The first thing Lin Mo smelled was dust.
Old dust—dry, bitter, mixed with the faint scent of incense that had burned too long and too cheaply. It clung to his nose, crawled down his throat, and settled in his lungs like it had every intention of staying.
His eyelids twitched.
Voices echoed around him.
"…this is exactly why we never should've filled the vacant elder seat."
A snort, sharp and disdainful. "Vacant? That seat was cursed. Anyone sitting there was destined to be useless."
"Lower your voice. He's still an elder, nominally."
"Nominally," another voice repeated, dripping with mockery. "Tell me, what contribution has Elder Lin made in the past ten years? Zero pills refined. Zero disciples trained. Zero spirit stones earned."
Lin Mo's head throbbed.
Ten years?
He forced his eyes open.
The ceiling above him was high, but cracked. Long wooden beams sagged under their own weight, spiderwebs stretching between them like lazy guardians that had long since given up doing their job. Faded murals—once proud depictions of flying swords and radiant immortals—peeled from the walls, their colors dulled into something closer to old bruises.
This was not his apartment.
This was not Earth.
He lay on a hard wooden chair, its armrest biting into his side. When he shifted, his joints creaked painfully, as if protesting the very idea of movement.
A wave of memories slammed into his mind.
Overtime. Endless overtime.
Fluorescent lights. Cold coffee. A deadline that kept moving closer no matter how fast he typed.
Then darkness.
Then—this.
Lin Mo sucked in a breath, slow and careful, as realization settled like a stone in his chest.
I worked myself to death… and transmigrated?
Before he could process that thought fully, someone spoke again, closer this time.
"Elder Lin, are you awake, or has sleeping through meetings become your latest contribution?"
The sarcasm was so blatant it barely bothered to hide.
Lin Mo turned his head.
In front of him stood a semicircle of people—men in long robes of faded blue and gray, their sleeves embroidered with symbols that might once have looked impressive. Their expressions ranged from open irritation to thinly veiled contempt.
At the center sat a man who looked exhausted in a way Lin Mo recognized instantly.
Sunken eyes. Stiff posture. The weariness of someone who had carried too much responsibility for too long.
The sect leader.
Though Lin Mo didn't know his name yet, his mind supplied the information anyway, as if embarrassed it hadn't done so earlier.
Sect Leader Han Zheng.
A flood of memories followed—fragmented, disorganized, but enough.
This was the Qingyun Sect.
A lower sect.
No—worse.
A dying lower sect, located in the Eastern Fringe Lands, a place infamous for one thing above all else:
Thin spiritual energy.
Cultivation here was like trying to breathe underwater. Techniques took ten times longer. Breakthroughs failed nine times out of ten. Talented disciples fled the moment they showed promise. Untalented ones stayed… and rotted.
Lin Mo swallowed.
He—this body—was Elder Lin Mo. Age forty-seven. Cultivation… mediocre at best. A failed inner disciple who had been promoted to elder not due to merit, but because the seat had been empty too long.
No one wanted it.
That was why he had it.
Han Zheng rubbed his temples. "Elder Lin," he said, voice hoarse but restrained, "this meeting concerns the annual contribution assessment. You were… resting."
Lin Mo opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
What was he supposed to say?
Sorry, I just died in another world and woke up here?
An elder on the left scoffed. "Resting? He's been resting for a decade."
Laughter rippled through the hall—quiet, controlled, but sharp enough to cut.
Lin Mo felt heat crawl up his neck.
Not anger.
Fear.
Pure, instinctive fear.
Because woven into the memories was another truth, one far more immediate and dangerous.
In the Qingyun Sect, elders were ranked not by seniority… but by contribution.
And elders who failed long enough?
They were removed.
Politely, officially, and without ceremony.
Some were sent to manage outer warehouses until they died of old age.
Some were "assigned" to dangerous regions.
Some simply disappeared, written off as casualties of cultivation.
Lin Mo's fingers tightened against the armrest.
If I don't prove usefulness… I'll be discarded.
Han Zheng sighed. "Enough. Mockery won't solve our problems."
