The Cloud-Sea Sect did not concern itself with mortals.
It was a city of immortals, or at least, immortal-aspirants, built upon the jagged, mist-shrouded peaks of Mount Zhu. Its disciples could step on wind, command lightning, and refine pills that could snatch men from the jaws of death. They were the world's masters, and their gazes were fixed on the heavens.
Lin Fan's gaze was fixed on dust.
At 28, he was a relic. In a place where 15-year-old prodigies achieved Foundation Establishment and 25-year-old geniuses touched the hem of Core Formation, Lin Fan was, and had always been, a "Handyman Disciple."
It was a polite, sectarian term for a servant.
His domain was the Outer Court's "Archive of Mundane Records." It was a grand name for a building that was, in reality, a glorified attic. It sat on the far-flung edge of the sect, downwind from the beast pens and far from the spiritually-dense air of the training grounds. Here, scrolls detailing the sect's land-lease agreements from three dynasties ago were left to rot.
This was Lin Fan's world. His job was to ensure they rotted slowly.
He had been here for ten years. He'd arrived at 18, his heart ablaze with the same dreams as every other youth who journeyed to Mount Zhu. He, too, wanted to become a cultivator. He, too, wanted to ride a sword and live for a thousand years.
Then came the "Spiritual Root Test." A cold, smooth stone pressed against his palm, and the elder in charge had sighed. "No spiritual root. None at all. A complete mundane."
He was given two choices: leave the mountain in shame or take the oath of servitude. He could stay, breathe the air of the immortals, and serve them. He chose the latter. Proximity to greatness was, he'd reasoned, better than a lifetime of planting rice in his home village.
Now, ten years later, he wasn't so sure.
His hands, chapped and dry from lye soap and coarse-bristled dusting brushes, were not the hands of a cultivator. They were the hands of a man who spent his days in a losing war against mildew and silverfish.
"Scroll A-7, shelf 19... check." He muttered, his voice a dull rasp in the silent, musty air. He made a small tick on his ledger. "Scroll A-8, shelf 19... water damage, but intact. Check."
He worked with a meticulous, patient rhythm. This was his form of "cultivation"—a dedication to order. While others cultivated their Golden Cores, Lin Fan cultivated his archive.
When the massive, resonating gong from the main peak finally signaled the end of the work day, Lin Fan did not feel relief, only a shifting of duty. He methodically cleaned his brushes, logged his ledger, and barred the heavy wooden door of the archive.
He did not go to the Handyman's mess hall. He did not seek the company of the other servants, who spent their evenings gambling with pebbles or gossiping about which Inner Disciple had caused another explosion at the alchemy pavilion.
Instead, Lin Fan took a winding, overgrown path behind the servant's quarters. He pushed aside a curtain of thick, hanging ivy to reveal a small, hidden courtyard. It was no larger than a storage closet, pressed between the back wall of the kitchens and a sheer cliff face. It was damp, forgotten, and entirely his.
This was his true domain.
In the center of this tiny patch of stubborn soil sat his only companion: a Cabbage Stalk.
It was, by all accounts, a pathetic vegetable. Its leaves were a sickly yellowish-green, and it drooped with a permanent, weary sigh. It was a mundane cabbage, trying to survive on mundane soil in a place obsessed with spiritual everything.
Lin Fan understood it.
"Still here, old friend?" he whispered, approaching it.
It was three nights ago that his life, or at least his perception of it, had fractured.
He had been here, in this same courtyard, feeling the same familiar pang of gentle pity for his struggling plant. He'd picked up his watering can—a rusted, dented relic he'd found near the trash heaps—and watered the Cabbage Stalk.
And then, visible only to him, a line of translucent blue text had flickered into existence.
He had dropped the can. He had stared, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. He'd even slapped his own face, hard. He'd assumed it was a hallucination, a stress-induced fantasy from breathing in too much scroll-dust and loneliness.
But the text had remained.
[Rusted Watering Can (Mundane) - Level 1]
Effect: +1% Vitality to watered plants.
Energy: 3/100
A worn tool, barely holding itself together. Perhaps it yearns for purpose.
A 'System'. The legendary golden finger, the cheat of protagonists spoken about in the storybooks the Outer Disciples smuggled in. It was the stuff of legends, a heavenly dao-given gift.
And it had chosen... his watering can.
For three days, Lin Fan had lived in a state of suspended disbelief and feverish hope. He'd learned the "rules" through trial and error. "Energy" was generated by the act of nurturing. He had to water the plant, clear weeds, pick off insects. In return, the Cabbage Stalk would provide a single, tiny point of energy.
But his cabbage was so weak, so mundane, that it barely gave any feedback.
For the last twenty-four hours, he had been agonizingly stuck.
Energy: 99/100
"One more point," Lin Fan breathed, his heart thumping a heavy, nervous rhythm. "That's all we need."
He picked up the watering can. The metal was cold against his calloused palms. He approached the Cabbage Stalk not as a servant, but as an alchemist tending his cauldron.
He didn't just water it. He used his fingers to gently loosen the soil around its base. He inspected its leaves, finding a tiny, sleeping aphid on the underside, which he carefully plucked away. He even turned the stalk's small pot 180 degrees, ensuring it received a different angle of the faint moonlight that pierced the courtyard.
