he Logistics Division of the Azure Mystic Sect did not smell like incense and immortality. It smelled like wet wood, unwashed socks, and vinegar.
Chu Feng stood at the counter. A bored disciple threw a bundle at him.
"Gray robes. Two sets. One broom. One bucket. Room 404. Don't lose the bucket; it comes out of your allowance."
Chu Feng caught the bundle. "Allowance?"
"Three Spirit Stones a month," the disciple said, already looking past him to the next laborer. "Next."
Chu Feng blinked. In Clear Creek Village, a single Spirit Stone could buy a cow. Here, it was apparently the wage for sweeping dirt.
He stepped away, clutching his new life to his chest.
[Room 404]
The room was less a "living quarter" and more a "storage closet for humans."
Eight narrow cots were crammed into a space meant for four. The air was thick with the tension of young men who all believed they were destined for greatness and were currently furious that they were sleeping next to a guy who smelled like farming.
When Chu Feng entered, the conversation died.
Seven pairs of eyes turned to him. They weren't friendly.
"That's him," a boy with a mole on his chin whispered. "The Connection Hire."
"Failed the test but got a token," another sneered. "Must be nice to have a rich daddy."
Chu Feng found the empty cot in the corner—the one furthest from the window and closest to the chamber pot. He set his bundle down.
He didn't correct them. What was the point? If he told them, "Actually, I have no daddy and I think the token was a pity gift because I walk weird," they wouldn't believe him anyway.
"Hey," the boy with the mole called out. "You. 'Special' disciple. Do you even have Qi?"
Chu Feng tested the mattress. It was straw. Familiar.
"A little," Chu Feng answered honestly. "But it leaks."
The room erupted in snickers.
"Leaking body? Heavens, the corruption in this sect is getting worse."
"Don't talk to him," someone else muttered, turning back to his manual. "Bad luck rubs off."
They turned their backs on him, forming tight circles of shared resentment. They complained about the unfairness of the world, about the difficulty of the entrance exam, about the food.
Chu Feng sat on his cot and folded his gray robes.
He liked the resentment. It was a wall. As long as they looked down on him, they wouldn't look at him.
[ The Thousand Steps ]
The next morning, before the sun had even crested the peaks, Chu Feng was handed a broom.
His guide was Old He, a man who looked like he had been carved out of dried driftwood. Old He wore the same gray robes as Chu Feng, but his were faded to near-white.
"You sweep," Old He said. He pointed up.
Chu Feng looked.
A stone staircase wound its way up the side of the mountain, disappearing into the clouds. It was the path the Inner Disciples used to descend to the lower grounds.
"All of it?" Chu Feng asked.
"Up to the First Gate," Old He grunted. "Then you come down. Then you do it again."
Old He began to sweep. His movements were slow, rhythmic, and painfully boring.
Chu Feng mimicked him.
Swish. Swish.
After ten minutes, Chu Feng noticed something.
The dust here wasn't just dirt. It glittered slightly. When he pushed it with the broom, it felt heavy, like sweeping wet sand or iron filings.
"Why is the dust so heavy?" Chu Feng asked, wiping his brow. "Is it wet?"
Old He didn't look up.
"It's residue," the old man said. "Inner Disciples walk here."
"So?"
"So," Old He stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom. "They don't walk like us. They circulate Qi with every step to lighten their bodies or sharpen their senses. That expended energy doesn't just vanish. It sinks into the stone. It clings to the dirt."
Old He kicked a small pile of glittering dust.
"You aren't sweeping soil, kid. You're sweeping the echoes of their cultivation. To a mortal, this dust is heavy enough to crush a lung. To us, it's just exhausting."
Chu Feng paused.
In Clear Creek Village, people fought over scraps of spiritual energy. Here, the disciples were so powerful that their footsteps left behind energy dense enough to weigh down a broom.
"Don't stop," Old He warned. "If you stop, the weight piles up. Your arms will cramp."
Chu Feng nodded and kept sweeping.
He saw other laborers on the stairs. Most were sweating profusely, their faces red, their breathing ragged. They were forcing their own meager Qi into their arms just to push the heavy dust aside.
Chu Feng didn't use Qi. He didn't have enough to waste.
He just used his body.
Pivot the hip. Extend the arm. Use the lever of the handle.
His movement was efficient. Mechanical.
As he pushed the heavy dust, the pressure traveled up the broom handle and into his palms.
Then, the pressure simply vanished.
When the dense, chaotic residue from the broom touched Chu Feng's meridians, it naturally flowed toward the area of lowest pressure—his Dantian. It didn't need to be guided. It was like water finding a drain.
The chaotic Qi was instantly siphoned out of his arms, pulled down the meridian channels, and swallowed by the black sphere.
The resistance was gone.
The broom in Chu Feng's hand instantly became light.
"Oh," Chu Feng whispered. "I got the rhythm."
He didn't realize the Seal was draining the weight. He just thought he had found the perfect sweeping angle.
Old He watched him out of the corner of his eye. He expected the new kid to slow down. He expected the heavy residue to make his arms shake.
Instead, Chu Feng swept faster.
Swish. Swish.
The dust flew into neat piles. Chu Feng wasn't sweating. He wasn't panting. He looked like he was sweeping leaves in a garden.
"Strange," Old He muttered. "Maybe he's just numb."
[Midday]
Chu Feng sat on the step, eating a steamed bun. It was cold, but it was made with spirit flour. It tasted sweet.
Below him, the Logistics Division looked like an ant farm. Above him, the mountain peaks pierced the sky, shrouded in mist and mystery.
He was tired. His arms ached—not from the Qi weight, but from the repetition.
Disciples passed him. Some wore green (Outer). Some wore blue (Inner).
None of them looked at him.
To the village, he was Chu Feng, the invalid.
To the sect, he was Gray Robe #404.
He watched a group of Inner Disciples fly past on swords, laughing, their voices echoing off the canyon walls. They were discussing pill recipes that cost more than Chu Feng's entire life earnings.
He took a bite of his bun.
"It's terrifying," Chu Feng whispered to himself.
In the village, the ceiling was low. You could see it. Here, the ceiling was the sky, and he was currently sitting in the basement.
But he was in the basement.
He touched the wooden token at his waist.
He wasn't safe. He wasn't welcomed. He was surrounded by people who wanted him to fail and monsters who could crush him by accident.
But he was eating spirit flour. He was breathing air that tasted like lightning.
"Hey! Connection Trash!"
Down below, the boy with the mole was shouting, waving a bucket. "You missed a spot!"
Chu Feng waved back, finishing his bun.
"Coming!" he yelled.
He stood up, dusted off his gray robes, and picked up his broom.
He entered at the lowest step.
But even the lowest step was higher than where he stood before.