The Merit Hall did not feel like the dorms.
The dorms smelled like sweat and old straw and people trying not to be seen.
The Merit Hall smelled like ink.
Yuan He noticed it before he reached the doors: a sharp, dry scent that clung to paper and wood. It was the smell of rules made physical.
He told himself that rules were better than fists.
"Usually," he muttered, and kept his face neutral.
Inside, the hall was busy without being loud. Disciples moved in lines that weren't quite lines yet. A few small windows were cut into a long counter, each with a clerk behind it and a stack of ledgers that looked heavy enough to kill a man if dropped.
Nobody fought here.
They didn't need to. The counter did it for them.
Yuan He joined the shortest queue and waited. He kept his hands still, kept his breathing even, kept his eyes down and open at the same time.
Careful.
Observant.
When it was his turn, he slid his stamped slip forward, the rough mark still bleeding slightly into the fibers.
The clerk didn't look impressed. The clerk didn't look at Yuan He at all. He looked at the stamp like it was a smudge on his day.
"Contribution," the clerk said.
"Yes," Yuan He replied.
The clerk took the slip, flipped it, and compared it to an entry in the ledger. A brush scratched. Ink pooled. A finger tapped once, as if sealing the moment into existence.
"One point already posted," the clerk said, voice flat.
Relief tried to rise. Yuan He cut it off before it reached his face.
"Thank you," he said.
The clerk made a small motion with his chin. Next.
Yuan He didn't move.
The clerk's eyes flicked up, irritation thin and practiced. "Done."
"I have a question," Yuan He said, keeping his voice low. Not pleading. Not challenging. Just…present.
The clerk's expression suggested that questions were a kind of theft.
"What."
Yuan He swallowed the impulse to apologize for existing.
"What are the requirements," he asked carefully, "for recorded contributions? Specifically. I want to avoid mistakes."
A pause. The clerk's gaze ran over him the way Sun Ba's had, but without hunger. This was a different kind of assessment: is this person worth my time, or will they become a problem if ignored?
"Depends on the task," the clerk said. "Some are direct credit. Some are chits. Some are rations. Some require a steward's mark."
"I understand that," Yuan He said. "I mean: if it's direct credit, what makes it valid? A stamp? A witness? A time limit?"
The clerk stared at him for a heartbeat too long.
Then he spoke as if reciting a rule he'd recited a thousand times for people who didn't listen.
"Direct credit requires an authorized mark," the clerk said. "Steward, supervisor, Hall runner. The mark must match the task slip. The task must be within time. If disputed, the supervisor confirms."
"Disputed," Yuan He repeated quietly, as if tasting the word. "And who can dispute it?"
The clerk's mouth tightened. "Any party with standing."
"Standing meaning," Yuan He asked, "someone who was harmed by my task?"
The clerk's eyes hardened. "Someone assigned to that task. Someone responsible for that area. Someone who filed a complaint."
Complaint.
Yuan He nodded once. "If a complaint is filed, am I notified?"
The clerk looked over his shoulder, as if hoping another clerk might be unlucky enough to take over.
"You'll find out," he said.
"That's not a procedure," Yuan He said softly.
The clerk's gaze snapped back, sharp now. "You want procedure? You want the sect to hold your hand? Work like everyone else and don't cause trouble."
Yuan He kept his face blank.
Inside his head, he muttered: I'm literally trying not to cause trouble.
Out loud he said, "Understood. One more question."
The clerk exhaled through his nose. "Last."
Yuan He chose carefully, because his questions were his only weapon here and a weapon you waved too much became a reason for someone to take your hands.
"If I finish a task," he asked, "and I have the authorized mark, can the credit be redirected to someone else?"
The clerk blinked once. The irritation was replaced by something that might have been amusement, thin as paper.
"Not without an adjustment record," the clerk said. "Why."
Yuan He shrugged slightly, making it look like curiosity instead of fear. "I want to know how secure recorded credit is."
The clerk snorted. "Secure. If you have the mark and it's posted, it's posted. Unless you lie. Unless you steal. Unless you make enemies and they file complaints."
He shoved the slip back toward Yuan He as if pushing away a bad smell. "Move."
Yuan He took the slip and stepped away.
He didn't leave.
He moved to the side of the hall, where the wall was scuffed at shoulder height from a thousand people leaning there to pretend they weren't listening.
He listened anyway.
Because information was leverage and the Merit Hall was full of it, leaking out of irritated mouths like steam from a faulty valve.
A pair of outer sect disciples stood a few paces away, talking too quietly to be heard clearly, but not quietly enough to be private. One of them laughed softly.
"—thought he could just take direct credit," one said, voice bright with contempt. "Like it's free."
"It is free," the other replied, "if you're not stupid. You pick the task chits that pay. You don't make noise."
Yuan He's fingers tightened around his slip.
Chits could be taken.
Tickets could be taken.
