The Task Hall was louder than Xu Qian expected.
Not with voices. With movement.
Wooden boards lined the walls from floor to ceiling, each layered with slips of paper pinned, torn down, replaced, and overwritten so many times that the wood beneath had been worn smooth. Corners were rounded where fingers worried at them. Old nail holes remained even where postings no longer did. Ink stains bled into the grain, overlapping in places where new tasks had been written over older ones, the surface never scraped clean.
Disciples moved through the hall in slow, deliberate currents. They stopped, read, stepped aside, circled back. Some drifted from board to board, tearing nothing down, as if looking itself might be counted.
No one lingered in the center for long. But no one crossed it quickly either.
Xu Qian stood just inside the threshold and watched long enough for the pattern to show itself.
The center boards were the first thing the eye caught. They were wider, better maintained, the postings written in thicker ink and larger script. Task names sounded almost respectable, phrased cleanly and confidently.
Escort Assistance - Outer Routes.
Supply Transport - Scheduled Rotation.
Training Ground Preparation - Instructor Supervision.
Perimeter Inventory - Daylight Shift.
They were crowded.
Disciples stood shoulder to shoulder, craning their necks to read over others' heads. A few spoke in low voices, pointing, comparing slips, arguing quietly about which steward might be overseeing which posting. Two stewards stood near the center boards, arms folded, eyes moving slowly across the crowd. They did not speak. They watched, and the watching shaped every step.
Xu Qian did not move toward them.
He remembered Sun Liang's words from the night before. Those tasks are meant to be seen.
Seen by instructors. Seen by stewards. Seen by people who wrote names down for reasons that were never explained.
Xu Qian shifted his attention instead to the side walls.
The change was immediate.
The boards there were narrower and darker, the wood older and more scarred. The postings were fewer and spaced farther apart. Disciples approached them alone or in pairs, read in silence, and either turned away or tore down a slip, making no comment.
No laughter. No raised voices.
Zhao Wen hesitated beside Xu Qian, eyes flicking back toward the center boards. "The center ones look... safer."
"They look watched," Xu Qian replied.
Zhao Wen swallowed and said nothing more. He followed as Xu Qian stepped closer to the side wall.
Up close, the slips here were more specific. Less polished. Some listed exact durations. Others listed only conditions, as if the task decided when it ended.
Outer Field Drainage - no reassignment.
Archive Re-shelving - precision required, damaged items deducted.
Residue Clearing, Lower Chambers - protective gear issued, early exit voids record.
Marker Renewal, Cliff Path - weather dependent.
Xu Qian's gaze stopped on the third.
Residue Clearing. Lower Chambers.
No embellishment. No promise of reward. Only a small stamped mark in the corner, faint enough that it could be missed if one did not know to look for it.
The same thin symbol he had seen on the supervisor's slate during the array work.
Merit.
He did not tear it down immediately.
He waited and watched others choose.
A disciple scanned the listings, frowned, and left, taking nothing. Another, older and steadier, read each posting twice, then tore down Archive Re-shelving and walked out, eyes forward. A third reached for Residue Clearing, hesitated, and withdrew his hand as if the paper were hot.
No one commented.
That silence mattered more than the tasks themselves.
"Does it bother you," Zhao Wen asked quietly, "that we don't know what any of this is worth?"
"It would bother me more," Xu Qian said, "if they told us."
Zhao Wen nodded, though uneasily.
Xu Qian stepped forward and tore down the slip for Residue Clearing, Lower Chambers.
The paper came free with a soft tearing sound that seemed louder than it should have in that corner of the hall.
They moved to the back counter where task slips were handed in. The queue was short, but it did not move quickly. A disciple at the front asked a question in a careful voice. The steward behind the desk flipped pages, wrote a line, and then said, "Next," as if the question had never been spoken.
When their turn came, Xu Qian handed over the slip in silence.
The steward took the paper, checked the seal, paused, then marked something in a ledger.
"Protective gear is issued on-site," she said, eyes on the page. "Follow the marker lines. If you leave the area before dismissal, the task is void."
"And the record?" Zhao Wen asked, unable to stop himself.
The steward lifted her eyes. "All assigned work is recorded."
"How much-" someone behind them began.
The steward closed the ledger with a soft thud. "If you have questions about value, the boards are open for reading. If you can't understand them, you're not eligible yet."
No one argued.
Before they left, Xu Qian paused near a smaller board at the far end, behind a thin rope barrier and a posted notice.
Realm One Required - Unauthorized Viewing Recorded.
The board behind it was written in finer script. Several postings were stamped with red seals. Beneath them were categories, not tasks, arranged like a menu.
Spirit Crystals - Exchange Locked.
Training Time - Eligibility Review.
Outer Equipment Issue - Flesh Tempering Minimum. (Realm One)
Medical Priority - Merit Threshold Applies.
A disciple tried to drift closer to read the finer lines. A steward's voice snapped once. "Back." A pen moved over a ledger. The disciple stepped away quickly, face pale.
Zhao Wen exhaled, tight and quiet. "They record even that."
"Especially that," Xu Qian said.
Xu Qian did not step closer. He forced himself to read only what could be read from the allowed distance.
The categories were more revealing than the tasks-not because they explained anything, but because they showed what the sect considered spendable.
A few lines lower, half-hidden by a shoulder passing in front of the rope, he caught a phrase repeated twice: Merit Threshold. Not a number. Not a promise. Just a gate.
