The jade-green flute warmed against Jiang Muchen's chest—
not hot, but pulsing, like a second heart syncing with his own.
He leaned against the cold stone wall and shut his eyes.
Inside his sea of consciousness, golden sigils rotated in slow, star-river spirals.
The first line of *The Resonance Codex — Insight of Desire*
had branded itself into his soul:
**"All beings lack. All spirits yearn.
See their lack, and you find the door;
Know their yearning, and you hold the key."**
Not groveling.
Not flattering.
But **seeing**—truly seeing the empty bowl someone hides behind pride,
the hole in their chest they pretend the wind doesn't blow through.
He opened his eyes.
And the stone chamber was no longer the same place.
Faint trails of spiritual leakage wove through the wall's texture like water marks in sand.
The varying thickness of dust on the floor told him air flowed toward the northwest corner.
The jade-white skeleton's posture—left shoulder dipped, right knee tilted—
was the instinctive stance of a gravely injured cultivator
nursing his heart meridian against the earth's warmth.
So this… was insight?
Jiang Muchen drew in a long breath and pressed the jade flute closer to his skin.
A cool clarity surged straight to his crown, incinerating stray thoughts like boiling water over snow.
A damn fine treasure.
Bai Gui had said the flute "steadies the mind and dispels delusion."
Only now did Jiang Muchen understand:
it was the perfect partner for practicing the Resonance Codex.
Time to leave.
Following the airflow he'd sensed, he slipped through a narrow crack,
crawled half an incense stick's time through suffocating dark,
and emerged behind the abandoned beast pens of the back mountain.
Dawn was just beginning to smudge the horizon with pale white.
He dusted off his patched servant robes.
His body looked the same—tired cloth, thin frame—
but something inside him had flipped.
Lin Yueyao's "Disgusting" still echoed in his ears.
It hurt—sharp as ever—
but no longer suffocating.
Because, with terrifying clarity, he finally understood:
For three years…
he'd been kneeling to the wrong altar.
Did Lin Yueyao lack low-grade resources?
No.
She was a true disciple of Jade Sword Peak—
a Foundation-realm cultivator drenched in sect stipends, clan offerings, and admirers' gifts.
So what was she lacking?
As he walked back toward the servants' quarters, he replayed her tone, her eyes, every word.
"Don't let me see you again."
"You call this devotion? This is groveling."
"This is disgusting."
Beneath the words lay something rawer:
irritation.
Shame.
The humiliation of being pursued by someone far beneath her status—
someone she feared would make her look… cheap.
She didn't want his offerings.
She wanted him **gone**.
Or at least silent enough that he didn't stain her identity.
A humorless laugh slipped from his throat.
For three years he'd pushed gifts, devotion, sincerity—
and each act only reminded her
she was being "pined after by a servant."
The more he groveled,
the dirtier she felt.
**So the truest form of devotion…
isn't giving what *I* want to give.
It's giving what *they* actually need—even if what they need…
is my distance.**
The realization hit him like ice water.
---
By the time he reached the ten-man dorm, dawn had fully broken.
Snores rattled the room. No one noticed he'd been gone all night.
Servant disciples were as replaceable as straw sandals—
one missing, one added, no one cared.
Sitting on his corner bed, he closed his eyes.
He tried the Codex's first technique:
letting his spiritual sense spread thin like a spiderweb,
not touching others directly—
only catching the "emotional dust" floating from them.
Old Zhao muttered in his sleep,
"Spirit stones… still short three…"
Near the chamber pot, Li Mazzi was already awake, grumbling,
"That bastard Wang shaved my body-tempering pills again…"
The new kid by the window tossed and turned,
his fingers forming sword gestures beneath the blanket,
his anxiety thick as fog:
"Three days now… Why can't I get 'Falling Wild Goose Slash' right…"
These were the needs of the crowd—
crude, small, painfully honest.
Jiang Muchen opened his eyes.
A flicker of gold flashed across his pupils.
Bai Gui had been right.
This world, this cultivation sect—
it was a marketplace.
The goods were not grain or cloth
but resources, manuals, connections, futures.
