The Contribution Hall of the Verdant Peak was a long, low building attached to the main administrative complex, its wooden walls weathered and gray, its roof sagging slightly in the middle. It was not an impressive structure. It was not meant to be. It was a place of business, a place of labor, a place where the desperate and the poor came to sell their time and sweat for scraps. The entrance was a wide, open doorway flanked by two stone pillars carved with the crescent moon emblem of the sect, the silver paint faded and chipped, the stone itself worn smooth by decades of hands brushing against it as disciples filed in and out. The wooden doors had been propped open with heavy stones, and the hinges creaked softly in the morning breeze, a sound that had become as familiar as breathing to generations of outer disciples. Inside, the hall was divided into two sections. On the left, a long wooden counter stretched across the room, behind which a handful of sect stewards sat on stools, their expressions bored, their movements slow and deliberate, as if the very act of existing was a burden they had long since grown tired of bearing. They were the ones who processed job assignments, collected fees, and handed out contribution points. Their robes were the same gray as everyone else's, but there was a subtle difference in the cut, the stitching, the way they carried themselves. They were not outer disciples. They were sect employees, administrators, bureaucrats. They had escaped the grind, and they never let anyone forget it. On the right, a massive wooden notice board dominated the entire wall, covered in layers of paper, each one a job posting. The board was a chaotic mess of overlapping notices, some fresh and crisp, others yellowed and curling at the edges, some torn, some marked with red ink indicating urgency. Disciples crowded around the board, their eyes scanning the postings, their hands reaching out to snatch the best ones before anyone else could. It was a feeding frenzy, a daily ritual of desperation and competition. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and old paper and the faint, acrid scent of hope slowly dying.
I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the jostling and the muttered curses. The bodies pressed in around me, elbows and shoulders and the occasional sharp shove, but I was used to it. Xu Qinghe's memories were full of this place, full of the daily scramble for work, full of the quiet humiliations that came with being at the bottom of the ladder. I began sorting through those memories, searching for knowledge about how this place worked, how the system operated, how to navigate the complex web of favors and bribes and unspoken rules that governed the lives of the outer disciples. The Verdant Peak was the lowest-ranked peak in the Azure Moon Sect, which meant its outer disciples received the least prestigious, least dangerous, and lowest-paying jobs in the entire sect. All official work was posted on this board, with tasks listed by requirements, duration, and contribution point rewards. Contribution points were the sect's internal currency. They could be exchanged for pills, elixirs, cultivation manuals, weapons, robes, spirit stones, and access to restricted training areas. Outer disciples were expected to complete jobs to earn these points. There was no free stipend beyond basic food and dormitory access. The pay for most jobs was deliberately low because the sect knew outer disciples had no leverage. The Verdant Peak had too many workers and too few valuable tasks. It was a buyer's market, and we were the product.
The jobs were divided into categories, each one more depressing than the last. Menial labor. Agricultural work. Crafting. Support. Beast handling. Patrol and defense. Gathering and hunting. Specialized high-risk tasks. And personal errands for inner disciples. Pay was usually measured in contribution points per shift, per day, per item, or per completed task. Competition for good jobs was fierce. The best-paying jobs were often taken within minutes of being posted. Bribes, favors, and connections with inner disciples could influence who got assigned to the more desirable tasks. Dangerous jobs paid more, but they also carried a real risk of injury, crippling, or death. Many outer disciples died trying to earn enough points to advance. I scanned the board, my eyes moving quickly over the postings. Menial labor. Cleaning the spiritual herb gardens. Ten contribution points per day. Hauling water from the river to the kitchens. Eight points per day. Scrubbing the floors of the administrative buildings. Five points per day. Agricultural work. Planting spirit rice. Twelve points per day. Harvesting moonpetal flowers. Fifteen points per day. Crafting. Weaving simple talismans. Twenty points per hundred. Polishing spirit stones. Eighteen points per hundred. Support. Assisting the kitchen staff. Ten points per shift. Running messages between peaks. Twelve points per shift. Beast handling. Feeding the spirit beasts in the menagerie. Twenty points per day. Cleaning their pens. Fifteen points per day. Patrol and defense. Guarding the outer perimeter of the Verdant Peak. Twenty-five points per night. Accompanying a steward on a routine inspection. Thirty points per trip. Gathering and hunting. Collecting spirit herbs in the forest. Thirty points per bundle. Hunting low-tier spirit beasts. Fifty points per carcass. Specialized high-risk tasks. Exploring the deeper caves beneath the peak. One hundred points per trip. Retrieving a lost artifact from a dangerous ruin. Two hundred points per successful recovery. Personal errands for inner disciples. Delivering a package to the inner sect. Fifty points per delivery. Standing in line for someone at the pill hall. Twenty points per hour.
