The Task Hall was a cold throat of stone that swallowed the heat of the mountain before it could reach the disciples.
It sat low, closer to the damp earth than the training grounds, smelling of old ink and the stale sweat of men who had spent their years trading their lives for copper. The steps were hollowed out, worn down by the weight of thousands who had come seeking a way to rise and found only a way to endure.
Xu Qian arrived when the mist was still a gray shroud. He did not come to find work. He came to listen. The outer section was a sea of gray robes. Disciples stood in loose lines, their faces masked by the same dull exhaustion. Some leaned against the pillars, their bodies carved into the stone by habit. Others sat with their backs to the damp walls, eyes half-closed but ears tuned to the sound of the steward's stylus. In the Edgefall Sword Sect, the truth did not live in the proclamations of the elders. It lived in the gaps between words. It lived in the way a group went silent when a certain official walked past.
The air in the hall was heavy, recycled through too many lungs. It smelled of old paper, dried pine ink, and the sour, metallic tang of anxiety. Xu Qian watched a disciple near the front counter arguing with a steward. The disciple was gesturing frantically, pointing at a slip of paper. The steward didn't even look up. He simply tapped the ledger with his pen-tap, tap, tap-until the disciple went silent and walked away, shoulders slumped.
That was the language here. Not shouts, but silence. Not arguments, but records.Xu Qian shifted his gaze to the floor. The stone was worn smooth in specific currents-paths leading to the high-merit boards were gouged deep by ambitious feet, while the corners near the cleaning tasks remained dusty and rough. The floor itself was a map of desperation.
A massive slab of dark stone dominated the far wall.
The Task Board.
The surface was scarred and pitted, covered in shallow characters that were scraped away as soon as a man failed or died. The floor beneath it was white with stone dust, a fine powder that coated the boots of every man who stood too long looking for hope. Xu Qian stayed in the shadows of a rear pillar. He watched the desperate men push toward the board, seeking tasks that promised merit. He watched the way the air changed when an inner disciple walked through-a brief, sharp silence that followed them.
"First time?"
The voice came from his left.
Xu Qian turned.
The man was older than him by a few years, perhaps more. His robe was worn at the cuffs, repaired once and not well. His posture was relaxed in a way that suggested practice rather than carelessness.
"Task Hall," the man clarified, nodding toward the board.
"Yes," Xu Qian said.
The man smiled faintly. "Then don't rush the board. Everything worth knowing reaches your ears before it reaches your eyes."
Xu Qian considered him for a moment, then inclined his head. "Thank you."
The man shifted his weight, leaning back against the pillar. "Sun Liang," he said. "Outer disciple."
"Xu Qian."
Sun Liang nodded once-no exaggeration, no curiosity pushed too far. "Realm?"
"Not yet," Xu Qian replied.
"Good," Sun Liang said, tone sincere. "Means you'll listen."
Xu Qian did not ask what he meant.
Sun Liang leaned his shoulder against the granite. "First time in the Hall? You have the look of a man who hasn't yet realized that the sect is a beast that eats its own tail."
"I have seen the Judgment Field," Xu Qian replied.
"The Field is a blunt axe," Sun Liang muttered. "This Hall is a slow rot. See that courier run on the third line? To the Southern Ridge? It pays ten merit points. It looks generous. But the route is a nest of vipers, and the steward, Han Zhi, only gives it to those he wants to see broken."
Xu Qian's eyes narrowed. Han Zhi. The man who had cleared his poison and left him with scarred vessels. "And the task below it?" Xu Qian asked.
"Grain hauling," Sun Liang said with a shrug. "Two points. Long, heavy, boring. No one takes it because there is no glory in a bent back. But the road is safe and the granary guards are lazy. It is a task for those who want to see another sunrise."
Sun Liang gestured with his chin toward the crowd jostling for position near the high-merit courier task.
"Look at them," he murmured. "They believe they are hunters choosing their prey. They do not see that they are the bait."
