Wei Lun woke to someone shaking his shoulder roughly.
"Get up, lazy bones. Dawn bell rang ten minutes ago."
He cracked open one eye to see Old Feng looming over him, the head servant's weathered face twisted in its usual expression of perpetual irritation. The old man was stick-thin, with wispy gray hair and a hunched back from decades of manual labor. Despite his frail appearance, Old Feng ran the servant quarters with an iron grip.
"I'm up," Wei Lun croaked, his voice rough. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he sat up. It felt like he'd been trampled by a spirit beast.
Old Feng's irritation shifted to something like concern. "You look like death warmed over. You sick?"
"Just tired. Zhao Chen destroyed Chamber Seventeen. Took hours to clean." Wei Lun swung his legs off the sleeping mat, hoping Old Feng wouldn't notice how much the simple movement made him wince.
"That wastrel again?" Old Feng spat on the floor, a habit that would have earned him a beating if any disciple saw it. "Third failed breakthrough this month. At this rate, he'll never reach Foundation Establishment before he ages out."
Wei Lun said nothing. Commenting on disciples, even worthless ones like Zhao Chen, was dangerous for servants. Old Feng had earned enough seniority to get away with it in private, but Wei Lun had no such protection.
"Well, get yourself together," Old Feng continued, his moment of concern already evaporating. "You've got the morning rotation in the training grounds. And take some congee from the kitchen first—you really do look terrible."
The old man shuffled out, his footsteps creaking on the wooden floorboards. Wei Lun waited until he was gone, then let out a long breath and examined himself.
His servant's robes were filthy from last night, covered in ash and dust. But more importantly, that strange warmth in his chest was still there. Faint, barely perceptible, but present. He closed his eyes and focused inward the way he'd seen cultivators do thousands of times.
There. Deep in his dantian, a tiny spark of spiritual energy flickered like a candle flame in the wind. It was pitiful compared to what even the weakest outer disciple possessed, but for Wei Lun, it was a miracle.
His shattered meridians were still broken—he could sense that much. Instead of the smooth, interconnected pathways that normal cultivators possessed, his qi channels felt like a shattered pottery bowl someone had tried to glue back together. Fragments connected to other fragments in haphazard ways, with gaps and dead ends throughout.
Yet somehow, spiritual energy was managing to circulate through this broken system. Slowly, inefficiently, painfully, but it was moving.
Wei Lun opened his eyes, his mind racing. If he had spiritual energy, did that mean he could cultivate? Could he actually advance like a real disciple?
The thought sent a thrill of hope through him, immediately followed by caution. Even if he could cultivate, he had no technique, no guidance, and no resources. Worse, if anyone discovered what had happened, they'd either try to exploit him or decide he was too anomalous to live.
No. Better to proceed carefully. Observe. Learn. Stay invisible.
Wei Lun changed into clean robes, splashed cold water on his face from the communal basin, and headed to the kitchen. The servants' dining area was already half-empty—most had finished eating and started their morning duties. He ladled himself a bowl of thin rice congee and found a quiet corner.
The congee was bland and watery, but Wei Lun barely tasted it. His mind was elsewhere, replaying last night's events. The glowing motes of residual qi. The way they'd been drawn to him. The excruciating pain as energy flooded his broken meridians.
Why had it happened? What made last night different from the hundreds of other times he'd cleaned cultivation chambers?
Wei Lun frowned, thinking back. He'd been sweeping through the epicenter of the destruction, where the residual qi was strongest. He'd always felt that prickling sensation before, but last night he'd actually seen the spiritual energy.
Had something changed in him? Or had the amount of residual qi been so massive that even he could perceive it?
He finished his congee without reaching any conclusions and headed to his first assignment of the day.
The outer sect training grounds were a sprawling complex of practice arenas, weapon racks, and meditation pavilions spread across a full acre of Azure Peak's lower slopes. At this hour, the grounds were already filled with disciples running through their morning exercises.
