The Iron Mountain Sect was not merely a school of martial arts; it was a vertical city of thirty thousand souls, and like any city, it had a gutter.
Su Meng stood at the edge of the "Outer Exchange," a sprawling marketplace located in the shadow of the mountain's lower cliffs. On Earth, this would have been a stock exchange or a high-end shopping district. Here, the currency wasn't paper; it was Spirit Stones—glimmering shards of crystallized Qi—and the commodities were life and power.
He had been sent here by Steward Feng to transport a shipment of "Blood-Iron Ore" from the servant quarters to the Blacksmith Hall. His back ached, the iron crates cutting into his shoulders, but his eyes were wide, absorbing every detail.
The market was a sensory assault. He saw stalls selling "Cloud-Leopard Tendons" for bowstrings, jars of "Centipede Venom" for tempering blades, and shimmering robes woven from Moon-Silk that could deflect arrows. But what caught Su Meng's attention was the "Medicinal Pavilion."
A line of disciples, all dressed in high-quality silks that marked them as children of wealthy clans, stood before a counter.
"Next," a bored-looking Alchemist barked.
A young man, barely eighteen, stepped forward. He moved with a practiced grace, but Su Meng's engineering-trained eyes noticed the softness in his posture. He hadn't spent a day in the sun. He hadn't bled for his strength.
"I need three 'Jade-Skin' pills and a 'Marrow-Cleansing' elixir," the youth said. He tossed a heavy leather pouch onto the counter. The sound of clinking Spirit Stones was like music—the kind of music that, on Earth, would have bought a fleet of luxury cars.
The Alchemist handed over the small porcelain vials. "That will be fifty Low-Grade Spirit Stones. Your father, the City Governor of Yan, sent a letter of credit. It's already been settled."
Su Meng watched from the shadows of the alleyway, his grip tightening on the iron crate.
It's the same, he thought, a cold, familiar stone forming in his stomach. Even in a world where you can become a God, they've found a way to make it a subscription service. If you have the stones, you buy the shortcut. If you're poor, you're 'talentless'.
"Hey! Trash! Move that crate or I'll use your head for a stepping stone!"
Su Meng didn't turn around immediately. He recognized the voice. It was Wang Ba, the son of an Outer Sect Elder. Wang Ba was a mountain of a boy, his neck thick with fat and his eyes small and greedy. On Earth, he would have been the bully who owned the local franchise; here, he was a "Cultivator" only because his father pumped him full of expensive pills.
Su Meng slowly set the crate down. He turned, his face a mask of calm, though his heart was beginning to thrum with a dangerous rhythm.
"This is a public thoroughfare, Young Master Wang," Su Meng said, his voice level.
Wang Ba sneered, his cronies laughing behind him. One of them, a lean boy named Li who wore an expensive jade earring, stepped forward. "Did the servant just speak? I think he did. Maybe he's forgotten that a single Spirit Stone is worth more than his entire family line."
"A Spirit Stone is just a rock," Su Meng replied. "It doesn't make you faster. It doesn't make you stronger. It just makes you lazier."
The market went silent. Even the merchants stopped their haggling. In the Iron Mountain Sect, servants were expected to be invisible. To talk back to a disciple—especially one with a 'Backer'—was a death sentence.
Wang Ba's face turned a mottled purple. "Lazier? I am at the Second Stage of Body Tempering! I could snap your spine with one hand!"
"Then do it," Su Meng said. He stepped forward, out of the shadows. He didn't assume a fighting stance. He just stood there, his thin, scarred frame a stark contrast to Wang Ba's opulence. "No guards. No fathers. No bank accounts. Just you and me. If you're truly a 'Cultivator', prove that your strength belongs to you and not your father's purse."
Wang Ba roared, a sound of pure, entitled rage. He lunged forward, his fist glowing with a faint, flickering brown light—Earth-attribute Qi. It was a clumsy strike, telegraphing its intent a mile away.
To the other servants, it looked like a god's strike. To Su Meng, who had spent his life on Earth analyzing the mechanics of force and motion, it was a mess of wasted energy.
Su Meng didn't retreat. He shifted his weight by a mere three inches, allowing the glowing fist to whistle past his ear. The wind from the punch stung his cheek, but he didn't flinch.
He saw the opening. Wang Ba's ribs were exposed, his balance tilted too far forward.
Su Meng didn't have Qi. He didn't have a "Technique." But he had the memory of every injustice he had ever suffered. He channeled the weight of the iron crate, the weight of the water buckets, and the weight of a dying man under a truck into his elbow.
THUD.
The strike landed squarely in Wang Ba's solar plexus.
The air left the bully's body in a wheeze that sounded like a punctured tire. Wang Ba's eyes bugged out, his face turning from purple to a ghostly white. He crumpled to the dirt, clutching his stomach, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Li, the boy with the jade earring, stared in horror. "You... you struck a Disciple! You used a dirty trick!"
"It wasn't a trick," Su Meng said, looking down at his own elbow. It hurt. The bone was bruised. But it was a real pain. "It was physics. Something your pills can't teach you."
He picked up his iron crate. The weight felt lighter now.
"Tell your father," Su Meng said to the groaning Wang Ba. "Tell him that his money didn't help you today. And it won't help you the next time we meet."
Su Meng walked away, leaving the crowd in a state of shock. He knew what he had just done. He had declared war. In a world where 'status' was everything, he had just spat on the gold-plated altar.
As he walked back toward the servant quarters, he didn't feel afraid. He felt a strange, electric thrill. For the first time, he hadn't had to apologize to a Julian Vane. He hadn't had to kneel for a Senator.
This world is cruel, Su Meng thought, his eyes burning with a dark light. It is violent. It is unfair. But at least, if I am strong enough, I can punch the unfairness in the face.
He reached his shack and sat on the dirt floor. He looked at his hands. They were shaking, but not from fear—from the sheer, intoxicating realization that the 'Fist' was the only true equalizer.
I need more, he whispered. I need to be stronger. I need a way to cultivate that doesn't rely on their Spirit Stones. I need the strength that comes from the abyss.
He closed his eyes and began to breathe, his mind racing through the thousands of novels he had read. He wasn't looking for a "Hero's Path." He was looking for the path of the one who stands alone.
"If the world is built on stones," Su Meng vowed, "then I will be the one who grinds them into dust."