CHAPTER TWO
While he was still on the floor, the pigs stared at him.
Judgingly.
Quinn stood ankle-deep in muck, clutching his single wooden clog like it might magically turn into a sword. His robes if you could call burlap with holes "robes" clung to him like disappointment.
A bell rang somewhere up the hill. Loud and ugly.'. Like a dinner gong being murdered.
[System Alert: Mandatory Servant Assembly in 10 seconds.
Warning: Late arrival will result in 50 whip lashes, public shaming, and a loss of 30 SP.]
"Oh, come on!" Quinn bolted, slipping through the mud like a baby deer on ice. He lost the clog within two steps.
He arrived just in time to wedge himself into the back of a sweaty, terrified crowd of other servant disciples, most looking just as miserable. All wore the same potato-sack uniform. The training square was completely packed.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood at the front of the square. His robe was black, his expression sharp, and his whip longer than Quinn was tall.
The man's gaze scanned the group like a vulture picking which carcass to start with.
"You are not cultivators," he barked. "You are worms. You are dirt. You are unpaid labor with dreams far too big for your weak little souls."
A silence followed.
The man snapped the whip once. The crack echoed across the field.
"My name is Elder Feng. And until the day you die or miraculously advance, you will call me Master."
Quinn exhaled slowly.
Yep. Definitely a cultivation novel.
And not the fun kind.
"WELCOME, MAGGOTS," the elder barked then continued.
"Here at the Wulan Outer Sect, you will clean, suffer, and maybe if you don't die like the last hundred idiots, serve a purpose."
Quinn whispered, "Inspiring."
[Ding! Passive Skill: 'Sarcastic Commentary' activated.
Effect: Provides zero benefit. Makes you feel slightly better.]
He sighed.
Elder Feng began pacing. "We are a great sect! But even greatness must be scrubbed. Literally. Latrines don't clean themselves."
A few around Quinn groaned quietly. He joined them.
[New Mission Available: Volunteer for the Worst Job]
Reward: +50 SP, potential hidden stat boost.
Optional Bonus: Look eager. That'll freak them out.]
"No," Quinn whispered.
[Auto-accept engaged.]
A second later, Elder Feng's eyes locked onto him.
"You! The one with cow dung in his hair."
Quinn blinked. "Me?"
"You look like the kind of fungus that thrives in filth. Good! Report to the Beast Stables. The spirit boars have diarrhea again."
A collective groan rippled through the group. One girl whispered, "That's a death sentence."
Quinn raised a shaky hand. "Quick question—do I get gloves?"
"No."
Quinn gagged as the stench hit him. Spirit boars were sacred beasts were massive, tusked, and radiating low-level spiritual energy.
They also had very angry bowels.
He scrubbed, scooped, dodged tusks, slipped, fell, gagged again, and cursed the system eight times in three languages.
At one point, a boar sneezed on him.
He cried a little.
[SP Gained: +80]
[Bonus Pain Multiplier: Toxic Shame x1.5]
[Total Suffering Points: 143]
[New Passive Unlocked: "Turd Sense" – Can now detect incoming manure 0.5 seconds before impact.]
"I'm going to kill you," Quinn muttered to the system.
[Such language. Emotional distress: +6 SP.]
He collapsed in the servants' quarters, too tired to move, caked in stink and trauma.
The others avoided him like he carried plague. Maybe he did. He didn't really care.
He stared at the ceiling. His body ached. His pride was dead. His hands looked like they'd aged forty years.
But then….
[Ding! SP Threshold reached.
Unlocking Minor Cultivation Technique: Pain-Forged Body – Stage 1]
Description: Your body begins adapting to physical punishment.
Effect: +5% resistance to blunt trauma. +10% pain tolerance.
Side Effect: Occasional phantom spasms.]
Quinn sat up. "Wait. That's... actually useful?"
[Congratulations, Fungus. You now suck slightly less.]
He laughed. Genuinely.
Not because it was funny. But because in a world trying to kill him, he just leveled up from useless trash to resilient garbage.
And somehow, that felt like progress.