Wei Lun kept to the edges, pushing a wooden cart filled with cleaning supplies. His job was to maintain the practice arenas—sweep away debris, replace damaged training dummies, and ensure the formation arrays that protected spectators from stray techniques remained functional.
It was mindless work, which normally suited him fine. But today, Wei Lun found himself acutely aware of the spiritual energy flowing through the training grounds.
It was everywhere.
Every disciple who threw a punch or swung a sword leaked spiritual energy. Some more than others—the sloppy ones, the inefficient ones, the ones who hadn't mastered proper qi control. Wei Lun had always known this intellectually, but now he could feel it.
The air around the practice arenas practically hummed with residual qi. Blue-white motes floated through the morning air like pollen, invisible to everyone else but crystal clear to Wei Lun's newly awakened senses.
He stood frozen beside Arena Three, staring at a particularly dense cloud of spiritual energy left behind by a disciple who'd just finished practicing sword techniques. The energy was already beginning to dissipate, drifting apart like smoke on the wind.
What if…?
Wei Lun glanced around. No one was paying attention to him—they never did. He was part of the scenery, as unremarkable as the stones beneath their feet.
Carefully, hesitantly, Wei Lun reached out toward the nearest mote of residual qi.
The moment his intention focused on it, the mote drifted toward his hand. Wei Lun's breath caught. Last night, the absorption had been violent and uncontrolled. This time, he was ready. He kept his mind calm, his breathing steady, and instead of letting the energy rush into him, he guided it.
The mote touched his palm.
Pain flared, but nothing like last night's agony. This was more like touching something uncomfortably hot—sharp but bearable. Wei Lun gritted his teeth and maintained his focus. The spiritual energy seeped through his skin, trickling into his meridians like water into cracked earth.
His broken pathways resisted, the fragmented channels struggling to contain and direct the foreign qi. But slowly, painfully, the energy made its way to his dantian and merged with the tiny spark already there.
The whole process took maybe ten seconds. When it was over, Wei Lun's hand was trembling and a cold sweat had broken out across his forehead. But the spark in his dantian was fractionally larger. Not by much—maybe one percent—but it had grown.
Wei Lun stared at his hand in wonder. He'd just cultivated. Actually, genuinely cultivated spiritual energy.
"You! Servant!"
Wei Lun nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun to find a young outer disciple glaring at him from Arena Three, her practice sword pointed in his direction.
"Stop standing around like an idiot," the disciple snapped. She was perhaps sixteen, with her hair bound in a practical braid and sweat staining her training robes. "Arena Five needs fresh training dummies. Move!"
"Yes, senior disciple. Right away." Wei Lun bowed quickly and hurried toward the storage building, his heart hammering.
Too close. He'd gotten so absorbed in experimenting that he'd forgotten to maintain awareness of his surroundings. That was exactly the kind of mistake that would get him noticed.
As he loaded training dummies onto his cart, Wei Lun forced himself to calm down. Yes, he could apparently absorb residual spiritual energy. Yes, this meant he could actually cultivate, in his own strange way. But he couldn't afford to be reckless.
The sect might have tolerated him as a broken, harmless servant. If they discovered he could cultivate, everything would change. They'd want to know how. They'd study him, control him, or eliminate him as a threat.
Wei Lun would have to be smarter. More careful.
He spent the rest of the morning maintaining a careful balance—doing his assigned work while occasionally, subtly, absorbing tiny amounts of residual qi when no one was looking. Each absorption was minuscule, barely worth the effort, but they added up. By midday, the spark in his dantian had grown from a candle flame to something closer to a torch.
It was still pathetically weak compared to any actual cultivator. But it was progress. Real, tangible progress.
Wei Lun was replacing a cracked meditation cushion in Pavilion Seven when he heard a familiar voice.
"Senior Brother Zhao, please, I've already apologized. I didn't mean to—"
"Didn't mean to? You didn't mean to spill tea on my robes?"
