The fourth morning dawned exactly like the three before it. I woke up at 4:30 AM; my joints protested less than they used to. This was a slight improvement in biological performance; regular meals were starting to take effect.
I sat on the cot and scanned the dormitory. The routine was already familiar: servants rising with mechanical movements and faces marked by chronic fatigue. But something had changed. The atmosphere, once a monotonous murmur of resignation, now carried a different kind of tension.
Conversations cut off when I passed. The looks were slightly uncomfortable. I had become the broom weirdo, an anomaly in an ecosystem built on sweat and blind obedience.
"Good morning," I said while putting on my gray robe.
Silence.
Mei, sitting on her cot folding blankets, gave me a small smile. At least she was still speaking to me.
"Good morning, Kenji. Ready for another day of magic with the broom?"
"Well, it is just observation."
"Sure, sure," she laughed softly. "That is why Lao Wang looked like he had seen a ghost yesterday."
Xiong, the guy who had intimidated me on the first day, now avoided me as if I were a carrier of some disease. He was on his cot on the other side of the room, pretending to check his boots but clearly listening. For a man whose universe was governed by the simple equation that more strength equals more power, my silent competence was a heresy.
I put on my sandals and walked toward the door. Xiong's group of friends moved aside slightly. One of them, a skinny guy named Bo, looked at me sideways.
"Is it true you cleaned the Maple Courtyard in two hours?" he asked, his voice thick with skepticism.
"Less than two," I replied without stopping.
"That is... that is impossible. It takes all day."
I stopped in the doorway and turned around.
"Only if you do it ineffectively."
Bo opened his mouth but said nothing. I left before he could formulate a response.
Outside, the Silver Cloud Clan complex was waking up. Disciples in white and gray robes walked toward their training areas with that characteristic arrogance of those who have never had to wash their own clothes. The servants dispersed toward their assignments. I headed to the main service area. Lao Wang would be there, probably preparing the task list for the day and likely thinking about what to do with me.
I was not wrong.
"Analyst!"
Lao Wang called me by that nickname which had started as a mockery but was now sticking to me like a second skin. His face, usually a map of silent resignation, was twisted in a grimace of confusion.
"Good morning, Supervisor Lao."
"Morning, morning," he waved his hand impatiently. "Come. I need to talk to you."
He led me to a corner of the laundry pavilion. The place was damp, with steam rising from huge vats where other servants were already scrubbing sheets. Lao Wang rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture I recognized as a sign of extreme discomfort.
"Look, kid. Matriarch Feng is... pleased with your work."
"Pleased?"
"Yes. Apparently, the spending on brooms has dropped considerably this month." He pronounced the sentence as if he were reading a text in a foreign language. "Who the hell worries about the spending on brooms? But she does. She says you are... how did she put it? That you are hardworking."
Hardworking. Feng definitely had a mind for business.
"I am glad to meet expectations, Supervisor."
"Yes, yes. The problem is..." He stopped, looking me up and down. "The problem is that now I do not know what to do with you. You are too good for sweeping, but..." his gaze stopped at my thin arms, "you are no good for heavy labor."
"I understand the dilemma."
"The what?"
"The difficult situation."
Lao Wang sighed deeply.
"The Matriarch ordered me to assign you something productive that will not kill you. So, today, this will be your task."
He led me through hallways until we reached the main kitchen. The noise was deafening: pots clashing, cooks shouting orders, and the constant sizzle of hot oil. In a corner, there was a mountain of potatoes and turnips that looked the size of a person.
"Peel," Lao Wang ordered. "All day. Try not to cut a finger off. It would be a waste."
I looked at the mountain of vegetables, then at Lao Wang.
"What is the required quality standard?"
"What?"
"Do you have any special instructions?"
Lao Wang looked at me as if I had grown two heads.
"Just... peel them. Do not leave too much skin. Do not waste too much pulp. Is that so hard to understand?"
"I understand. I will just peel the potatoes."
"Better." Lao Wang walked away, muttering something about strange youths and loss of sanity.
I sat on a small stool next to the mountain of vegetables. They gave me a dull knife and a wooden bucket. For anyone else, this would be a punishment, a monotonous task designed to break the spirit. For me, it was an opportunity. A promotion in disguise.
Lao Wang had transferred me from the outdoor maintenance department to the supply logistics hub. Also known as the kitchen. The perfect place for the second phase of my plan: intelligence gathering.
I took the first potato and started peeling. My hands, still weak but increasingly skillful, moved with a calculated economy of motion. As I worked, my ears and eyes were tireless. The kitchen was the beating heart of the clan. All information, all gossip, and all resources passed through here. And I, the ghost in the corner, became its silent auditor.
"Hey, you! The new guy!"