Everyone was hawking something,
everyone was starving for something else.
And now Jiang Muchen had the eyes
to see the empty shelves behind their chests.
---
At morning roll call,
Wang the Fat Overseer called names with his usual spit-flying arrogance.
"Li Mazzi—East Peak beast pens!
Zhao Ironhead—back mountain woodcutting!
Jiang Muchen—"
He dragged the name out, squinting.
"You'll be cleaning the marble square outside the Scripture Pavilion."
A buzz rippled through the servants.
Cleaning the Scripture Pavilion?
That was the cushiest job a servant could dream of—
usually reserved for Wang's cronies.
Dozens of eyes speared toward Jiang Muchen,
full of confusion, envy, suspicion.
Jiang bowed and accepted the order quietly.
He knew exactly what this was—
a warning and an olive branch.
Wang was telling him:
*I know you vanished last night.*
But also:
*If you're still useful, I won't crush you.*
As Jiang took the bucket and cloth,
his gaze brushed a figure at the edge of the group.
Lu Hanshan.
The woodcutter's son who rarely spoke,
always hacking away alone with that rusted chopping blade.
He wore the same patched coarse garments he always did.
That blade still hung at his waist, battered and dull.
But when Jiang let the Codex flow through him—
he saw more.
Lu Hanshan's spiritual circulation had slowed—
thick and muddy,
a full **thirty percent heavier** than yesterday.
Tension knotted his brow.
The web of old, barely healed tears at his tiger's-mouth
revealed repeated overexertion,
healing, tearing again.
And deeper—
a storm of frustration ready to burst his skin.
Interesting.
Jiang Muchen walked toward the Scripture Pavilion.
But his mind lingered on Lu Hanshan.
---
The Pavilion sat halfway up the main peak,
grand roofs and flying eaves catching the pale morning sun.
The white jade square required cleaning three times a day
to display the sect's purity.
Kneeling on the icy tiles,
Jiang scrubbed with steady motions
while his spiritual sense spread quietly outward.
He *heard* everything.
On the first floor, outer disciples whispered:
"Fifty contribution points for the Basic Breathing Manual?
I worked the gates for three months and only have thirty…"
Up on the second floor, a girl frowned over a sword manual:
"Why does 'Starfall Horizon' feel different from what Senior Sister described?"
Even the faint murmurs from the third floor drifted out:
"Elder Huoyun's refining a batch of Sunburst Pills. Missing the core herb—Flameheart Grass—he's offering a reward…"
"Flameheart Grass? Only grows in the Molten Abyss secret realm. Who'd risk that?"
Elder Huoyun?
Jiang's heartbeat flicked.
The outline had mentioned this master—the "value anchor" he'd later win over.
So the thread was already here.
A dull chopping sound broke his focus.
Jiang looked up.
Lu Hanshan again.
He was hacking at a trunk the width of a small bowl,
but each strike was stiff, desperate.
The blade sank less than half an inch before jamming.
He grunted, veins bulging, trying to wrench it free.
Nearby servants snickered.
"Dumb ox."
"If he's got that kind of strength, he should learn a real technique."
"With what? His family can't even afford manuals."
Lu Hanshan ignored them—
or perhaps he didn't hear anything anymore.
His eyes were reddening.
Jiang stood, water bucket in hand,
and drifted closer as if by coincidence.
He focused the Codex fully.
This time, the picture sharpened:
Lu Hanshan had a **dual Earth-and-Metal affinity**—
rare, powerful, destined for a hard, explosive path.
But he practiced only the most basic breathing method.
His spiritual energy rammed through his meridians without order.
His blade was worse—mere mortal iron—
but years of hacking hardwood had accidentally polished
a thin, nearly imperceptible thread of **sharp metal-essence** at its edge.
A gift.
A perfect spark.
Except Lu Hanshan had no idea how to harness it—
so every swing let that essence bite him,
tearing his tiger's-mouth again and again.
What did he lack?
A proper **force-guiding method** for Earth-Metal cultivators.
A way to tame the metal-essence.
And deeper than that—
a single moment of validation.