Wei Lun looked up to see Zhao Chen looming over a younger disciple near the pavilion entrance. Zhao Chen was a muscular young man of nineteen, with the kind of handsome features that would have been appealing if not for the perpetual sneer twisting his mouth. He wore outer disciple robes of slightly better quality than standard issue—a display of his family's wealth.
The younger disciple, a nervous-looking boy of maybe fourteen, was bowing repeatedly. "It was an accident, senior brother! I stumbled and—"
"Accidents require consequences," Zhao Chen said coldly. His hand shot out, grabbing the boy's collar. "Otherwise, how will you learn to be more careful?"
Spiritual energy flared around Zhao Chen's fist. He was going to hit the boy with a qi-enhanced strike—not enough to kill, but certainly enough to break bones.
Wei Lun should have looked away. Should have continued his work and pretended not to notice. Servants who interfered in disciples' affairs regretted it.
But something made him speak.
"Senior Disciple Zhao."
Zhao Chen's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. "What?"
Wei Lun forced himself to bow politely, keeping his voice respectful. "Forgive this lowly servant's interruption, but Elder Hua is currently inspecting the training grounds. She's in Pavilion Five." He gestured vaguely in that direction. "She may pass by this pavilion any moment."
It was a complete lie. Elder Hua wasn't anywhere near the training grounds. But Zhao Chen didn't know that.
The young master's expression flickered with uncertainty. Elder Hua was in charge of outer sect discipline, and while she usually turned a blind eye to minor bullying, she had strict rules about open violence in the training areas. Getting caught would mean punishment.
Zhao Chen released the younger disciple with a disgusted sound. "Lucky for you, trash," he spat at the boy. Then his gaze swung to Wei Lun, and something dangerous glinted in his eyes. "And you—I know you."
Wei Lun's stomach clenched. "Senior disciple?"
"You're the servant who cleaned my chamber last night. Chamber Seventeen." Zhao Chen stalked toward him. "You took your time, didn't you? I had to wait three hours before the chamber was usable again."
"The damage was extensive, senior disciple. This servant apologizes for any inconvenience."
"Extensive damage from my failed breakthrough?" Zhao Chen's face flushed with anger. "Are you implying I'm incompetent?"
"Not at all, senior disciple. This servant merely—"
Zhao Chen's hand lashed out, striking Wei Lun across the face. The blow wasn't qi-enhanced, but it didn't need to be. Wei Lun stumbled backward, his cheek burning, and barely managed to stay on his feet.
"Watch your tongue, servant," Zhao Chen hissed. "Next time I might not be so gentle."
He turned and strode away, his robes billowing dramatically. The younger disciple he'd been threatening scrambled off in the opposite direction, not even sparing Wei Lun a glance of gratitude.
Wei Lun touched his stinging cheek, tasting blood where his teeth had cut the inside of his mouth. His hands trembled—not with fear, but with anger.
Five years. Five years of bowing and scraping and swallowing his pride. Five years of being invisible, being nothing, letting people like Zhao Chen walk all over him because he had no choice.
But now…
Now he had spiritual energy. Tiny, pathetic, barely worth mentioning, but it was there. And unlike Zhao Chen, who'd failed his breakthrough three times this month, Wei Lun had a method of cultivation that actually worked for him.
It would take time. Maybe years. But if he was patient, if he was careful, if he absorbed every scrap of residual qi he could find…
One day, Zhao Chen would regret striking him.
One day, they all would.
"That looks painful."
Wei Lun turned to find a young woman approaching from Pavilion Eight. She was about sixteen, with delicate features and intelligent eyes. Her outer disciple robes were well-maintained but plain—no expensive fabric or elaborate embroidery. She carried a wooden practice sword and had the kind of calluses on her hands that spoke of genuine training rather than casual dabbling.
Wei Lun recognized her vaguely—Xiao Mei, one of the few disciples who occasionally thanked servants for their work. They'd never actually spoken beyond polite greetings.
