Herb Peak was a kingdom of leaves, and its tyrant was Senior Disciple Zhao Ba. He was a boy of sixteen with the build of an ox and the temperament of a warthog, whose sole delight was in the terrified deference of the new disciples.
On Ye Xingliu's first morning, Zhao Ba stood before the new arrivals, his thick arms crossed. "You are the dirt beneath the Sect's feet," he announced, his voice a dull roar. "Your purpose is to tend the spirit-herbs, to obey, and to give me your spirit-stone rations for the first month. This is for your… protection."
A wave of miserable acceptance passed through the group. All except Ye Xingliu, who was busy watching a particularly stubborn dewdrop trace a path down a leaf. It was far more interesting.
"You! Star-eyes!" Zhao Ba barked, stomping over. "Do you find my instructions amusing?"
Ye Xingliu looked up, his expression placid. "Not particularly, Senior Brother. I was just thinking that if the Sect's foundation is the dirt beneath its feet, it's a good thing we're here. Even the grandest pavilion needs solid dirt to stand on, wouldn't you agree?"
Zhao Ba blinked, his brain slowly processing the logic. "I… What?"
"It's a joke," Ye Xingliu said with a gentle smile. "A little one. For instance, why did the spirit-herb cross the path?"
"I don't know," Zhao Ba grumbled, suspicious.
"To get to the other side-dish." Ye Xingliu paused. "Get it? It was being cultivated for food."
A snort of laughter escaped from one of the other disciples, quickly stifled. Zhao Ba's face contorted in confusion. He was being mocked, he was sure of it, but the method was so foreign he had no defense against it.
From then on, Ye Xingliu's strategy was set. He did his work with a quiet efficiency that left no room for complaint. But when Zhao Ba came to collect his "protection" spirit-stones, Ye Xingliu would offer a joke instead.
"Why is a bad cultivator like a dropped spirit-stone?"
"Why?"
"Because he has nofacets."
Each terrible punchline was delivered with such genuine cheer that Zhao Ba would eventually stomp away, frustrated and confused, often forgetting to take the spirit-stone out of sheer bewilderment. The other disciples, emboldened, began to share their food with Ye Xingliu in silent gratitude for his bizarre, psychological warfare.
"You're playing with fire, boss," Little Comet whispered from his pocket one evening, its light muffled by the fabric.
"No," Ye Xingliu corrected, watching the sunset paint the peaks in fiery hues. "I'm just reminding him that the world is stranger and funnier than he thinks. It's a much kinder lesson than a punch to the face."
But at night, when the peak slept, the real work began. The compass in his pocket was a constant, warm pull, its needle a silver dare. He slipped from the dormitory, moving with the silence Old Huo had ingrained in him, past the snores of disciples and the lazy patrols.
He followed the compass to a jagged cliff face on the edge of Herb Peak, officially off-limits. Here, the protective formations of the sect were thin, stretched over a place deemed worthless. He lay on his stomach at the cliff's edge and peered down.
And there it was.
Beneath a layer of ordinary rock, pulsing like a buried heart, ran a vein of pure starlight. It was a river of solidified cosmos, a deep, brilliant blue-white that hummed a song of ancient, distant suns. It was a fragment of the same energy that had birthed him and Little Comet.
His Life Sensing flared, drinking in the magnificent, hidden symphony. The Compass in his hand grew warm, the needle pointing straight down.
"Can we…?" he whispered.
"Just a taste!" Little Comet buzzed, zipping out and doing a joyful loop-the-loop. "It's a distant cousin! Be polite!"
Ye Xingliu reached out with his senses, not to grab or demand, but to ask. He let his 3%-awakened spirit resonate with the gentle, endless rhythm of the star-vein. He didn't try to force it; he simply opened himself, a wanderer accepting a gift from the road.
A single, hair-thin thread of cool, brilliant energy detached from the vast river below and spiraled up, weaving through the rock as if it weren't there, and poured into his chest.
It was like drinking light. His entire body tingled, humming with a power that was both alien and utterly familiar. His senses sharpened until he could hear the roots of the mountains groaning in their sleep. The fatigue of the day vanished. The world seemed to slow down, every detail crisp and clear.
He looked at the compass.
Mortal Awakening – 5%
He had doubled his progress in a single, stolen moment.
He lay there for a long time, smiling up at the true stars above, the hidden river of light below, and the snoring sect between them. They had their hierarchy, their rules, their precious spirit-stones.
But he, the lowest disciple on the lowest peak, had just drunk starlight from the earth itself. The road, it seemed, provided the best banquets for those who knew where to look.