He watched a young disciple shove another aside to grab a posting. "The sect posts those tasks to identify who has too much energy and too little patience. If you take the posting, you prove you are willing to burn your own foundation for a quick return. That is useful to the sect, but fatal to the disciple."
He leaned his head back against the stone, eyes half-lidded. "Ambition is a fuel, Xu Qian. Most men light the tinder before they have enough wood to sustain the fire. They burn bright for a moment and then turn to ash. I prefer to wait until I am sure of the wind."
"Why tell me?"
"Because the Hall is full of fools trying to be legends," Sun Liang said. "The mountain has enough bones. It does not need yours yet. Besides, if the fools take the dangerous tasks, the road is quieter for the rest of us."
A steward arrived with a long iron stylus. The sound of the scraping began-a harsh, screeching noise that felt like a blade being dragged across teeth. The old tasks were wiped away in clouds of gray dust. The new ones were carved with mechanical, cold speed.
Sun Liang pushed off the pillar. "You'll want to check the left side tomorrow. That's where assessment notices go up. They don't announce them. Too many complaints."
"Thank you," Xu Qian said.
Sun Liang shrugged. "Costs me nothing."
That, Xu Qian suspected, was the point.
Xu Qian walked toward the board as Sun Liang drifted into the crowd. He did not reach for a task. He spent the hour reading the names of the officials and the routes they favored. He noticed how the high-merit tasks were often clustered around the same dangerous peaks, while the low-merit tasks stayed near the safety of the valley. The hall was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and the quiet murmurs of the desperate.
Behind him, conversation continued.
"…heard the minor assessment might come early this cycle…"
"…depends who's watching…"
"…someone from the Nangong line entered this year, you know…"
That last drew a few murmurs, quickly stifled.
Xu Qian did not turn.
Names mattered-not because they carried authority here, but because they carried expectation.
A group near the back spoke in hushed tones about poisons. Techniques were mentioned, then consequences. An attendant passed nearby and the conversation shifted to weather.
Xu Qian noticed that too.
He left the hall, taking no task. He returned to the training grounds as the sun broke through the mist. The air was thin and sharp. He practiced his sword forms with painstaking slowness, every rotation of his wrist a battle against the friction in his blood. He did not seek speed. He sought the feeling of the steel becoming an extension of his own scarred arm.
That evening, he returned. Sun Liang was there again, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. "You took nothing," Sun Liang noted.
"No," Xu Qian said, sitting beside him.
"Good." Sun Liang shifted aside slightly, making space. "First mistake most people make is thinking every task is an opportunity."
Xu Qian sat.
They listened.
News filtered through the hall in fragments. A courier failed to return on time. An inner disciple took a maintenance task no one else wanted and was not seen again. A steward reassigned merit quietly.
No one spoke of glory.
At some point, Sun Liang said, "When you do take a task, take one that teaches you something even if it pays nothing."
"What did your first teach you?" Xu Qian asked.
Sun Liang considered. "That my legs were not as strong as I thought."
Xu Qian almost smiled.
Over the next few days, the Task Hall became Xu Qian's school. He learned which officials took a cut of the merit and which routes were a death sentence. He saw the "boring" tasks taken by the oldest disciples-the ones who had survived for years. They were gray ghosts, silent and efficient.
One afternoon, as Xu Qian left the hall, Sun Liang said, "Assessment notices will go up soon."
"How do you know?" Xu Qian asked.
Sun Liang tapped the stone wall lightly. "Because everyone's pretending they don't care."
Xu Qian saw the new line being carved into the left corner. It was small. The characters were sharp and jagged.
Minor Assessment. Three days. All unranked.
The Hall went cold. The talking stopped. Every man looked at that tiny line of text and felt the weight of the mountain pressing down on them.
He returned to the training grounds and practiced until his hands blistered. He treated them himself and did not complain.
The mountain watched.
And for now, it allowed him to remain.