I looked up. It was Head Chef Gou, a stout man who had put me to work peeling potatoes the other day. He had his hands on his hips and an expression of slight surprise.
"Yes, Chef Gou."
"You have been at it for... what? Two hours? And you have peeled more than the other rookies do in a whole day."
"I improve with practice."
Gou let out a grunt that might have been approval.
"Well, keep it up. When you are done with the potatoes, there are turnips. And then carrots."
"Understood."
As Gou walked away, one of the younger cooks, a girl named Lin, approached with a tray of chopped vegetables.
"Are you really the one who cleaned the Maple Courtyard in record time?"
"Yes."
"How did you do it?"
"I observed the wind pattern. I worked with it instead of against it."
Lin blinked several times.
"That sounds... I do not know. Complicated?"
"It is actually quite simple."
"Clearly not that simple if nobody else thought of it." She shrugged. "Well, welcome to the kitchen. It is better than being outside all day."
"Thank you."
She walked away, but during the exchange I noticed something: three disciples had just entered through the side door. All of them had blue trim on their robes. I watched them as one of them, with casual arrogance, snapped his fingers at one of the cooks.
"Tea. And make sure it is hot this time."
The cook, a middle-aged man who could probably break that disciple in two if it were not for the clan hierarchy, simply nodded.
"Yes, young master."
Interesting. In my mind, the chaos of the Silver Cloud Clan began to organize into something clearer. An organizational chart.
Level 1: Servants. That was me. The base of the pyramid. Replaceable bodies doing the work nobody else wanted to do. High turnover, low morale. Easy to manage through fear or small rewards. But even here there were subdivisions. There were permanent servants, like Lin, who had surely been here for years and knew all the secrets. And then there were the temporary ones, the desperate ones who lasted weeks before collapsing or being fired. I was technically temporary, but Matriarch Feng was watching me. That gave me some protection.
The blue-trimmed disciples sat at a small table reserved for them, completely ignoring the servants as if we were furniture.
Level 2: Disciples. This level was more complex. Visually, they were divided by the color of the trim on their robes.
Blue Trim: The most numerous. Young, full of arrogance toward inferiors and fearful submission toward superiors. Their power was inconsistent; some seemed barely stronger than a well-fed servant.
"They are cannon fodder," someone whispered beside me.
I turned. It was one of the older cooks, a gray-haired man named Uncle Wen. He was chopping onions with a speed that spoke of decades of practice.
"Excuse me?"
"The ones in blue. Cannon fodder." Wen did not look up from his cutting board. "The clan accepts them in bulk every year. Out of a hundred, maybe ten reach green."
"Green?"
"Green trim. Intermediate disciples." Wen pointed with his knife toward the window. From here, one could see one of the training courtyards. "Look."
I followed his gaze. In the courtyard, a group of disciples with green trim practiced formations. Their movements were more coordinated. One of them raised a hand and a small flame appeared in his palm.
"Those actually have talent," Wen continued. "The ones in blue fear them. The ones in green get better rations and better training yards."
"And after green?"
Wen stopped chopping. His expression became more serious.
"Silver. Senior disciples. But those... those almost never come down to this level. They walk alone. The other disciples move aside when they pass."
I made a mental note. A brutal meritocracy based on power. I liked it; at least it was a clear system.
"How many silver ones are there?" I asked.
"How would I know that? I am just an old servant in this clan. Those with a future do not usually talk to us."
Chef Gou suddenly appeared behind Wen.
"Old man! Are you gossiping instead of working?"
"Just educating the rookie, Chef."
"Educate him after the lunch service is over. Move it!"
Wen walked away, but he winked at me before leaving. He clearly enjoyed sharing information. I continued peeling while processing everything. The system was clearer now, but pieces were still missing.
Then, the atmosphere changed.
The usual bustle of the kitchen went silent. The cooks bowed their heads. The blue-trimmed disciples turned pale and quickly exited through a back door. I felt something I had not experienced before in this world. It was something simple and primitive: presence. Pure authority.
Three figures entered the kitchen. They were elders. White beards, simple robes that, paradoxically, looked more expensive than the embroidered silks of the disciples. They did not look at anyone. Their eyes were fixed on some distant point, as if the world of pots and steam were barely a nuisance in their path. The silence was absolute.
Even I, who had faced boards of directors and furious shareholders, felt a slight discomfort. These men emanated power in a way that had nothing to do with muscles or shouting.
Matriarch Feng appeared from a side hallway. Upon seeing the elders, she stopped and bowed her head in a barely visible way. It was a minimal, sober gesture; so precise and brief it was almost a masterpiece of respectful insolence. She recognized their status, but she did not submit. The elders passed without looking at Feng and disappeared down a hallway leading to the noble area of the complex.
As soon as they were gone, life returned to the kitchen.
"My God," Lin sighed beside me. "The Three Hawks."
