The world snapped into focus, a blurred watercolor dissolving into the meticulously maintained courtyards of Azure Cloud Academy. My head throbbed—a dull ache punctuated by the insistent, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of my own heart, which, I noted with mild alarm, seemed to be beating to the tempo of a slightly off-kilter polka. I blinked, trying to clear the persistent fog clinging to my mind.
This... was not how the tutorial was supposed to go.
My first thought, predictably, was a frantic check of internal systems.
"Spiritual System Status?" I asked mentally, hoping for a reassuring green light or some other digital confirmation that I was, at least technically, still a cultivator-in-training.
Instead, a cascade of error messages flashed across my inner vision like an especially aggressive screensaver.
ERROR: QI ABSORPTION MODULE MALFUNCTION. ATTEMPTING AUTO-REPAIR… FAILED.
WARNING: SPIRITUAL CORE OVERHEATING. SYSTEM FAILURE EXPECTED IN 3… 2…
My vision blurred again, this time accompanied by a sudden and entirely involuntary fit of laughter. I wasn't sure what was funnier—the impending system failure, or the fact that the warning appeared like a dramatic countdown from a low-budget action RPG.
Then came the nosebleed.
A glorious, crimson spectacle that splattered across my once-immaculate white robes, adding a splash of vibrant (if slightly alarming) color to what might otherwise have been a normal awakening.
Apparently, the "auto-repair" function involves a sudden and violent spike in nasal pressure. Who knew? The cultivator manual didn't exactly mention that side effect.
This was not how I pictured my grand entrance into the world of spiritual cultivation.
I had imagined soaring through the skies, wielding elemental magic with effortless grace and, perhaps—just maybe—earning a few admiring glances from a group of beautiful disciples.
Instead, I was a sniffling, giggling, blood-streaked testimony to the unpredictable nature of faulty software—or, in this case, faulty spiritual systems.
The academy's courtyards bustled with activity. Students in colorful robes practiced their martial techniques in synchronized formations. Some wielded gleaming swords with fluid precision. Others unleashed palm strikes crackling with energy, the air around their fists buzzing like static electricity.
I, on the other hand, was struggling to stay upright, vision still fuzzy, and laughter threatening to erupt all over again at any moment.
It felt like I'd spent the last eight hours playing a particularly buggy MMORPG—only this time, the consequences of my bad decisions were far more… visceral.
Suddenly, a booming voice cut through the air, "Jian! You're late!" My vision cleared enough to identify the source: a tall, gaunt figure with a perpetually surprised expression and a robe that looked like it had been assembled from mismatched scraps of fabric. This, I realized with a sinking feeling, must be Master Lao, my assigned mentor. He resembled nothing so much as a particularly scraggly scarecrow that had accidentally wandered onto a cultivator's academy. Great. Just great.
"Sorry, Master Lao," I stammered, attempting to wipe the blood from my nose with a sleeve that was already stained with more than its fair share of crimson. "I… I experienced a minor… system hiccup."
Master Lao raised a skeptical eyebrow. "A system hiccup? Is that what you call a nosebleed that could fill a small pond, boy?" He gestured with a hand that seemed disproportionately large for his body, causing a nearby student to stumble and nearly fall flat on his face while attempting a flying kick.
"It was… unexpected," I mumbled, suddenly aware that my giggling fit was threatening to return.
"Unexpected?" Master Lao chuckled, a dry, crackling sound. "My dear Jian, in the world of cultivation, the only thing truly expected is the unexpected. Consider this your initiation into the unpredictable nature of spiritual energy – and perhaps a good lesson in stain removal. Now, come along. We've got a mountain of rules and regulations to wade through. And trust me, the academy's rules are more convoluted than a level 99 boss's attack patterns."
We spent the next hour navigating a labyrinthine path through the academy's incredibly detailed rulebook, a tome so thick it could have doubled as a blunt weapon. Master Lao read aloud, his voice a monotonous drone that threatened to lull me into a coma. The rules covered everything from proper robe-folding techniques (apparently a critical component of achieving enlightenment) to the precise etiquette of bowing to senior cultivators (a process that involved a complex series of hand gestures and carefully controlled facial expressions).
"Rule 37, subsection B, paragraph 4," Master Lao droned, "No unauthorized use of explosive alchemy in the student dormitories. Penalty: immediate expulsion and a mandatory three-month course in 'Responsible Alchemy Practices'."
I couldn't help but wonder if the 'Responsible Alchemy Practices' course also covered the finer points of preventing sentient slime mold from developing an unhealthy obsession with undergarments.
As Master Lao went on explaining that the penalty for tripping over a senior cultivator was a week of meditation in a room filled with eternally buzzing mosquitos, I couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, my glitching spiritual system was a blessing in disguise. At least it provided a constant stream of entertainment, even if that entertainment involved nosebleeds, giggling fits, and a very real possibility of early expulsion from the academy. This cultivation journey was going to be… interesting. To put it mildly. The phrase "baptism by fire" suddenly felt a little underwhelming in comparison to the chaotic mess I was currently experiencing. This was more like a "baptism by exploding cauldrons and rogue garden gnomes." And I hadn't even started my cultivation training yet. Oh boy.