The huts were not homes. They were containers built to hold bodies until the sect decided whether those bodies were worth keeping. Wood creaked under weight that had never been measured for comfort. Stone pressed upward through floors that had never been leveled for rest. Smoke seeped through cracks without apology. The outer sect did not build for disciples. It built for labor.
Kael sat cross‑legged on the floor, his axe leaning against the wall. His breath slowed, his weight settled. Outside, voices rose—complaints, boasts, arguments. Inside, silence pressed closer. The medallion in his hand was cold. It did not glow. It did not promise. It assigned. His category was labor. His burden was survival. He placed the medallion beside the axe. The axe did not move. The axe did not glow. The axe did not promise. But it remained.
"You saw them," he murmured to the axe. "All of them waiting for caves. Waiting for points. Waiting for recognition." The axe did not answer. He continued anyway. "They think caves are homes. They think points are paths. They think recognition is survival." His voice was steady. His breath was measured. His words were not for others. They were for himself.
Cold survivor: This is burden. This is cruelty. This is classification. Shameless otaku: This is the sect arc. This is the trope. This is the climb.
Tasks arrived with dawn. Sweeping halls. Tidying courtyards. Carrying water. Guarding gates. Kael's assignment: herb gardens. Soil was heavy. Water was scarce. Roots resisted. He bent his body to the task. His breath slowed. His stance aligned. His axe remained at his side, unused, but present. He carried buckets until his shoulder burned. He bent until his spine ached. He lifted until his breath collapsed.
Noise before silence. Silence before endurance. Endurance before survival.
Others complained. Others faltered. Others cursed. Kael remained silent. His breath was steady. His stance was aligned. His body endured.
A girl collapsed nearby. Her bucket spilled, water soaking soil that did not care. Her breath hitched, her body trembled. She fell to her knees, hands pressed into dirt that refused to soften. Others laughed. Others dismissed. Others walked past. Kael moved. Not quickly. Not dramatically. Carefully. He lifted the bucket. He steadied her shoulder. He did not speak. She looked up, eyes wide, breath uneven. Gratitude flickered, faint but real. He placed the bucket beside her. He stepped back. He resumed his task.
The medallion sorting system was flawed. Buckets were assigned unevenly. Tasks were distributed without balance. Stronger disciples received lighter burdens. Weaker ones received heavier loads. Kael adjusted silently. He carried more than assigned. He worked longer than required. He bent his body to tasks others avoided. Not from righteousness. From calculation. By appearing compliant, he avoided attention. By enduring silently, he avoided punishment. By carrying more, he avoided suspicion.
Inside, the split sharpened. Cold survivor: This is cruelty. This is burden. This is classification. Shameless otaku: This is the sect arc. This is the trope. This is the climb.
He spoke to the axe again. "We know better. We know survival is silence. We know burden is classification. We know cruelty is the system." His breath slowed. His stance aligned. His body endured.
Noise before silence. Silence before endurance. Endurance before survival.
Strength was demanded. Beauty was burdened. Wisdom was survival. The sect did not care which he chose. It cared only who remained. Half of them would vanish before the year ended. Kael did not smile. But he did not bend.