in disbelief. He shot to his feet, heart pounding, and stormed out of the dormitory.
"What the fuck…" he muttered under his breath, voice low and shaking with shock.