A girl near the barrier whispered to her companion, "So merit buys pills?"
Her companion shook his head fast, eyes darting toward the stewards. "It buys permission."
They both fell silent when the pen scratched again.
They followed marker lines down and away from the outer halls, descending along a narrow stair cut directly into the rock. The light dimmed with every level. The air grew heavier, tinged with something sharp and metallic that clung to the back of the throat.
The lower chambers were nothing like the training grounds.
They were cramped and poorly lit, the walls stained dark where residue had soaked into the stone over years. Shallow channels ran along the floor, crusted with hardened material that cracked when scraped. A slow drip echoed somewhere deeper, steady enough to become irritating.
Protective gear waited on a rack near the entrance. Thick gloves. Simple masks. Aprons stiff with old wear.
A steward checked their slips, tore off a corner from each, and dropped those corners into a wooden box already half full.
"Finish the channels," he said. "Containers sealed. Marked. Return what you borrowed. Leave nothing on the floor."
"What happens if someone... doesn't?" Zhao Wen asked, voice muffled by the mask in his hand.
The steward stared at him. "Recorded."
That was all.
They worked.
Scraping residue from channels. Clearing buildup from walls. Sealing the waste into marked containers. The work was relentless rather than difficult. The smell pushed through the masks in waves. The posture twisted the back and shoulders. Dust clung to sweat until skin felt like grit.
Any lapse in grip sent the scraper skidding. Any rush left residue behind that had to be reworked. Xu Qian slowed deliberately, accepting the ache rather than risking a mistake. Fine control demanded more pauses than it should have.
Zhao Wen gagged twice, then steadied himself and continued. He did not complain. He did not ask for reassignment.
Halfway through, another pair of disciples arrived, looked once, and left.
"We'll take the reassignment," one said, trying to sound casual.
The steward did not argue. He marked a short line in his ledger as they went.
Not an erasure.
Later, a sealed container near the rack gave a faint hiss.
The sound was quiet but wrong.
The disciple holding it froze, hands clamped tight around the lid. He did not look up. He did not call for help. He simply stood there, trembling, as if the act of breathing might make the seal fail.
The lower-chamber steward crossed the room at an unhurried pace, took the container, and examined the rim with two fingers.
He did not scold. He did not comfort.
He lifted his pen.
The disciple's throat bobbed once.
After a long moment, the steward set the container down and scraped a hardened fleck from the rim. The hiss stopped. He wrote a single mark anyway, then shoved the container back into the disciple's hands.
"Carry it," he said.
The disciple carried it with both arms locked, as if it were a sentence.
By late afternoon, Xu Qian's shoulders burned. His fingers ached from holding tension instead of weight. The lag did not worsen in intensity. It worsened in persistence. The same correction required more pauses, more stillness.
When the last channel was cleared, the steward inspected their work, expression flat. He prodded several sections, then nodded once.
"Complete."
No praise followed.
At the stair, the steward tore off another thin corner from their slips and pressed a small stamp onto the remaining paper. The stamp was the same faint symbol Xu Qian had seen before.
Merit.
No number followed it. The stamp was proof of record, nothing more.
Zhao Wen stared at it as if expecting the ink to change. "That's it?"
"That's enough," Xu Qian said, and hated that he meant it.
They returned gloves and masks. The steward checked them, then made another mark in the ledger-not for cleanliness, but for return.
Back in the Task Hall, lanterns were being lit. New postings had already replaced some of the old ones. The flow had thinned, but the watching had not.
Zhao Wen finally spoke, voice hoarse. "So... we earned something."
"Yes," Xu Qian said.
"And we can't use it."
"Not yet."
Sun Liang stood near the side wall, reading a strip of paper with the focus of someone who enjoyed rules as much as he enjoyed watching others trip over them.
He glanced at Xu Qian's returned slip and raised an eyebrow. "Lower chambers," he said. "You chose badly."
Xu Qian waited.
Sun Liang smiled faintly. "That's not criticism. Most people avoid it. The smell alone keeps them away."
"Does it matter?" Xu Qian asked.
"Merit always matters," Sun Liang replied. "Timing matters more."
"When does it matter for us?"
"When you stop asking that question," Sun Liang said easily. "Realm One. That's when numbers stop being theoretical."
Zhao Wen frowned. "So until then, we collect."
"And avoid attention," Sun Liang agreed.
"Spirit Crystals," Xu Qian said. "What are they?"
Sun Liang did not answer immediately.
"They're what everything runs on. And everybody wants them," he said finally. "That's why the sect doesn't hand them out."
He shrugged. "Merit can get you a few-not enough to matter."
His eyes flicked back to the boards. "If you start relying on them now, you'll always be short later."
Xu Qian watched a steward pin a new posting on the center board, driving the nail in with a single hard motion. Around it, disciples shifted like fish around a hook.
Sun Liang's smile thinned. "People crowd the center boards because being seen choosing easy work feels like control. It isn't."
He stepped away as if the conversation had reached its useful end.
They left the Task Hall with the lantern light spreading across the stone.
The day settled into Xu Qian's bones, heavier than the array work had been-not because it hurt more, but because it clarified something he had been circling since induction.
The sect did not reward effort. It recorded usefulness.
He lay down that night knowing three things.
First: Merit existed, and it was already being counted.
Second: Not all merit was meant to be spent.
Third: The tasks nobody recommended were the ones that decided who remained available.
Tomorrow, the bell would ring again.
And when it did, Xu Qian would be ready to choose.