He looked at Lin Mo, his gaze complicated—not kind, but not cruel either.
"Elder Lin," the sect leader continued, "as per the assessment… your contribution remains the lowest among all elders."
A murmur spread.
"However," Han Zheng said, raising a hand, "given the sect's current circumstances, we cannot afford internal conflict. Therefore, the council has decided on… an alternative."
Lin Mo's heart sank.
Alternative solutions were never good.
An elder with a sharp nose leaned forward. "Sect Leader, are you certain this is wise? Assigning a disciple to him—"
"It's one disciple," Han Zheng interrupted, voice firm now. "One."
He turned back to Lin Mo. "You will take responsibility for a disciple."
Lin Mo blinked.
"A… disciple?"
"Yes," Han Zheng said. "Teaching. Guidance. Cultivation supervision. If you succeed, it will count as contribution."
"And if I fail?" Lin Mo asked before he could stop himself.
The hall went quiet.
Han Zheng met his eyes. "Then the council will revisit your position."
That was as clear as it needed to be.
Lin Mo nodded slowly. "Understood."
Inside, his thoughts raced.
A disciple? Me? I barely understand cultivation myself.
The original Lin Mo had coasted for years—avoiding responsibility, dodging expectations, surviving on minimal effort and maximum luck. That luck, apparently, had finally run out… and been replaced by him.
An elder coughed. "Sect Leader, may I ask… which disciple?"
Han Zheng hesitated.
Just for a fraction of a second.
That hesitation did not go unnoticed.
Lin Mo's stomach tightened.
Han Zheng exhaled. "Zhao Fan."
The reaction was immediate.
A few elders raised eyebrows.
One outright laughed.
"Zhao Fan? The one who—"
"—can't sense spiritual energy properly?"
"—overthinks basic breathing techniques?"
"—spent three months interpreting a wall crack as a Dao sign?"
Lin Mo's mouth went dry.
From the memories, the name surfaced clearly now.
Zhao Fan.
Outer disciple. Age seventeen.
No background. No talent. No connections.
Known for one thing only:
An imagination so active it actively sabotaged his cultivation.
Han Zheng looked tired again. "He has no master. No elder has been willing to take him."
Because taking him was pointless.
Because training him was a waste.
Because if contribution was measured by results, Zhao Fan was a bottomless pit.
Lin Mo felt a strange mix of emotions swirl in his chest.
Relief—because no one expected success.
And terror—because no one expected success.
This is it, he realized.
This is my last chance.
If he failed with Zhao Fan, there would be no excuses left.
Han Zheng stood. "The matter is settled. Elder Lin, report to the outer disciple grounds by dusk. The disciple will be transferred to your supervision immediately."
The meeting dissolved soon after.
Elders rose, sleeves swaying, conversations resuming in low voices. None approached Lin Mo. None offered advice.
Why would they?
To them, this was already decided.
Lin Mo remained seated for a moment longer, staring at the cracked murals on the wall.
Flying swords.
Immortals.
He let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
"In a place where cultivation is nearly impossible," he muttered, "I get assigned the most impossible disciple."
Slowly, he stood.
His body felt heavy. Not weak—just… wrong. Like the spiritual energy around him was thin not only in the land, but inside his veins.
As he stepped out of the hall, the wind brushed past his face, carrying dust and the faint scent of dying grass.
The Qingyun Sect sprawled before him—uneven buildings, worn paths, disciples moving with subdued expressions.
A sect on the verge of collapse.
And him?
A useless elder with one useless disciple.
Somewhere deep within his chest, something stirred.
Not ambition.
Not hope.
But a quiet, stubborn instinct honed from years of surviving corporate hell.
Fine, Lin Mo thought grimly. If I'm going to be discarded… I won't make it easy.
At the edge of the outer disciple grounds, a skinny boy stood alone, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the ground as if it might suddenly reveal the secrets of the universe.
Zhao Fan.
Lin Mo took a breath and walked toward him.
He had no idea yet that this useless assignment would be the beginning of everything.
Nor that every careless word he spoke from this moment on would one day shake heaven itself.
But for now—
He just needed to survive.