A shrill bell rang through the mountain valley, echoing between mist-covered peaks.
Wan Long's eyes snapped open.
For a moment, he forgot where he was. The wooden ceiling, the thin blanket, the faint smell of herbs and dust—it all rushed back to him in fragments. Then the noise outside grew louder: voices shouting, footsteps hurrying, wooden buckets clattering.
The menial quarters were alive again.
Menial disciples rushed past the small courtyards, carrying buckets, brooms, or baskets. Their gray robes fluttered in the early dawn breeze, their eyes dull from exhaustion.
He sat up slowly, wincing as his ribs ached faintly. The faint warmth from last night's healing pill had faded, leaving only dull pain behind. Still, compared to the agony he'd felt before, it was bearable.
He washed his face with a handful of cold water from a cracked basin, then stepped outside.
The early morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and spirit herbs from the mountains above. The sun hadn't yet risen fully, but the outer court was already bustling with movement. Servant disciples rushed about in gray robes, each with tired eyes and hurried steps.
From the inherited memories, Wan Long knew what this meant.
It was assignment day—when the menial disciples received their new monthly tasks.
Every month, thousands of servants were reassigned according to the sect's needs—cleaning pavilions, tending spirit fields, mining ore, feeding beasts. For those with luck, the task would be light and safe. For those without…
He exhaled quietly. "Just don't let it be dangerous," he muttered.
Pulling his robe tighter around his thin frame, he joined the flow of gray-robed servants heading down the narrow path. The menial quarters were built at the base of the Martial Peak, far below the main sect structures. Mist rolled lazily over moss-covered stones as the group made their way toward the Outer Court , where an elder from the Task Hall would announce assignments.
The chatter of voices surrounded him.
"Did you hear? The herb fields near Alchemy Peak were infested with frost beetles again."
"Ah, better them than me. I just hope I get a kitchen duty this month."
"Lucky bastard. My last job was scrubbing the beast pens—took me a week to get the smell off."
Wan Long said nothing.
From the fragments of the body's memories, he knew the previous Wan Long had always kept to himself. Too quiet, too timid, too cautious to make enemies—but also too invisible to make friends.
That was how he'd survived this long… until Wang Ping.
When he reached the plaza, hundreds of servant disciples were already standing in rows. A stone platform stood at the center, where an Outer Sect Deacon in blue robes read from a bamboo scroll, calling names one by one.
"Chen Yu — assigned to Herb Garden Twelve."
"Lin Yue — assigned to Beast Pens, Western Range."
"Su Tao — Outer Court laundry duty."
The disciples stepped forward, bowed, and left with their assignments, relief or frustration written on their faces.
Wan Long took a place near the edge of the crowd, his eyes scanning the familiar faces.
That's when he noticed Li Shu, a fellow servant he faintly remembered.
They had worked together in the herb gardens a few times. Not friends exactly—but the previous Wan Long had helped him once when he'd injured his hand.
Li Shu was standing several paces away, shifting uneasily. When his gaze met Wan Long's, his expression stiffened. His mouth opened slightly as if to speak—but then he turned away, eyes downcast.
Wan Long frowned.
That reaction wasn't normal.
What was that about?
He watched Li Shu for a moment longer. The man avoided his gaze completely, his shoulders tense.
A faint sense of foreboding crept into Wan Long's gut. In two lifetimes, he had learned one thing well—people didn't act like that unless something was wrong.
He didn't have to wait long to find out.
"Wan Long!"
His name echoed across the plaza.
He stepped forward. "This disciple is present."
The deacon looked at his bamboo scroll, frowned faintly, then spoke in a flat tone.
"Assigned to the Alchemy Hall—as an auxiliary test subject."
The words struck him like a bolt of lightning.
For a moment, the world went quiet. The murmurs of nearby disciples faded into background noise.
Test subject.
Every servant knew what that meant.
He felt his blood run cold. Around him, murmurs rose—whispers filled with pity.
"…Alchemy Hall? He's finished.""Poor bastard.""No one comes back from there…"
...