"Who?"
"The Elders of the Council," her voice was barely a whisper. "The Grand Elder is the only one who dares to speak with the Clan Master now that he is in seclusion."
"Seclusion?"
Lin looked at me as if I had just asked what water was.
"Do you really know nothing? The Clan Master lost his wife years ago. Since then, he barely leaves his chambers. The Elders handle everything."
Level 3: The Council. The true source of political power. Matriarch Feng showed them calculated respect. They did not participate in daily operations, but their influence was the foundation of everything.
"And the Clan Master?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "Does he never come out?"
"Never. He is buried in his grief," Lin lowered her voice even more. "They say the Elders are the only ones whose advice he listens to."
Level 4: The Clan Master. A mythical figure. Immense but inactive power. Disconnected from daily management by emotional trauma.
Conclusion: a power vacuum at the top. A vacuum that was being filled by the Council and by...
A sharp scream interrupted my thoughts. It came from the training courtyard adjacent to the kitchens. I stepped toward a dirty window just in time to witness what could only be described as management by intimidation.
Zian, a young man with a sharp face and eyes like ice, had a blue disciple kneeling in front of him. The poor boy was trembling.
"Are you a disciple of the Silver Cloud or a peasant learning to grovel?" Zian's voice was like a whip. "Again! And this time show the respect your superior deserves!"
The disciple repeated the bow. Once. Twice. Three times. Zian watched him with a sadistic boredom.
"Pathetic," he muttered. "My father has filled this clan with talentless trash."
I turned toward Wen, who had returned to his station.
"Who is that?"
"Zian. The Clan Master's firstborn," Wen did not look up. "Next in line to lead the clan. Him and his brothers."
"How many brothers does he have?"
"Two more. All spoiled and arrogant sons."
Level 5: The Successors. Power based on lineage, not merit. Zian's leadership style was based on fear; tactics that generate long-term resentment.
The org chart was almost complete. From the servants to the absent Master, passing through disciples, elders, and crown princes. A brutal but understandable hierarchical system. I felt satisfied with my analysis when something caught my attention.
At the special meal preparation station, Lin was preparing a tray. It was different from the others: smaller, with fine porcelain plates instead of the hearty portions destined for Zian, and a bamboo shoot as a garnish.
"Who is that for?" I asked.
Lin looked up, surprised.
"Oh, for Lady Xiao Yue."
"Xiao Yue?"
"The Clan Master's daughter," Lin lowered her voice. "Poor girl. She always eats alone in her courtyard. Her brothers do not even visit her."
Anomaly detected. The name did not fit in my org chart. A Lady. A woman. Eats alone. Not part of the apparent family power dynamic.
"Why does she eat alone?"
Lin sighed.
"Because the Master is so focused on his male heirs that he seems to have forgotten he also has a daughter. Things were not like this when the Madam was alive."
She took the tray and disappeared down a side hallway. My curiosity was piqued. The following days, I dedicated myself to gathering more information: casual questions, eavesdropping, observing patterns.
One afternoon, while helping an old gardener transport fertilizer, I saw him stop near a secluded courtyard. He cut a perfect white camellia and, with a discreet, almost clandestine gesture, left it on a small wall.
"The young lady likes white flowers," he muttered to himself. "It is the least I can do. Nobody else seems to remember her."
Two independent mentions of the same person.
That night, while I was having dinner in the servants' dining hall, I strategically sat near two elderly maids. They were speaking in low voices; I pretended to focus on my rice.
"It is a real shame," one said. "The Master only has eyes for his sons. He barely visits his own daughter."
"And the girl has a gift," the other replied sadly. "I remember what the late Madam used to say: that Xiao Yue's spiritual roots were pure. Perhaps deeper than young Zian's."
"But nobody notices her. No elder bothers to observe her."
"She is so quiet. But do not be fooled, that girl sees everything. She has her mother's eyes... If only the Madam were still alive... Forget it, we should not speak of the past."
I stayed still. Interesting.
Xiao Yue. The leader's daughter. Ignored for being a woman in a culture obsessed with male heirs. High potential according to the maids. But completely abandoned. Alone. Probably resentful. Hungry to be seen.
A diamond in the rough that nobody was polishing. Something clicked in my mind. Zian and his brothers were untouchable; trying to influence them from my position would be absurd. But she... she was the opportunity. If she rose, I rose with her.
I left my bowl empty. My shift was over, but my real work was just beginning. She would be my bet.
Now I just had to figure out how to approach her without raising suspicion. I needed to get out of the kitchen and catch the eye of someone with real power. Matriarch Feng, perhaps.
I looked toward the corner of the kitchen tools. An inefficient system is always an opportunity. The plan began to take shape. It would not be with a broom that I made my next move.
It would be with a damn potato peeler.