I wasn't stupid. Even with Xu Qinghe's memories and experience, I wasn't planning on taking the too dangerous ones. At least not yet. Li Wei had said something about monster hunting as a group. I would schedule that a few days from now, when I had mastered the two techniques I currently possessed. For now, I needed something safe. Something simple. Something that would earn me points without risking my life. I reached for a posting for spirit herb gathering, a job that involved walking through the forest and picking flowers. It was boring, but it was safe. The pay was decent. Thirty points per bundle. I could do that. I could do that all day. The posting was on the edge of the board, slightly crumpled, the ink a little faded, but it was legible. I reached for it, my fingers brushing against the nail, ready to pull it free.
Then I heard the shout.
???: Bastard!
I turned, my hand still on the posting, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. A young man, thin and wiry with a face twisted in anger, was glaring at a taller, meaner-looking disciple who stood a few feet away, flanked by two other disciples who looked like they would rather be anywhere else. The angry one was Lu Cheng. I didn't know him, I only knew his same seeing the initial manually knotted onto his uniform. .but I recognized the type. A commoner. Low-tier Qi Awakening. Desperate. His robes were patched and faded, his boots were worn through at the soles, and his hands were calloused from years of manual labor. He was the kind of person this sect was built on, the kind of person who did the work no one else wanted, the kind of person who was expected to be grateful for the privilege of being exploited. The tall one was He Ping. I recognized him from Xu Qinghe's memories. Mid-tier Qi Awakening. Arrogant. Cruel. The kind of person who had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a boot on his neck for everyone else. His robes were finer than anyone else's in the hall, the fabric softer, the stitching more intricate, the crescent moon emblem on his chest stitched with silver thread that glinted in the dim light. His boots were polished leather, his hair was neatly combed, and his face wore an expression of casual contempt that suggested he had never been told no in his entire life.
He Ping: Lu Cheng. Didn't I tell you the high-paying ones are already reserved? Should I beat it into you, you low-tier trash?
Lu Cheng: You're crossing the line, He Ping! This is the third time this week! You dare hoard the high-paying ones? Who the hell do you think you are?
He Ping's lackeys laughed. One of them, a stocky boy with a pockmarked face, sneered. He was Mid-tier as well, or close to it, his qi signature stronger than the average outer disciple. The other, a tall, skinny boy with a weaselly face, was Low-tier, but he had the desperate eagerness of someone who had attached himself to a rising star and was determined to ride the coattails as far as they would take him.
Lackey One: Know your place, Lu Cheng. You're nothing. You're less than nothing. You're a commoner who got lucky enough to crawl into this sect. You should be grateful you're allowed to breathe the same air as us.
Lackey Two: Yeah, why don't you go back to your little farm and shovel manure? That's all you're good for.
He Ping ignored them. He just looked at Lu Cheng with a cold, dismissive expression, his eyes half-lidded, his lips curled in a faint smirk. He didn't see Lu Cheng as a threat. He didn't see him as a person. He saw him as an inconvenience, a piece of trash that had somehow found its way into his presence and needed to be swept aside.
He Ping: Let's go, guys.
He turned to leave, and something in Lu Cheng snapped. Maybe it was the humiliation. Maybe it was the desperation. Maybe it was the fact that he had been pushed too far, too many times, and this was the final straw. He launched himself at He Ping, a wild, desperate lunge, his fists swinging, his face contorted with rage and fear and the desperate, burning need to prove that he was not nothing. He Ping didn't even flinch. He side-stepped casually, a bored expression on his face, and retaliated with a strike of his own. His fist connected with Lu Cheng's chest, a solid, meaty thud that echoed through the hall like a drumbeat. The impact was devastating. I could see the qi flare around He Ping's knuckles, a faint blue glow that amplified the force of the blow. Lu Cheng was sent flying. He crashed into the wooden counter, his body crumpling against the edge, a pained groan escaping his lips as the air was driven from his lungs. He slid to the floor, gasping for breath, his face pale with shock and pain, blood trickling from a cut on his lip where he had bitten it during the impact.