A sign that a poor woodcutter's son
might carve his own path after all.
Jiang approached just as Lu Hanshan's blade stuck again.
"Brother."
The woodcutter jerked his head up—
eyes wild, breath ragged.
Jiang pointed calmly at his grip.
"When you strike, your energy travels along the Lung Meridian, scattering at the elbow.
A waste."
Lu Hanshan froze.
"Earth is steady; Metal is sharp," Jiang continued.
"With Earth-Metal roots, why not sink your breath to the dantian,
guide it up the Kidney Meridian, pass the Gate of Life,
run it along the spine,
and when it reaches the shoulder—
**twist your waist**.
Borrow the ground's strength.
Let the blade ride the wave."
He traced a quick path on the wet marble with his cloth—
simple lines suddenly carrying weight.
"It's like splitting firewood.
You don't push with your arms.
You pull strength from the earth.
The waist turns like a coiling dragon—
and the power shoots through."
Lu Hanshan stared at the lines,
his breath quickening.
Servants jeered:
"Look at Jiang Muchen pretending to be a master scholar."
"A floor cleaner teaching swordwork—this is rich."
Jiang ignored them.
"Try it," he said quietly.
"You've nothing to lose."
He walked away.
Ten steps later, he turned back, as if remembering a detail.
"Oh, and your blade—
it *does* carry metal-essence.
That's good.
Metal kills—Earth must sheath it.
Wrap the blade with Earth-spirit when you practice.
Let it feel like soil holding a seed."
Lu Hanshan's eyes trembled shut.
He gripped the blade with both hands.
His whole body quivered.
The seed had been planted.
Seven parts truth—seen through the Codex.
Three parts packaging—presenting fundamentals like secrets,
and gifting him an identity:
"You have Earth-Metal dual roots."
For someone from the bottom,
recognition was worth more than ten bottles of Qi-Gathering Powder.
Half an incense stick passed.
A low growl rumbled across the square.
Jiang turned.
Lu Hanshan's body glowed faintly—
a yellow aura rising like dust in sunlight.
He twisted his waist sharply—
feet rooted, spine whipping the force upward.
The battered blade trembled—
**A soft thunderclap.**
Not metal ringing.
Something deeper.
More primal.
A flash of steel.
*CRACK—!*
The hardwood split clean in two.
The cut surface shone like polished jade.
Silence crashed over the square.
Even Lu Hanshan stared, stunned,
as the blade settled warmly in his hands.
The metal-essence finally rested—
no longer tearing him apart,
but curling around the Earth-energy like a cub by the hearth.
He lifted his head, searching for Jiang.
But Jiang was already walking away,
his silhouette fading into the morning mist.
Only Lu Hanshan felt it—
that something inside his chest cracked open,
letting in a sliver of light.
And high above, in a third-floor window of the Scripture Pavilion,
a red-faced elder with messy beard paused mid-sentence.
"Huh."
His eyes flicked from the split log
to Jiang Muchen's departing figure.
He stroked his beard.
"That boy's force-route…
matches the entry pattern of *Diamond Body Tempering*.
Incomplete, but promising."
He reached for a dusty beast-skin scroll.
Five archaic characters marked its cover:
**Diamond Body Tempering — Fragment**
Recovered from the Golden Armor Sanctuary.
"Rotting here is a waste anyway," the elder muttered.
"If the boy truly sees that woodcutter's potential… perhaps…"
He didn't finish the thought.
But his eyes glimmered with interest.
The morning bell rang.
Jiang knelt on the jade square,
wiping the final tile until it gleamed.
His bucket shimmered with the reflection of the rising sun—
and in his eyes, golden sigils spun quietly.
The jade flute pulsed in his chest,
as if responding.
From today onward,
everything would be different.
Far behind him,
Lu Hanshan clutched his blade,
his lips moving.
No sound came out.
But Jiang heard it.
A silent, trembling:
**"Thank you."**
He lowered his head to work.
But the corner of his mouth curved.
*Charity breeds contempt.
Understanding wins loyalty.
And the highest form of devotion…
is becoming the quiet lantern
that lights someone's path when they need it most.*
---