Morning mist—thick as a stubborn sheet of gray gauze—clung to all seventy-two peaks of the Red Dust Pavilion and refused to burn away.
Jiang Muchen crouched on the cold stone steps outside the alchemy hall, rubbing his fingertips over three lower-grade spirit stones inside a fraying cloth pouch. They were warm—almost hot—steeped in three months of sweat, bruises, and exhaustion.
No… if he was honest, they were earned by catching the leftover blast waves of other people's lightning tribulations until he coughed blood; by copying Foundations of Cultivation for ninety nights until his hands shook uncontrollably; by cleaning the armored rhinos' pens until filth soaked him to the bone—then still forcing a smile and saying, "It's nothing."
Mist seeped through the coarse hemp cloak on his shoulders.
At last, Fatty Wang, the alchemy hall steward, pushed the red-lacquered doors open with a yawn. Heat slammed outward, carrying scorched air and acrid waves of medicine fumes.
Jiang sprang upright like a tightened bowstring, spine lowered into a perfect bow. His smile—polished over three humiliating years—landed precisely on the line between "respectful but not groveling" and "humble without seeming weak."
"Good morning, Steward Wang." His voice was steady as he offered the pouch with both hands. "I'd like to exchange for a bottle of Qi-Gathering Powder."
Wang didn't bother lifting an eyelid. His fat hand weighed the pouch and he let out a sticky, nasal snort.
"Just this? You think a drudge like you deserves Qi-Gathering Powder?"
Yet he still fished out a crude porcelain vial and tossed it without looking.
It described a dull arc in the air.
Jiang lunged forward, catching it with both arms as if it were a newborn child. The porcelain was rough enough to scrape skin—but the moment it touched his fingers, his heartbeat thundered.
If Senior Sister Lin Yueyao accepted this…
Would her eyes soften?
Would her lips curve, just barely?
He didn't notice the pitying glances from the drudges behind him.
Nor the mocking look exchanged between Wang and a steward behind the window.
"Another tribute for that girl from Jade Sword Peak? What is this—year three?"
"Dreaming idiot. That bottle's filled with failed scraps. He keeps eating that junk and his meridians are going to clog."
Jiang tucked the vial into the inner layer of his robe, close to his chest. Even through rough fabric, he felt the faint ripple of spiritual energy—weak, tiny…
But to him, it was hope. The only spark he could chase in a sect where people like him were ground into dust.
The martial arena was halfway up Lingyun Peak. As dawn struggled to break, clouds peeled back to reveal a vast stone platform where hundreds of disciples trained—wind howling, fists cracking, blades whistling.
Jiang slipped along the edges, searching.
He found her immediately—the soft glow of goose-yellow silk.
Lin Yueyao wore her hair in an elegant celestial coil. Her flowing skirt rippled in the early breeze, and at her waist hung the Autumnwater Sword—the one Jiang had saved eight months of spirit stones to buy. The cold-jade gem on its sheath had taken him three days of plunging into an icy lake to retrieve.
She laughed with a group of inner-sect girls—her profile luminous, her voice like chiming bells.
Jiang drew a breath.
The vial against his chest burned like a coal.
He stepped forward, under a wave of bored, curious, or mocking gazes, and stopped exactly three paces before her—a distance he had calculated countless nights. Close enough to be seen, far enough not to offend.
"Senior Sister Lin," he said. His voice cracked.
Conversation froze.
The inner-sect girls looked him over like a mud-stained ornament someone left in the wrong spot.
Lin Yueyao turned. Her brows tightened. The eyes Jiang had dreamed of for three years held nothing but ice—and a faint, unmistakable irritation.
"I recently obtained a bottle of Qi-Gathering Powder…" Jiang bowed deeper, offering the vial with both hands. "I heard you were attempting to break through to mid-Foundation stage. My cultivation is low, so it would be wasted on me. If you would—"
He never finished.
Crack.
Her jade-white hand swept—not to accept, but to strike.
The vial flew, smashing against the stone with a sharp crack. Brown, gritty powder spilled out like dirty ash. The spirit stones he had sweated for rolled away, one bouncing to someone's boot.
Silence.
Then soft, stifled snickers.
Jiang froze, arms still stretched forward. His fingers still remembered the cold porcelain. His cheeks burned—
Not from shame.
From something tearing deep within.
Lin Yueyao withdrew her hand and took out a white silk handkerchief, wiping her fingers as if cleansing filth.
Her voice was crisp, every syllable slicing him open:
"Jiang Muchen."
It was the first time she had ever said his full name. His body shook.
"Put away these cheap tricks." Her gaze flicked to the shattered mess. "I'm a true disciple of Jade Sword Peak. Already Foundation Realm. And you—a Qi-Refining drudge—think you can give me trash scraped off the ground?"
She stepped forward. Her skirt nearly brushed his knees.
Her voice dropped lower—colder than frost:
"For three years, you've fetched water, swept snow, blocked tribulation shockwaves for me, copied scriptures, even tested pills—
You really thought I didn't know that 'Condensed Dew Pill' was faulty?"
Jiang's pupils shrank.
"I didn't say anything," she continued, her smile flat and cruel, "because I didn't bother."
She looked him over like something unpleasant stuck to her shoe.
"You wag your tail like a beggar dog, licking boots for scraps of spirit stones just to buy me garbage."