But he refused to quit. He pushed himself up, his arms trembling, his legs shaking. He got back on his feet, his eyes blazing with defiance. He Ping's face twisted into a look of pure disgust. It was a look that said, how dare this mongrel get back up? How dare this commoner defy me?
He Ping: You actually withstood my strike? I was holding back, after all.
He rushed at Lu Cheng, his movements faster, more precise. He was a Mid-tier Qi Awakening cultivator. Lu Cheng was only Low-tier. The gap was insurmountable. He Ping's fist slammed into Lu Cheng's stomach, a devastating blow that lifted the smaller boy off his feet. Lu Cheng doubled over, vomited bile, and collapsed to his knees. He Ping didn't stop. He kicked Lu Cheng in the ribs, once, twice, three times. The sound of bones cracking filled the hall. I could hear it, a sharp, sickening snap that made my stomach churn. Lu Cheng screamed, a raw, animal sound of pure agony, and curled into a ball on the floor, his arms wrapped around his torso, his body shaking with sobs.
He Ping: You dare fight back, you commoner bastard? You should be ready to die for thinking you can talk back at me!
He raised his hand, his fingers curling into a fist. Qi gathered around his knuckles, a faint, blue glow that shimmered in the dim light of the hall. The glow intensified, brightening, condensing, forming a visible aura of power that crackled with barely contained energy. He was about to use a martial technique. A real technique. One that would kill Lu Cheng, or cripple him for life. The other disciples in the hall watched in horror. Some of them shouted.
Stop! He's going to kill him!
Someone get a steward!
But no one moved. No one dared. He Ping was a noble. He Ping was Mid-tier. He Ping had connections. To intervene was to invite his wrath. To intervene was to become the next Lu Cheng.
I was about to step in. My body moved before my mind could catch up. My fist clenched. My qi surged. This was too much. This was wrong. I didn't know Lu Cheng. I didn't owe him anything. But I knew what it was like to be helpless. I knew what it was like to be at the mercy of someone stronger. I knew what it was like to have no one step in. I couldn't just watch. I couldn't just stand there. But before I could take a single step, a steward appeared. He moved faster than I could track, a blur of gray robes and cold authority, and his hand shot out, grabbing He Ping's wrist, stopping the technique before it could land.
Steward long : That's enough.
The steward said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of steel. He Ping froze. His eyes widened, then narrowed. He looked at the steward, at the old man's weathered face, at the deep lines around his eyes, at the gray in his hair. He Ping bowed, deeply, his arrogance evaporating in an instant.
He Ping: Steward long. I apologize. We were simply sparring, and it got out of hand.
The steward was old. That was the first thing I noticed about him. He was not ancient, not decrepit, but he was old enough that his hair was more gray than black, and his face was a map of wrinkles and scars. He was tall, still straight-backed despite his years, and his eyes were sharp, dark, and utterly devoid of warmth. He was dressed in the simple gray robes of a sect steward, but there was a weight to him, a presence, that suggested he was not someone to be trifled with. Advanced Qi Awakening, maybe. Or higher. Xu Qinghe's memories didn't have any information on him, but I could feel the qi radiating from him, a cold, controlled pressure that made the air around him feel heavy.
Steward long: Sparring? In the Contribution Hall? In front of the job board? With a Low-tier disciple who is clearly outmatched?
He looked at Lu Cheng, who was still on the ground, clutching his ribs, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Then he looked back at He Ping.
Steward long: Do you take me for a fool, boy?
He Ping bowed deeper.
He Ping: No, Steward. I would never. I was merely teaching him a lesson about respect. He attacked me first. I was defending myself.
Steward lony snorted.
Steward long: Hmph. You two dare cause trouble in the hall? Do you wish to be sent to the enforcement hall?
He Ping paled. The enforcement hall was the sect's disciplinary arm. They didn't mess around. They didn't care about your family name or your connections. They cared about order. They cared about obedience. And they punished disobedience with brutal efficiency.
