The Resource Allocation Courtyard bustled with noise.
Wooden stalls stood in neat rows, manned by elders and stewards offering faded manuals, chipped weapons, and bundles of dried herbs. For the wide-eyed children lining up, this was the beginning of their cultivation journey.
"That blade was forged with fire-copper!"
"This scroll says it strengthens the lungs and heart!"
"Only one bundle left with tiger-marked root—grab it!"
To Jin Wu-ren, it was nothing more than a garden of pebbles.
He walked through the lines slowly, eyes drifting over items as though observing insects in jars.
And yet… he understood.
Once, in the forgotten gutters of a shattered realm, he too had started with nothing.
A boy with no parents, no legacy, no bloodline to lean on.
He had starved. Fought. Bled.
Every scrap of cultivation, he had earned with torn fingernails and cracked bones.
He did not remember it fondly.
But neither did he forget it.
And so, as he watched the children around him light up over worthless trinkets, a ghost of understanding flickered in his chest.
He had risen far past the struggle. He had ruled gods. Crushed heavens beneath his heel.
Now, reborn, he walked among mortals and today, he chose to participate in their little ritual.
At the first stall, he selected a manual titled:
"Ironroot Breathing Technique – Mid-Yellow Rank."
It was designed for slow-growing roots and shallow meridians. A method built for mediocrity.
He accepted it without complaint. The steward beamed at him.
Then he moved to the weapon stand and chose a rusting blade, long forgotten at the bottom of the rack. Its edge was dulled, its spirit qi long dissipated.
To him, it might as well have been a farming tool. But he turned it in his hand with a nod, as though deeply contemplating its worth.
At the herb table, he paused just long enough to examine a bundle of sun-dried roots and qi ash. Enough to make a mortal sweat and tremble.
He selected it with the same solemnity.
Around him, the new initiates whispered.
"He took all the trash."
"That orphan's probably got cracked roots."
"Definitely won't last the year."
Let them speak.
Insects buzzed. He did not swat them unless they bit.
Up on a high pavilion, stewards discussed the newcomers.
"Any talents this season?"
"One with yellow roots. Two low-golds."
"What of the others?"
"Mostly gray root."
"Ah. Nothing, then."
That night, Wu-ren lay cross-legged in the stone-floored dormitory, surrounded by snoring boys and the faint sound of rustling paper. Manuals were being read by candlelight. Some chanted breathing techniques aloud. Others already began guided meditation.
Wu-ren unrolled the Ironroot manual and glanced at its contents once.
He did not need it. He would never use it.
But he mimicked the others, inhaling in slow rhythm, posture straight, aura tight and concealed.
Within him, his Nascent Soul stirred, vast and eternal. Unfathomable to anyone here.
He let a thread of ancient qi ripple through his body. Not to advance — but to stretch. To keep his fire warm.
A rat crept near his mat. He pinched a flake of the dried herb and flicked it toward the creature. It nibbled, then twitched, then burst in a puff of red mist.
Wu-ren raised an eyebrow.
"Toxic. More than expected. Slightly interesting."
Above, the moon drifted through broken clouds.
He stared at it for a moment, remembering other skies. Skies torn in half by his hands. Suns snuffed out with curses.
And yet here he was. Sleeping in a shared dorm with brats.
"Let them have their joys. Let them marvel over ashes and weeds. I once did the same."
---
The outer sect was quiet in the dead of night.
The lesser disciples had all retired to their quarters after the first day's rituals. Lamps flickered low along the winding paths, casting long shadows between the dorms and courtyards.
Jin Wu-ren walked alone, hands clasped behind his back.
He had no destination in mind. Just a desire to breathe fresher air than the cramped dormitory allowed. The scent of low-grade spiritual herbs and unwashed robes had been enough to wrinkle his nose.
His steps were slow, unhurried. The sect grounds were built on an old mountain vein, but the spiritual qi here was thin, almost emaciated. The formations etched into the earth were crude copies of ancient scripts. He could see the fractures with a glance.
"No wonder this place has no true talents. It's built on rot."
He exhaled. A puff of warm mist escaped his lips.
Just as he passed a stone corridor hidden between two practice halls, his step paused.
His gaze slid toward the shadows.
There, beneath a sagging tree, the faintest flicker of qi stirred. Not from cultivation. Not from training.
From filth.
He turned silently.
Within a shaded alcove, just out of sight from any patrolling stewards, a female disciple knelt on a prayer mat. Her posture was stiff. Her shoulders trembled.
Before her stood an elder — robes loosened, expression glazed with lust. His spirit aura was sloppy, breathing ragged. He was saying something low and crude, voice heavy with the wine he had surely stolen from the inner halls.
