A new day began.
Xuan Yan woke up in his small, broken one-room house. The faint morning light crept through the cracks in the wooden walls as he stretched, rubbing his eyes. After washing up with the little water he had left, he stepped outside, breathing in the crisp air of dawn.
He wore a faded blue robe with black borders—though it was torn in so many places it looked like he'd just been beaten to hell. The cloth hung loosely around his body, and the frayed sleeves flapped in the breeze.
Still, there was a faint smile on his face as he began walking toward the Hall of Contribution.
That place was the only reason he dragged himself out of bed every week—it was where disciples received their contribution points.
Well, he thought, I'm just a registered disciple of the Heavenly Palace Sect. I don't get high-level tasks like the outer and inner disciples. Cleaning the walk paths, sweeping the training grounds, scrubbing the damn toilets—those are my tasks.
He sighed as he climbed the dirt path. The sect's mountain was peaceful in the morning; even the wind seemed half asleep.
After a few minutes, he arrived in front of a large wooden building—the Hall of Contribution. The doors were slightly open, and no one else was around. Of course, no one ever came this early.
He climbed the few stone steps and entered. The air inside smelled faintly of old paper and incense.
But just as he stepped in, a figure caught his eye.
A girl in a purple robe, wearing a black mask, walked out from behind the counter. Her presence was strange—calm, silent, and a little cold.
Xuan Yan froze. He knew every face that came here this early—and that was none.
Before he could say a word, the girl passed him, her robe brushing lightly against his sleeve, and walked straight out the door.
He quickly turned to look—but she was gone. Vanished like smoke.
"What the fuck…?" he muttered under his breath.
Heart pounding, he rushed to the counter, where an old man sat leaning back in his chair, pretending to sleep with a martial arts book covering his face.
"Old Song! I know you're not fucking sleeping!" Xuan Yan shouted, slapping the counter. "Who the hell was that girl? Why was she here this early? No one comes here at this time!"
The old man's surname was Song, but as for what his name was, Xuan Yan didn't know. He had always called him that.
The old song groaned and lifted the book off his face, squinting at Xuan Yan.
"You little brat… you really know how to disturb an old man's peace," he said with a lazy grin. Then, after a pause, his eyes grew serious. "Don't worry about that girl. She won't laugh at you… or anything."
Xuan Yan frowned, confused and uneasy. His fists clenched at his sides.
It wasn't just curiosity—it was fear.
In this sect, his reputation was already a damn joke. He was the weakest, the one everyone bullied, the one other disciples used for punching practice.
If that masked girl had seen him like this—ragged, broken, pitiful—then it was just one more person to laugh at the "trash of Heavenly Palace."
He gritted his teeth and whispered, almost to himself,
"Fuck… I can't keep living like this."
Old Song looked at Xuan Yan with a mocking expression, the corner of his wrinkled lips curling up.
"You pathetic brat of Heavenly Palace," he said lazily, his tone half amusement, half disdain. "You came here to take your points, right? Then take them and leave. I'm busy sleeping."
Xuan Yan lowered his head, staring at the wooden floor beneath his feet. His fists trembled slightly, and for a moment his face showed pure sadness. But then, in a blink, he forced a small smile and lifted his head.
"Old Song, give me the points. After that, I've got a task to complete," he said quietly, trying to sound calm.
He reached into his torn robe and pulled out a white sect token, the symbol of a registered disciple. The words Heavenly Palace were engraved on it in faded silver.
Old Song sighed and pulled out his own golden elder token, carved with elegant green patterns and the same sect name, shining faintly under the morning light that slipped through the wooden gaps of the hall.
They brought the two tokens close together, and a faint glow appeared between them.
A small flicker of light passed from the elder's token into Xuan Yan's.
Ten Contribution Points transferred.
The light dimmed, and it was over.
Xuan Yan put the token back inside his robe, bowing his head slightly.
"Old Song," he said softly, "please never tell anyone that I came at this time."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and ran out of the hall, his torn robe fluttering behind him.
Old Song watched him go. Then, with a tired sigh, he placed the martial arts book back over his face. But just before he did, a faint smile crept onto his lips.
Boy… why do you always feel so damn down on yourself? he thought silently.
Outside, Xuan Yan ran down the steps, his feet barely touching the ground. The cold morning wind brushed past his face, but his heart was heavy.
He was still just a registered disciple, a title that stung every time he heard it.
Once, not long ago, he had been an outer disciple—one with talent, one whose cultivation was rising fast. He'd reached Qi Refining Third Layer faster than most, and for a while, people looked at him with respect.
But then, everything stopped.
No matter how hard he cultivated, no matter how many nights he spent bleeding and meditating, he couldn't take that one fucking step forward.
Three months passed, and the sect elders noticed. One of them—cold and expressionless—had warned him:
"If you can't reach Qi Refining Seventh Layer within three years, you'll be expelled from the Heavenly Palace."
That was three years ago.
And he hadn't even broken through to the Fourth Layer.
From that moment, the whispers began.
The laughter.
The mockery.
He became the Trash of Heavenly Palace.
Even the juniors who joined the sect after him could defeat him easily now. Some even used him as a way to earn extra Contribution Points.
The rules of the sect made it even worse.
Every disciple in Heavenly Palace had the right to challenge another once per day, and every five days, they could also be challenged once per day.
The fights had limits—no one could challenge someone more than three layers higher or lower than themselves.
But no one was allowed to refuse. No one could run away. No one could hide.
And the reward?
The winner gained Contribution Points based on the opponent's level.
The loser lost theirs.
That meant for Xuan Yan—weak, stuck, and constantly beaten—his points were always slipping away, day by day.
And even now, the ten points he'd just received… wouldn't last long.
Because in Heavenly Palace, mercy was a fucking myth.
Meanwhile, Xuan Yan was not far from his house. He ran as fast as he could, his robe fluttering behind him, the morning air cutting against his face. He didn't dare slow down.
No one could see him right now. No one could challenge him now.
He'd already been beaten to shit just three days ago—his ribs still ached with every breath.
The Heavenly Palace Sect was a massive place, divided by strict ranks. From the bottom to the top, there were Registered Disciples, Outer Disciples, Inner Disciples, Elite Disciples, and Core Disciples.
Each rank had its own token:
— Registered disciples held a white token.
— Outer disciples used brown.
— Inner disciples carried silver.
— Elite disciples bore black.
— Core disciples possessed golden tokens with black patterns.
The elders, however, had tokens of their own—golden with green patterns, a symbol of authority that could make any disciple bow their head.
Other halls in the sect—Alchemy Hall, Monitoring Hall, Mission Hall—each had their own tokens too, marking their influence and hierarchy.
As Xuan Yan rushed toward his broken little house, a chill ran down his spine.
Something felt wrong.
And then, before he could react, figures emerged from every direction, stepping out from behind rocks, trees, and the narrow paths between the huts.
Within seconds, a dozen disciples surrounded him, forming a loose circle. They wore the same sect robes as him—blue with black borders—but their robes were clean, new, and unscarred.
Unlike his.
Xuan Yan stopped dead in his tracks, chest heaving. His eyes darted around, scanning each face.
Then a soft, mocking voice came from ahead.
"Well, well… Senior Xuan. We've been waiting for you here for a while. Where have you been hiding?"
The voice belonged to a young man with slick black hair and a folding wooden fan in his hand. His smile was sharp, his tone sweet and poisonous.
Wu Chen.