Coins could be taken.
Merit points couldn't be taken, not cleanly. So they didn't want him touching it.
He told himself not to assign intent too quickly.
Then the two disciples drifted toward the counter window he had just left, not lining up, but hovering. One leaned in to speak to the clerk without waiting for his turn. The clerk's posture softened a fraction.
The disciple's voice rose slightly, just enough for Yuan He to catch a few words.
"—east herb yard—drying shed—my senior brother supervises that—"
The clerk grunted. "Mark required."
The disciple laughed. "Of course. And… if someone else shows up with a slip?"
"Dispute," the clerk said.
"Ah," the disciple replied, pleased. "Good. We'll file."
They stepped back, satisfied, and returned to their companion.
Yuan He stared at the scuffed wall and kept his face neutral.
Inside his head, the dry muttering started up like an engine that had been waiting for permission.
So that's the game.
You can't pickpocket recorded merit points, so you poison the mark.
You can't mug the ledger, so you mug the process.
He breathed in and out, slow.
Fine.
He would do this like engineering too.
He approached another window, one with a shorter line and a clerk who looked older, tired in a way that had gone past irritation and into routine.
When it was his turn, he didn't present his slip.
He presented a question.
"I want to register for contribution work," he said, tone respectful. "Low-status tasks. Repeatable. I want to understand which tasks are direct credit and which are paid out."
The clerk looked at him. Actually looked.
"What's your root," the clerk asked, as if the answer might determine whether Yuan He deserved rules.
Yuan He hesitated for half a heartbeat and then decided honesty was cheaper than being caught.
"Five elements," he said.
The clerk's eyebrows rose a fraction.
Then he looked away, already bored. "Task board lists payout."
"I've seen it," Yuan He said. "But the mark requirements aren't always listed. Is there a list of authorized markers for each area?"
The clerk stared at him.
"You want a list," he said slowly, as if tasting the request for hidden barbs.
"Yes," Yuan He replied, and kept it simple. "To avoid mistakes."
The clerk tapped his brush on the rim of an ink dish. A slow, thoughtful sound.
"There is," he said.
Yuan He's chest tightened. He forced it down.
"But," the clerk continued, "it's not for outer sect disciples to carry around."
"Understood," Yuan He said. "Can I view it here."
The clerk's eyes narrowed, then widened again in faint surprise.
"Hm," he said.
He leaned to the side and pulled a thin booklet from beneath the counter. Not a ledger, something smaller, handled often. He flipped it open with ink-stained fingers.
"Herb yard," he said. "Authorized by the steward. Two supervisors. Hall runner on duty."
Yuan He kept his expression calm, but his mind locked onto the words.
Runner on duty meant timestamp.
Runner on duty meant "someone paid to care," at least enough to stamp a slip.
"Drying shed," the clerk continued. "Same process. For the kitchen, find the kitchen steward."
Yuan He nodded as if he hadn't just been handed a weapon.
"If a dispute is filed," he asked, "how long do I have to respond?"
The clerk's mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something like it.
"You're persistent," he said.
Yuan He kept his eyes on the counter. "I'm hungry."
That earned him a real look. The clerk's gaze slid over his bruise, the hollow under his cheekbone, the way his robe hung a little too loose.
"Three days," the clerk said finally. "Standard procedure. Some stewards push it, but don't rely on mercy."
Three days.
A number.
A constraint.
He could design around that.
"Thank you," Yuan He said, and meant it.
The clerk shut the booklet and pushed it back under the counter like it had never existed. Then, as if throwing Yuan He one last scrap of information, he added quietly, "If you want less trouble, do the work nobody wants and get your marks immediately. Don't take slips home."
Yuan He nodded once.
Inside his head, he muttered: Don't take slips home. Don't carry value. Convert it immediately.
Out loud he said, "Understood."
He stepped away from the window and moved to the side wall again.
His heart beat steady. His face stayed blank.
Inside, his mind was already sketching the counter-protocol.
He couldn't stop someone from filing a complaint.
He could make complaints costly.
He could choose tasks with marks that happened on-site, immediately, with a runner's stamp and a time recorded in a ledger.
He could build a chain: work, mark, post, repeat, before anyone could decide the job was "disputed."
He looked down at his stamped slip and folded it carefully.
Not because it mattered.
Because it reminded him that the ledger could be forced to admit the truth if you applied pressure in the right places.
"Okay," he whispered, too softly for anyone to hear. "If they want a paperwork war, I can do paperwork."
He paused, then added, dry as dust, "I used to think my greatest enemy was plasma instability."
He straightened his robe and walked back toward the dorms.
Outside the Merit Hall, sunlight hit his eyes and made him blink.
He kept walking anyway.
His steps were careful, his posture neutral, his complaints swallowed.
But under the surface, something had shifted.
He had been mugged.
Now he was being audited.
Fine.
Audits had rules too.