A week had passed since Lin Feng began working under the Liang Family. Each day blurred into the next: sweeping dusty halls, hauling sacks of rice, scrubbing storerooms until his arms trembled. He bowed to seniors, flattered supervisors, and endured insults without complaint. Every extra chore dumped on him, he accepted. He knew if he lost this job, he would lose his only lifeline.
The Liang Family compound was strict. Overseers barked orders, apprentices strutted with pride, and menial workers like Lin Feng were treated as disposable. He kept his head low, his words polite, his tone deferential. Even when mocked, he smiled faintly and carried on. Survival demanded it.
At night, he sat cross‑legged in his small rented house, his body aching from labor. He guided his qi slowly, forcing it through his meridians. Progress was faint, but he refused to stop. The Chaos Shop flickered faintly in his mind, reminding him it remained locked. He needed resources to activate it, but his wages were too meager.
When he lay down, his thoughts always turned to rent. The housing management under sect authority demanded seven stones per month. He remembered the first time he paid — seven stones upfront, nearly everything he had. The memory gnawed at him. Even then, he had been trapped.
Now, his wage was only two stones per month. He had two stones left in Inventory from before, but that only brought his total to four. Still three stones short. The math was hopeless.
He stared at the ceiling, his chest tight. If I can't pay, I'll be thrown out. If I'm thrown out, those gangs will eat me alive. The thought pressed down on him until his breath felt heavy.
The next morning, he forced himself to rise early. He swept longer, carried heavier loads, scrubbed filth others avoided. He bowed to seniors, flattered supervisors, and endured insults. His words were awkward, but he used them anyway. He knew his survival depended on it.
One afternoon, while sweeping the storeroom, another worker noticed his pouch. "Trash cultivator," the man sneered. "What's in there? Stones? Hand it over."
Lin Feng's fingers tightened around the pouch. Calmly, he slipped the stones into Inventory. The pouch was empty when the thief snatched it. The man cursed, confused, before throwing it back at him. Lin Feng said nothing, returning to his work. It was a small victory, but it reminded him that the system was his only shield.
The market outside bustled with life. Merchants shouted, families bargained, cultivators strutted. Lin Feng listened to gossip while working: talk of sect trials, rare herbs arriving, opportunities for those with backing. He stored the information quietly, knowing he couldn't afford to act yet.
At night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His chest felt heavy, his thoughts spiraled. I can't even afford to live. How can I cultivate? How can I activate the shop? The two stones in Inventory felt like a cruel reminder — enough to show him what he lacked, not enough to save him.
The days dragged on. He flattered everyone, accepted every extra chore, and endured mockery. His body ached, his mind sank deeper into worry, but he kept moving. He knew if he lost this job, he would lose everything.