He Ping: No, Steward. Please. It was a mistake. It won't happen again.
Steward long released He Ping's wrist. He looked at the crowd, his eyes sweeping over the assembled disciples.
Steward long: You lot. Scram. The show is over.
The disciples scattered, some running, some walking quickly, all of them eager to be away from the steward's cold gaze. I stayed where I was, my hand still on the posting, my heart still pounding. I watched as Steward Chen turned to He Ping.
Steward long: You. And you.
He pointed at Lu Cheng.
Steward long: Both of you are being punished. Lu Cheng, for starting a fight in the hall, you will forfeit fifty contribution points and spend three days cleaning the beast pens. He Ping, for excessive force and disturbing the peace, you will forfeit twenty contribution points and spend one day in meditation.
Lu Cheng's face fell. Fifty points. That was a fortune. That was weeks of work. And three days in the beast pens, shoveling dung and hauling feed, was a punishment that would leave him exhausted and humiliated. He Ping, on the other hand, barely reacted. Twenty points was nothing to him. One day of meditation was a vacation. The punishment was a joke. A slap on the wrist. I saw one of He Ping's lackeys, the stocky one, slip something into Steward Chen's hand. A small pouch. It clinked. Spirit stones. The steward's expression didn't change, but his hand closed around the pouch, and he nodded, almost imperceptibly. Of course, I thought. That's how he's been able to hoard those missions. He's paying the steward to cover for him. The corruption was so blatant, so casual, that it almost didn't register. It was just how things worked. It was the way of the world.
He Ping is most likely a noble. Or at least related to someone important. Seeing that he's in a peak like this, a dumping ground for the unwanted, and needing to bribe means his standing in his family is either low, or he's from a branch family, or he's an illegitimate child. He was a big fish in a small pond, throwing his weight around because he couldn't do it anywhere else. And the steward, whether out of greed or pragmatism, was enabling him. This was the cruel reality of the Verdant Peak. There were two factions here. The commoner faction and the noble faction. The commoners were the ones who had clawed their way in from nothing, the farmers' daughters and merchants' sons, the ones with Mortal-Tier Spirit Roots and low aptitudes. They worked the menial jobs, the dangerous jobs, the jobs that no one else wanted. They banded together for survival, sharing resources, sharing information, watching each other's backs. The nobles were the ones who had been sent here as a punishment or a test, the disgraced sons and daughters of powerful families, the ones who had talent but not enough to earn a place on a higher peak. They had money. They had connections. They had a sense of entitlement that bordered on delusion. They looked down on the commoners, treated them like servants, like animals, like tools to be used and discarded. And they used their wealth and their influence to game the system, to take the best jobs, to avoid the worst punishments, to make life as comfortable as possible for themselves.
I was a ghost. A stranger in a stolen body. I had no faction. I had no allies, except maybe Li Wei, Chen Yuxi, and Zhao Rui. I had no money. I had no connections. I had a system and a plan and a desperate, burning will to survive. I looked at Lu Cheng, still on the ground, his face a mask of pain and humiliation. I looked at He Ping, walking away with his lackeys, his head held high, his arrogance intact. I looked at Steward Chen, pocketing his bribe, his expression bored, his conscience apparently untroubled. And I made a decision. I would not be like them. I would not be a bully. I would not be a victim. I would be something else. Something in between. Something that survived.
I turned back to the board and pulled the posting for spirit herb gathering off the nail. Thirty points per bundle. It was a start. I walked to the counter, past Lu Cheng, who was slowly, painfully, getting to his feet. I didn't look at him. I didn't say anything. I just placed the posting on the counter and waited for the steward to process it. The steward, a middle-aged woman with a tired face and ink-stained fingers, glanced at the posting, then at me.
Steward: Name?
Ethan: Xu Qinghe.
She wrote it down.
Steward: You'll be assigned to the eastern forest. Report to the supply shed at dawn tomorrow. You'll be given a basket and a map. Bring back at least ten bundles of moonpetal flowers. You'll be paid on delivery.
Ethan: Understood.
She stamped the posting and handed me a small wooden token with a number carved into it.
Steward: This is your job token. Don't lose it. You'll need it to collect your points.
I took the token and slipped it into my robe.