The Alchemy Hall—one of the proud pillars of the Moon Pavilion Holy Sect. From afar, its white towers gleamed with mist and incense. Inside, it was said that master alchemists refined pills that could heal mortal wounds or grant years of life.
But beneath that noble image… lay a secret every servant feared.
The "test subjects."
Menial disciples assigned to the Alchemy Hall weren't there to sweep floors or grind herbs. They were human experiments—bodies used to test unfinished pills, failed concoctions, or dangerous poisons.
Sometimes, an alchemy disciple would brew a new kind of spiritual medicine and need to "observe its effects."Sometimes, they tested detoxifying pills by first forcing the subject to swallow mild toxins.And sometimes… they didn't know what they were testing at all.
Official disciples could withstand spiritual backlash with their qi, purging poison or violent medicinal energy through their meridians.
But menial disciples had no such protection.
The results were horrifying. Some test subjects died instantly. Others lived a few weeks before their organs failed, their veins corroded by spiritual poison.
None survived long.
And those who did… were never the same again.
The Alchemy Hall didn't just brew pills. It conducted experiments—refining new medicines, testing elixirs, and sometimes… using living bodies to measure their effects.
Test subjects were usually condemned criminals or dying servants—the desperate, the disposable.
Wan Long stood frozen. "...Test subject?" he repeated under his breath, his voice dry.
The deacon didn't even look up. "Report to Alchemy Hall before sunset. Next!"
Wan Long's expression didn't change outwardly, but a cold fire burned behind his eyes.
So that's it… Wang Ping's hand again.
He didn't need anyone to tell him—this was too precise to be coincidence. After failing to kill him directly, Wang Ping had simply arranged a more official method.
No one would question it. No one would care.
A servant assigned to the Alchemy Hall was as good as dead.
The crowd began to shift again. But Wan Long barely heard them.
He felt eyes on him—some curious, others pitying.
Seven other names were called after his—servants who looked pale and sickly, their faces filled with dread. When they glanced his way, their eyes held the same silent pity one gives to the dead.
One of them, a thin woman with hollow cheeks, whispered faintly as she passed him, "I'm sorry… I heard the last batch never came back."
Her words made the pit in his stomach deepen.
Li Shu approached slowly after the crowd began to disperse. His face was pale, guilt flickering in his eyes. "Wan Long…"
Wan Long turned to him, his expression calm but cold. "You knew."
Li Shu hesitated, then nodded weakly. "The list was posted late last night. I—I tried to warn you, but… after what happened with Wang Ping, no one wanted to get involved."
Wan Long's eyes narrowed. "Wang Ping?"
Li Shu swallowed. "They say his cousin works in the Task Hall. He—he might have pulled some strings. You were supposed to be resting after the punishment, but…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Wan Long didn't need him to.
It made perfect sense now. Wang Ping had failed to kill him cleanly—and now he'd arranged for the Alchemy Hall to finish the job. Quietly. Officially.
A test subject's death meant nothing.
Wan Long's jaw tightened, his mind cold and steady. "I see."
Li Shu looked at him helplessly. "I'm sorry. I wish I could—"
"It's fine." Wan Long's tone was even. "You've said enough."
Li Shu bit his lip, then turned away, shoulders trembling slightly as he walked off.
Wan Long watched him go, the corners of his lips curling faintly—not in anger, but something colder.
"So that's how it is…"
He glanced toward the misty peaks where the Alchemy Hall loomed—white pavilions and green-tiled roofs glowing faintly in the morning light. Beautiful from afar, deadly up close.
To the sect, he was just another servant.
To Wang Ping, unfinished business.
And to the Alchemy Hall… disposable material.
He exhaled slowly, a spark of defiance glinting in his dark eyes.
As the morning sun broke through the mist, the servant disciples dispersed with their assignments.
And amidst the crowd, one thin figure walked silently toward the distant Alchemy Hall—his back straight, his expression calm, and his fate uncertain.
Wan Long's steps were steady, his expression calm. But within his chest, a storm was brewing.
The sect treated lives like dust. The strong ruled; the weak obeyed.And he had just been fed into the jaws of the beast.