"I'm fine, senior disciple," Wei Lun said, bowing slightly. "Just clumsy."
"Clumsy enough to walk into Zhao Chen's hand?" Xiao Mei asked dryly. She pulled a small cloth from her sleeve and offered it to him. "Here. Your lip is bleeding."
Wei Lun hesitated, then accepted the cloth with a deeper bow. "Thank you, senior disciple. You're very kind."
"I'm not kind. I just dislike bullies." Xiao Mei glanced in the direction Zhao Chen had gone, her expression troubled. "Zhao Chen has gotten worse lately. Three failed breakthroughs in a month… his family is putting pressure on him to advance, and he's taking it out on everyone around him."
Wei Lun dabbed at his split lip, saying nothing. What could he say? Criticizing disciples was dangerous.
Xiao Mei studied him for a moment. "What's your name? I've seen you around, but I don't think we've been properly introduced."
"Wei Lun, senior disciple."
"Just Xiao Mei is fine when we're alone." She smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. "I know the sect encourages this hierarchy nonsense, but it's exhausting. We're both just people trying to survive here."
Wei Lun found himself relaxing slightly. There was something genuine about Xiao Mei, an absence of the casual cruelty that most disciples wore like a badge of honor.
"How long have you been with the sect?" Xiao Mei asked.
"Thirteen years. Five as a servant."
"Shattered meridians?"
Wei Lun nodded. There was no point in lying—it was in the sect records.
"I'm sorry," Xiao Mei said, and she actually sounded like she meant it. "That must be difficult. To be surrounded by cultivation but unable to participate."
"You adapt," Wei Lun said carefully.
"Everyone has their path."
"I suppose so." Xiao Mei looked down at her practice sword, her expression turning melancholy. "Though some paths are harder than others. I've been stuck at the ninth layer of Qi Gathering for eight months now. Can't seem to break through to Foundation Establishment no matter what I try. At this rate, I'll age out before I advance."
She was opening up to him—actually talking to him like a person rather than a servant. Wei Lun wasn't sure how to respond. This level of familiarity with a disciple was new territory.
"I'm sure you'll succeed, senior… Xiao Mei," he said. "You seem dedicated."
"Dedication isn't always enough." Xiao Mei shook herself, as if throwing off dark thoughts. "Anyway, I should let you get back to work. And Wei Lun? Be careful around Zhao Chen. His family has influence, and he's not above seriously hurting people when he's in a bad mood."
"I will. Thank you."
Xiao Mei nodded and walked away, her practice sword resting on her shoulder. Wei Lun watched her go, his mind churning.
Eight months stuck at the ninth layer of Qi Gathering. He'd seen it dozens of times—disciples who hit a bottleneck and couldn't advance. Most eventually gave up and left the sect, accepting lives as mortal martial artists or guards. Only the talented or lucky ones broke through.
And Wei Lun, who had started this morning with barely any cultivation at all, had already advanced from nothing to… what? He had no idea how to measure his progress against normal cultivation stages. His method was too different.
But he was growing stronger. Slowly, yes. Inefficiently, certainly. But the growth was real.
Wei Lun touched the cloth Xiao Mei had given him, now spotted with blood from his split lip. Then he tucked it carefully into his sleeve and returned to his work.
The training grounds still hummed with residual spiritual energy, countless motes of blue-white light drifting through the air like invisible snow. All around him, disciples practiced their techniques, and with every sword swing, every palm strike, every channeled movement, they shed spiritual energy into the world.
Energy they couldn't reclaim. Energy they considered waste.
Energy that Wei Lun was learning to harvest.
He picked up his broom and resumed sweeping, his movements practiced and unremarkable. To any observer, he was just another servant going about his tedious duties.
But with each sweep of his broom, Wei Lun's awareness extended outward, sensing the residual qi, calculating the best moments to absorb it without being noticed.
The invisible janitor had learned something new today.
He could cultivate.
And nobody would see him coming.