In which Li Ming realizes naps can be contagious.
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The sun rose over the valley — golden light, peaceful air, birds singing in harmony.
And absolutely everyone was still asleep.
Li Ming stood in the middle of the sect courtyard, looking around at hundreds of disciples lying on mats, rocks, and flower beds — all snoring with blissful spiritual resonance.
Even the chicken from yesterday had joined them, head tucked under its wing, feathers glowing faintly.
Bai Guo perched on Li Ming's shoulder, munching on spirit fruit. "This is beautiful. Look at them — cultivating horizontally."
Li Ming muttered, "They're cultivating brain damage."
"No, no," Bai Guo said with mock wisdom, "they've achieved inner peace by rejecting effort. It's poetic. Lazy, but poetic."
Li Ming pinched the bridge of his nose. "I created a sect that worships a chicken, and now another one that sleeps professionally. What next, the Dao of Procrastination?"
