The mist of early morning had not yet fully dispersed over the Outer Sect region.
The dwellings of the Azure Cloud Sect's outer disciples were built into the rugged cliffs of the mountain. While the stone houses were neatly arranged, they lacked the refined elegance and jade carvings of the Inner Sect pavilions higher up. Although the Spiritual Qi here was denser than in the world outside, it was diverted by layers of ancient formations. What truly trickled down to the Outer Sect was little more than the "scraps"—residual energy left over after the higher-ranking disciples had taken their fill.
Qianye walked back from the direction of the Spirit Spring, carrying two heavy wooden buckets of water. His gait was steady, his breathing rhythmic.
This was his third day in the sect.
Life as a Labor Disciple was even more monotonous and grueling than he had anticipated. His days were a blur of drawing water, chopping wood, tending to the Spirit Fields, and running errands for the formal outer disciples. Nearly every dirty, exhausting task was dumped onto the shoulders of those deemed to have the "worst talent."
And as expected, his identity as a "Trash Spirit Root" had already spread through the sect like a wildfire. To the others, he was a curiosity at best and a punching bag at worst.
"Hey, newcomer."
A voice dripping with contempt drifted down from the path ahead.
Qianye looked up. Three outer disciples stood on the stone steps. They wore clean, well-maintained robes, and wooden disciple tokens hung from their waists—clear symbols that they were not mere laborers like him.
The leader was a young man in his early twenties. He had a slender build and cold, narrow eyes. A mocking smirk seemed permanently etched onto his lips.
"So, you're the one they call the Trash Root?"
Qianye didn't stop his pace. He gave a faint, neutral response. "That is me."
The young man let out a cold snort. As Qianye tried to walk past, the man suddenly lashed out with his foot, kicking over one of the water buckets. The clear spring water splashed across the ground, soaking the stone path and Qianye's shoes.
"A piece of trash actually dares to be this arrogant?" the man sneered. "Don't you know you're supposed to bow when you see a Senior Brother?"
The cold water seeped into Qianye's socks. He looked down at the overturned bucket, his expression unreadable. He didn't speak immediately.
"Senior Brother Zhou is talking to you!" one of the lackeys barked impatiently. "Kneel down and apologize!"
Qianye slowly raised his head. His gaze was as calm as a frozen lake. "In the sect's rulebook, I haven't seen a single line stating that a Labor Disciple must kneel to an Outer Sect Disciple."
The young man, known as Senior Brother Zhou, saw his expression darken. His eyes flashed with a dangerous light.
"You have a sharp tongue for a beggar," Zhou hissed. "It seems if I don't teach you a lesson today, you'll actually start believing you're someone of importance."
He gave a slight wave of his hand.
The two lackeys stepped forward, one from the left and one from the right. Their Qi flared—aggressive and suffocating. Both were at the Fifth Stage of Body Tempering. In the Outer Sect, such a cultivation level was considered respectable for a standard disciple.
"Don't worry," Zhou laughed coldly. "We won't kill you. We'll just make sure you understand what 'rules' are."
The wind whistled as a fist flew toward him.
The lackey on the left struck first, a straight punch aimed directly at Qianye's chest. Qianye's feet shifted a fraction of an inch. He tilted his shoulder, allowing the fist to graze past his tunic. Before the attacker could recover, Qianye's right hand clamped onto the man's wrist, using a subtle pull to guide his momentum forward.
The lackey lost his balance, stumbling into the empty air.
The second attacker grunted, launching a lightning-fast low sweep. Qianye didn't meet the attack with force. He tapped the ground with his toes and retreated half a step. The wind of the kick brushed against his trousers, carrying a sharp chill. Throughout the movement, his breathing remained perfectly level, his eyes locked onto the shifting center of gravity of his opponents.
This was a primal instinct, polished in the blood and dirt of the wilderness. He used no flashy techniques—only the minimum effort required to survive.
"Seeking death!"
Seeing that his two followers had failed to land a single hit, Senior Brother Zhou's face twisted in fury. He decided to intervene personally.
His Qi surged, more refined and powerful than the others. He lunged forward with a palm strike. The air groaned under the weight of the blow; it was a formal martial technique, heavy and oppressive.
Qianye's heart tightened.
This man was different. His cultivation was solid, and his technique carried the weight of a true sect inheritance. Qianye didn't draw his blade. In a sect, drawing a weapon against a senior brother was an escalation that would lead to immediate expulsion—or worse.
Qianye crossed his arms in front of his chest, bracing himself to take the strike head-on.
BOOM!
A dull, heavy thud echoed through the stone alley.
The stone slab beneath Qianye's feet cracked. He was forced back three steps, his heels digging into the dirt. A surge of chaotic Qi thrashed through his chest, and a metallic, sweet taste of blood rose in his throat. He swallowed it down, refusing to show weakness.
A look of genuine surprise flickered in Senior Brother Zhou's eyes.
"You're still standing?"
He scoffed, though his eyes were wary. "A Trash Root with skin as thick as a bull's, I see."
Just as he was about to strike again, a cold, detached voice rang out from the top of the steps.
"Enough."
The group froze. A grey-robed Deacon had appeared out of the mist, his icy gaze sweeping over the scene. "Private brawling within the sect... who gave you the authority?"
Senior Brother Zhou's face paled instantly. He quickly cupped his fists in a respectful bow. "Deacon, this laborer didn't know the rules, we were simply—"
"I didn't ask for your excuses," the Deacon interrupted. He turned his gaze toward Qianye, lingering for a moment on the boy's steady stance. His voice remained indifferent. "Are you alright?"
Qianye bowed. "I am unharmed."
The Deacon nodded, then looked back at Zhou and his lackeys. "Three days of cultivation resources will be deducted from each of you. If this happens again, you will be expelled from the Outer Sect."
Zhou's face turned ashen with resentment, but he didn't dare argue. He bowed his head and muttered his compliance.
As the crowd dispersed, Zhou turned back for a fleeting second. He cast a venomous look at Qianye, his eyes filled with a promise of future pain.
"Count yourself lucky today, trash."
The stone steps returned to their usual silence.
Qianye bent down and picked up the fallen bucket. He walked back to the spring, refilled it, and continued his journey toward the Spirit Fields. His back was straight, his footsteps unhurried.
He understood the reality of his situation perfectly.
Today was only the beginning. In the Outer Sect, the weak possessed no dignity. A "Trash Root" was a natural target for those who needed to feel superior.
But what they didn't understand was this:
He had never relied on his Spirit Root to survive.
That night, inside his stone shack, Qianye sat in silent meditation. The residual energy from Zhou's palm strike was slowly being dissolved by his own circulating Qi. He opened his eyes, their depths reflecting the darkness of the room.
"To endure is not to retreat," he whispered to the silence.
"It is to prepare for the long journey ahead."
His rusted Tang blade lay beside him, mottled and ancient, yet it seemed to breathe in the moonlight. The bullying of the Outer Sect would eventually become his stepping stone.
One day, he would make everyone who looked down on a "Trash Root" understand one thing:
The most terrifying person is not the one born with talent.
It is the one who has been pushed to the edge of the world, and yet, refuses to die.