"Good girl… serve well and I'll speak for you at the next examination…"
She flinched.
Her cultivation was weak — barely past the first stage of Body Tempering. She had no strength to resist.
Jin Wu-ren watched in silence.
His eyes did not widen in outrage. His fists did not clench. He did not rush forward like some righteous savior.
He simply looked.
With contempt.
"This… is what cultivators have become?"
"An elder of the sect, unable to master his base urges. Taking a child for pleasure in the shadows like a dog in heat."
"Disgusting."
He remembered his past life — a time when even the lowest elder of the Ten Thousand Realms carried dignity like a crown. Weak or strong, they upheld sacred discipline. There had been decadence, yes — but not this level of petty, degrading filth.
This was not evil. It was simply… pathetic.
"The worms have forgotten what the sky looks like."
He made no sound.
He did not draw attention.
He merely flicked a finger — a gesture so minute it could've been mistaken for brushing away a gnat.
A whisper of primordial qi, so thin even the stars wouldn't have felt it, snaked through the shadows and struck the elder's lower dantian.
The man shuddered.
Then paled.
"W-What…?"
He staggered back, clutching at his robes. His breathing hitched as he looked down, eyes wide with horror.
"No. No, no, not now—!"
Something inside him had frozen. His spiritual circulation had turned against him. The flow of energy from his root was jammed, twisted into stillness.
His face twisted in panic.
The girl scrambled away, tugging her robes back on, eyes wide with fear and confusion.
She did not understand what had happened. She simply ran.
The elder stood hunched for a moment longer, then hissed a curse and staggered into the darkness, his pride leaking behind him like spilled wine.
Jin Wu-ren turned and walked on.
He had not done it to rescue anyone. That girl meant nothing to him.
But a cultivator who could not master himself had no right to cultivate at all.
"Let him wonder," he thought.
"Let him beg the apothecary. Let him meditate under cold waterfalls and drink bitter roots. Nothing will rise again unless I will it."
Even the lowest god's whim could erase a man's strength with less effort than a blink.
He returned to his quarters before the moon reached its peak, lying back on the thin mat as though nothing had happened.
---
Jin Wu-ren walked near the back wall of the disciple dorms, hands behind his back, moving slowly. His steps made no sound. He wasn't walking anywhere in particular—he just wanted to see what these people were like when no one was watching.
Then he heard it.
Grunting. Laughter. Kicks hitting flesh.
He stopped and looked around the corner.
Four outer sect disciples were surrounding a boy on the ground. They were laughing, kicking him, taking turns insulting him between hits. Their voices were loud and mocking.
"Jin Yihao, right? You think you're special just because you passed the entrance trial?"
"Your mother worked in the kitchens until she dropped dead, and your father failed out like a rat."
"You should've died with them. Useless trash."
Jin Wu-ren stayed in the shadows, watching with calm eyes.
The boy on the ground—Yihao—wasn't crying or begging. He was quiet, arms covering his head. His face was bleeding, and his lip was split, but he didn't make a sound.
Wu-ren kept watching. He didn't step in. He knew this boy wasn't normal, there was some dark creature inside him. Soon Wu-ren felt something building. Like pressure shifting in the air.
Something was waking up.
Yihao's body twitched.
Then everything changed.
From under Yihao's robes, something black spilled out. At first it looked like threads, then legs. Tiny legs.
Spiders.
Dozens of them.
Then hundreds.
Then more.
They crawled out fast—too fast. Black, shiny, and silent. The ground was covered in them within seconds. The bullies froze in confusion—then panic.
"What the hell?! What are these—AAAH!"
"Get them off! They're biting me—GET THEM OFF!"
"NO! NOOOO!"
The spiders were small, but they didn't stop. They crawled up sleeves, under collars, into mouths. The boys screamed, clawing at their skin, falling over each other.
Wu-ren didn't move. He simply raised one hand and sealed the area with a thin layer of space-locking qi. Their screams stopped echoing beyond the courtyard. No one would hear. No one would come.
He didn't help.
He just wanted to watch.
The boys thrashed and screamed until their voices went hoarse. Skin peeled, blood poured out. Eyes burst. Bodies twitched, then went still.
The spiders didn't leave bones. They left nothing but blood-soaked robes and a stink of death.
When it was done, the spiders crawled back into Yihao's body like they'd never been there.
Yihao collapsed, unconscious, breathing shallowly.
Wu-ren looked at him for a few more seconds. His face didn't change, but his eyes were sharper. Cold. Focused.
"A little demonic spider." he muttered.
He turned and walked away. The seal faded. The courtyard was quiet again, as if nothing had happened.
This little scene had made his night slightly more interesting.