CHAPTER EIGHT
The Orb Reacts
Morning came without kindness.
The bell of the Azure River Sect rang through the mountains, deep and ancient, shaking sleep from stone and flesh alike.
Zheng Wen Te rose from the narrow bed in silence.
The robe hanging on the wall was still there.
Grey.
Plain.
A servant's cloth.
Not a disciple's.
He stared at it for a long moment before putting it on.
The fabric was rough against his skin, unfamiliar in the way a new life always was.
Outside, the sect was already awake.
Footsteps echoed along the corridors.
Young voices laughed.
Some shouted.
Some barked orders with arrogance far too large for their bodies.
Zheng stepped out.
The mountain air struck him immediately—cold, clean, merciless.
Above him, peaks pierced the clouds like blades.
Far above, elegant pavilions floated on stone platforms, suspended by formations he could not understand.
Disciples flew past on shining swords.
Their robes snapped in the wind like banners.
Immortals.
Real immortals.
Zheng's throat tightened.
So this was the world Shangdi had thrown him into.
Not comfort.
Not mercy.
Hierarchy.
Power.
A place where mortals were dust.
"Outer servant!"
A shout cracked through his thoughts.
A young steward stood near the courtyard, holding a bamboo ledger. His robe was only slightly better than Zheng's, but the way he carried himself was worlds apart.
"You!"
Zheng looked up.
The steward's eyes were sharp.
"New one. Zheng Wen Te, right?"
Zheng hesitated, then nodded.
"Follow. Work assignment."
No greeting.
No welcome.
Just function.
Zheng followed.
They passed rows of outer disciples practicing in the morning mist.
Some punched the air, their fists trailing faint spiritual light.
Others sat cross-legged, breathing slowly, drawing invisible energy into their bodies.
Qi.
Cultivation.
It was everywhere.
And yet…
none of it touched him.
The steward led him down the mountain path toward a lower area of the sect.
The smell hit before Zheng saw it.
Animal.
Filth.
Blood.
The spirit beast pens.
A line of wooden enclosures stretched along the slope. Inside, creatures larger than tigers prowled restlessly, their eyes glowing faintly.
A horned wolf snarled as Zheng approached.
The steward tossed him a bucket and a brush.
"Clean."
Zheng blinked.
"…Clean?"
The steward scoffed.
"What did you think outer servants do? Meditate with the elders?"
A few nearby disciples laughed.
One leaned against a fence, arms crossed.
It was the same sharp-faced boy from yesterday.
Li Shan.
His smile was all teeth.
"Careful, old man," he drawled. "Spirit beasts don't like weak meat."
Zheng did not answer.
He lowered his gaze.
Picked up the bucket.
And walked into the pen.
The beast inside was a massive boar-like creature, its hide covered in dark scales. Its breath came out in hot snorts, heavy with aggression.
Zheng began scrubbing.
Water splashed against stone.
The brush scraped filth from the ground.
It was humiliating.
But humiliation was familiar.
On Earth, he had lost everything.
Here…
he was less than nothing.
Minutes passed.
Then—
the beast growled.
Low.
Warning.
Zheng froze.
Its glowing eyes fixed on him.
The creature's muscles tensed.
Li Shan's laughter drifted from outside.
"Oh? It noticed you."
Zheng's heart began to pound.
He backed up slowly, brush still in hand.
The beast took one step forward.
Then another.
Its tusks scraped stone.
Zheng's breath hitched.
"I… I'm not here to—"
The creature lunged.
Zheng stumbled back, slipping on wet ground.
Pain flared as his hand slammed against the wooden fence.
A sharp splinter cut his palm.
Blood welled instantly.
Red against pale skin.
Zheng hissed, clutching his hand.
And in that moment—
the orb in his sleeve touched his bleeding skin.
Warmth.
A pulse.
Zheng froze.
The tiny pearl of light rolled into his palm as if alive.
His blood smeared across its surface.
For one heartbeat…
nothing happened.
Then—
the orb drank.
Not like an object absorbing liquid.
Like something starving.
The world shifted.
The air grew heavy.