While he was still on the floor, the pigs stared at him. Judgingly. Quinn stood ankle-deep in muck, clutching his single wooden clog like it might magically turn into a sword. His robes if you could call burlap with holes "robes" clung to him like disappointment. A bell rang somewhere up the hill. Loud and ugly.’. Like a dinner gong being murdered. [System Alert: Mandatory Servant Assembly in 10 seconds. Warning: Late arrival will result in 50 whip lashes, public shaming, and a loss of 30 SP.] “Oh, come on!” Quinn bolted, slipping through the mud like a baby deer on ice. He lost the clog within two steps. He arrived just in time to wedge himself into the back of a sweaty, terrified crowd of other servant disciples, most looking just as miserable. All wore the same potato-sack uniform. The training square was completely packed. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood at the front of the square. His robe was black, his expression sharp, and his whip longer than Quinn was tall.

Quinn woke up to the delightful sensation of every joint in his body staging a revolt. His neck cracked when he turned it. His spine creaked when he sat up. His legs threatened to unionize. He was a walking advertisement for Why Not To Get Hit By Life Repeatedly. [Ding! You have awakened. SP bonus for persistent discomfort: +7] He blinked, groaned, then faceplanted back into the straw mattress. “System,” he mumbled, voice muffled by hay. “Please let that all have been a dream.” [Negative. However, the dream you did have is eligible for a flashback.] And oh, it was a gem. In the dream, he stood shirtless on a stage made of noodles while thousands of spirit boars in tuxedos hurled tofu at his head, chanting, “Sing, fungus, sing!” Just before a giant sandal descended from the heavens to slap him into the dirt. [SP Gained: +15 – Residual trauma (dream-based)] Quinn sat up, hugging his knees. “I’m losing my mind.” [Correction: You are gaining madness-based resilience. Si

[Presence vanished.] [Threat level undetermined. Proceed with extreme caution.] Quinn let out a breath that sounded more like a whimper. “What… in all the seven stinking heavens was that?” [Unknown. But you’re being watched.] He staggered backward out of the ruins, heart still racing fast. The pocket of his robe pulsed faintly and the rotten spirit root was practically vibrating. “I should hurry up,” he muttered. [You think?] By the time he reached the outer disciple quarters, Quinn was dripping sweat and had earned +4 Stamina Points for "running like a rat." He slammed his door shut, barricading it with the broken chair leg he usually used to hang his clothes. Quinn sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled out the root. [Item Identified: Rotten Spirit Root – Degraded.] [Grade: Sub-tier. Condition: Putrid.] [Effect: Temporary spike in qi absorption. Possible side-effects include nausea, mutation, and an increased desire to scream internally.] [Risk of Death: 13%.

The next morning, the entire outer sect buzzed with tension. Bamboo leaves fluttered underfoot as disciples whispered and sprinted between courtyards. Quinn barely stepped outside his dorm before catching wind of it. “The trial’s been moved forward,” a girl muttered as she raced past him. “Grand Elder’s orders, something about an inner sect disciple getting involved in something…” Quinn tightened his belt. “That’s… ominous.” He made his way to the outer sect square, where a red banner now flapped high above the main platform. “ANNOUNCEMENT: OUTER SECT QUALIFICATION TRIAL — TODAY.” A crowd of over a hundred disciples had gathered. Most looked nervous, some thrilled. A few had bloodlust in their eyes. A stern elder with a goatee stood at the edge of the platform, arms behind his back. “Three rounds,” he barked. “Sparring, spirit-control, and endurance. The top twelvr will receive access to the Inner Gate and become an inner disciple.” That sent a ripple through the crowd.

He snorted and moved on, slipping through mossy pathways and ignoring the ache building in his calves. His senses sharpened with each step, his spiritual threads tuned tighter thanks to last night’s cultivation. About an hour later, he stumbled upon a clearing. At its center sat a pond, glassy and still. Floating in the center was a glowing blue orb, Spirit Core, unmistakably real. A thin, near-invisible web of qi surrounded the pond. Traps layered over traps, most meant to slow or snare. But one would kill outright. Quinn dropped to his knees and studied the formation. The pattern reminded him of something from one of his system-granted books, Wind-Thread Entanglement, usually found in beast lairs. He could bypass it. “Okay,” he whispered, rolling his shoulders and focusing. “No pressure. [High risk. High reward. Proceed like you have brain cells.] He laughed under his breath and stepped forward, his foot landing just an inch off-center. The trap flared but he shif