She leaned closer.
"This isn't devotion. It's groveling."
Then, soft enough only he could hear:
"And it's disgusting."
The laughter broke like a wave.
One of the disciples kicked a fallen spirit stone, sending it clattering into a drainage ditch.
Lin Yueyao turned, her yellow skirts cutting the air.
Her last words fluttered back, light as a feather and heavy as a verdict:
"Get lost. Don't let me see you again."
The crowd dispersed.
Jiang stood alone, surrounded by broken porcelain and dirty powder. Dawn washed his pale face in cold light.
Slowly, he crouched and picked up the shards. Their edges sliced his fingertips, drawing blood.
He barely felt it.
Those nights in freezing lakes…
Those shockwaves that had rattled his ribs…
Those pages copied until his fingers cramped…
To her, everything he had offered was simply "disgusting."
Three years—over a thousand days—he had bent his spine, licked the dust beneath others' feet, hoping to catch a glimmer of light.
But the light had never turned toward him.
He had been licking nothing but a cold wall—only ever seeing the pathetic shadow of himself reflected back.
Night fell when he returned to the drudge dormitory. Ten people slept inside, snoring, mumbling, reeking of sweat and despair.
Jiang curled into the corner of his straw mat and traced a character on the rough fibers with a fingertip:
Grovel.
What was groveling?
Kneeling? Begging?
Offering everything you had for a scrap of acknowledgment?
Outside, wind howled from the northern cliffs—
a low, mournful summons.
He rose, barefoot on cold stone, slipped out the creaking door, and vanished into the night.
The cliff behind the northern peak was desolate. Moonlight washed the jagged rocks in corpse-pale silver. The wind cut through his thin robe like blades.
Jiang stood at the edge, staring down into absolute blackness.
Her voice echoed: Disgusting. Get lost. Don't appear again.
He stepped forward. Pebbles tumbled into darkness.
Just jump.
Jump, and no more cleaning beast pens before dawn.
No more copying scriptures until his fingers went numb.
No more fake smiles for crumbs thrown his way.
No more begging for the light.
No more pride bruised into mud.
Was he born only for this?
He closed his eyes and leaned forward—
The wind shifted.
A soft but irresistible force yanked him aside. The cliff crumbled under his feet. He fell—plunging into darkness—
But instead of being dashed against rocks, a hidden fissure swallowed him whole.
He crashed onto cold stone. Pain exploded. Blood filled his mouth. After a long moment, he forced himself upright.
A small chamber. Bare walls.
At its center sat a skeleton.
The bones were smooth, faintly glowing like polished jade.
Serene.
Not eerie—almost peaceful.
Jiang's scalp crawled. He backed up—
And the skeleton's brow lit with a soft golden flare.
The light surged outward, forming the hazy image of an old man—white hair, long beard, features indistinct, but eyes bright as a child's and deep as ancient wells.
The old man stared at him.
"After so many lifetimes… someone finally triggers my last 'Peril-Triggered Life-Saving Thought Imprint'..."
His voice pressed directly into Jiang's mind—weak, but impossibly old.
Jiang couldn't move.
The old man drifted closer, eyes cutting through him—seeing his humiliation, bitterness, despair, naked and trembling.
"Tsk, tsk."
The old man chuckled with amusement—and sympathy.
"Boy, your obsession runs deep. To degrade yourself like this for a girl?"
Jiang's throat tightened.
"Pitiful. Laughable."
The old man shook his head.
"And yet… you haven't even touched the threshold of true groveling."
Jiang looked up sharply.
The old man tapped a glowing finger against Jiang's forehead.
"People say I, Bai Gui—the 'Ancestor of Commerce'—only knew how to exploit markets and sell high. Ridiculous."
"True mastery is knowing what others need, not begging for what you lack."
"Cultivation is just another marketplace. Everything has spirit. Everything has a need. Your crawling and flattering—how is it different from a starving beggar?"
The words hit like thunder.
"The true Way does not beg. It does not steal."
The old man's voice rose, majestic and resonant.
"It perceives the needs of all things, creates unmatched value, and evokes spontaneous resonance from all beings."
"This… is the Dao of Resonant Offering."
Golden light burst.
Knowledge poured into Jiang's mind—
The Art of Universal Resonance, Volume I: Insight of Need.
Something slid from the skeleton's sleeve.
A jade flute—green, cool, translucent, pulsing faintly like something alive.
The old man's fading whisper drifted through the chamber:
"This flute accompanied me for decades. It anchors the heart. Remember—value lies not in what a thing is, but in what need it can fulfill…"
The voice vanished.
Silence swallowed the chamber.
Jiang knelt, gripping the jade flute.
A golden spark rotated in his pupils—slowly growing brighter.
Outside, the cliff winds wailed.
Far below, the ancient seal guarding the long-lost Azure Serenity Medicine Valley trembled faintly—recognizing a resonance not felt for millennia.
And far away on Jade Sword Peak, Lin Yueyao opened her eyes mid-meditation, heart flickering for reasons she couldn't name.
"A hallucination…?"
She closed her eyes again—
Unaware that the boy she had brushed aside like dirt was now tracing the cold holes of a jade flute…
And tracing the first line of a destiny that would shake the entire Red Dust Pavilion.
The true Dao begins not by begging for what lies in another's bowl—
but by seeing what their bowl truly lacks.