He murmured to it. "Grow. Just a little. We can do this."
He lifted the can and poured the last dregs of water onto its roots.
He felt it before he saw it—a tiny, warm pulse from the Cabbage Stalk, a faint flicker of 'gratitude' that resonated with the can.
A soft, clear ding echoed in his mind.
Energy: 100/100[Rusted Watering Can] is ready to upgrade. Upgrade? (Y/N)
Lin Fan's breath hitched. His hands trembled, not from cold, but from a terrifying, exhilarating hope. What if this was a trick? A demonic art trying to possess his soul through a... watering can?
He looked at his chapped hands. He thought of the endless shelves of dust.
What soul? he thought, with a flash of bitter humor. What is there left to lose?
He pictured a large, glowing 'Y' in his mind. "Yes."
There was no thunderclap. No pillar of golden light that alerted the sect elders. This was a "Slice of Life" upgrade, a personal, quiet miracle.
The change was instantaneous and visceral.
The thick, angry-red rust on the can's surface didn't flake off. It dissolved. It turned into a faint, coppery mist that was immediately absorbed back into the metal, as if the can were drinking its own decay.
A large, ugly dent on its side popped out with a dull, satisfying thunk. The spout, which had been crooked for as long as he'd owned it, straightened itself with a soft, metallic scree.
The entire object shifted in color, from mottled rust to a smooth, dark, and uniform bronze. It was still, unmistakably, a watering can, but it was whole. It felt heavier in his hands, and faintly, incredibly faintly, warm.
A new panel of text appeared, bright and crisp.
[Bronze Spirit-Water Can - Level 2]
Effect: +5% Vitality to watered plants. 1% chance to imbue 'Mundane' plant with 'Spiritual Trace'.
[NEW ABILITY]: Daily Condensation (1/1)
Energy: 0/500
An old tool given new life. It has begun to resonate with the world's ambient qi.
Lin Fan stared, his mind struggling to process the words. "Level 2." "Bronze Spirit-Water Can." The name alone was a miracle. "+5% Vitality" was a solid, practical boost.
But "Spiritual Trace"... His heart hammered. He wasn't a cultivator, but he wasn't an idiot. He had dusted the requisitions from the Alchemy Pavilion. A mundane herb with even a trace of spiritual qi was no longer just food. It was a low-grade medicinal material. A 'Spiritual-Trace Cabbage' could be sold to the kitchens for real spirit stones. Not the copper coins he earned.
His eyes fell to the new ability. [Daily Condensation (1/1)].
He focused his will on the new icon, which looked like a tiny, glowing droplet. "Use."
A small, strange grinding sound came from within the can. The air itself seemed to moisten. Lin Fan held his breath and peered inside.
At the bottom of the now-pristine bronze can, a single, perfect drop of water had appeared. It was no larger than his pinky nail, but it was unlike any water he had ever seen. It was milky-white, and it pulsed with a faint, gentle light, as if it had swallowed a firefly.
He knew what this was. He'd heard the Outer Disciples complaining about its price at the sect market.
"First-Light Dew."
It was water that had condensed at the precise moment of dawn, capturing the first ray of morning sun and the last wisp of night's yin qi. It was a vital, gentle ingredient for cleansing medicinal herbs and nourishing spiritual plants.
A single drop was worth three low-grade spirit stones. His entire monthly stipend was two.
And his can had just... made it.
He stared at the glowing drop, then at his pathetic, drooping Cabbage Stalk. The temptation to hoard the dew, to run to the market and trade it, was overwhelming. Three spirit stones... that was enough for a real meal from the cultivator's canteen.
But the system had upgraded his watering can. It was a tool for nurturing. This was a test.
"In for a penny, in for a pound," he whispered, his voice cracking.
He tilted the Bronze Spirit-Water Can, his hands shaking so badly he almost missed. The single, precious, glowing drop of First-Light Dew fell from the spout and landed perfectly on the Cabbage Stalk's roots.
The effect was immediate and profound.
The Cabbage Stalk, which had been a symbol of mundane persistence, shuddered.
The sickly, yellow-brown edges of its leaves didn't just fade; they were pushed away, receding like a bad memory. A vibrant, electric, almost-glowing green flooded the leaves from the stem outwards. The stalk, previously as limp as a wet noodle, swelled. It visibly straightened, its leaves unfurling and lifting to the moonlight as if in thanks.
It didn't just look healthy. It looked proud.
Lin Fan stared, his mouth agape. A new panel of text hovered over the vegetable.
[Vigorous Cabbage (Mundane)]
Status: Thriving. Saturated with spiritual-trace water.
Growth Time: 6 hours remaining.
A 6-hour cabbage. A vigorous cabbage.
Lin Fan sank back on his heels, a strange, choked sound escaping his chest. It might have been a laugh. He looked at the shining bronze can in his hands. He looked at the almost-majestic Cabbage Stalk.
He was still Lin Fan, the 28-year-old handyman. He couldn't fly on a sword. He couldn't shatter mountains. He still had to report to the archive at dawn.
But he was no longer a man without a path.
His path to longevity wouldn't be through thunderous-tribulations or comprehending the Great Dao.
His path would be one Cabbage Stalk, one upgrade, and one drop of water at a time. And for the first time in ten years, he felt a genuine, burning-bright spark of hope.