After receiving the summons shrouded in uncertainty, Mo Fan bid Er Ya farewell and walked alone down the dirt road leading to the servants' quarters courtyard.
"Steward Wang..."
Mo Fan turned the name over in his mind, his brow furrowing slightly.
From what he remembered, that fat bastard was mainly in charge of personnel assignments for this area, and Xiao Qi had barely had any contact with him—just a passing acquaintance at best. He couldn't figure out the reason for this special summons.
"Forget it. I'll deal with whatever comes. I'll find out when I get there."
With that thought, Mo Fan stopped worrying. Fighting through the pain, he quickened his pace toward the servants' quarters.
Before long, the crumbling walls of the courtyard came into view.
The clamor of voices carried from afar—clearly, roll call was about to begin.
"Hurry up! What are you dawdling for!"
Just as Mo Fan shuffled up to the gate, a rough hand shot out from the crowd, seized his arm, and yanked him inside.
"Sss—" Mo Fan sucked in a sharp breath, nearly breaking character.
"Seventh Brother! What took you so long!"
Mo Fan looked back and found that the one who'd grabbed him was a burly young man with broad shoulders and a powerful build. According to his hazy memories, this was one of Xiao Qi's close friends from his past life—they'd often worked and taken on assignments together.
Da Hu was drenched in sweat, his voice urgent and low.
"Steward Wang's face is blacker than the bottom of a pot today. If you'd been half a step later, you'd have been marked down for 'unauthorized absence'! Even I wouldn't have been able to save you then!"
"Thanks, Da Hu."
Mo Fan gasped for breath and leaned against Da Hu, borrowing his support to steady himself.
He lifted his head, peering through the sea of bobbing heads toward the stone platform at the front of the courtyard.
There stood a middle-aged man in a deep blue brocade robe, his body bloated and corpulent, hands clasped behind his back. He clutched a thick registry, and those tiny eyes—squeezed into slits by the fat of his face—swept slowly across the crowd like a cold, venomous snake searching for a particular prey.
In that moment, Mo Fan's heart grew calm instead.
Since there was no escape, he would play his part well.
He lowered his head, hunched his shoulders, and pushed his "pitiful, weak, and helpless crippled servant" act to its absolute limit. Then he quietly melted into the back of the crowd.
"Everyone here?"
Steward Wang's lips stretched into a smile that didn't reach his eyes, his voice high and reedy.
"The Grand Ceremony approaches, and the sect has much to do. Though we outer disciples only handle menial work, we should still have some sense of propriety—don't embarrass our ancestors."
After a string of meaningless bureaucratic platitudes, he began reading names and assigning tasks.
Mo Fan kept his head down, minimizing his presence as much as possible. But he could feel that cold gaze lingering on him, again and again.
Finally.
"Lu Xiao Qi."
Steward Wang's voice suddenly jumped an octave.
Mo Fan's heart lurched. What had to come had come. He took a deep breath and dragged his "crippled leg" forward, step by agonizing step, emerging from the crowd under the complicated gazes of his fellow servants.
"This disciple is present."
Mo Fan bowed deeply, his posture humble to the point of groveling.
Steward Wang didn't attack immediately. Hands behind his back, he strolled leisurely over to Mo Fan, looked him up and down, and suddenly smiled and said in a low voice:
"Mo Fan, I hear you've been getting quite close to Steward Liu lately?"
The moment those words left his mouth, everything became crystal clear. Old memories surged up as well.
Mystery solved.
This had nothing to do with tardiness or absence. This was deliberate targeting.
Steward Liu and Steward Wang had always been at odds—an open secret everyone knew. Although he'd been discreet about bribing Steward Liu for a spot, no secret stayed hidden forever.
In Steward Wang's eyes, this "sensible" little servant had already been branded as a member of "Liu's faction."
This was about making an example of him, or perhaps just a petty way to disgust his old rival.
"In response to the Steward," Mo Fan kept his head lowered, his voice artfully tinged with fear and trepidation, "this disciple is merely a laborer. How could I ever presume to associate with Steward Liu? It's just that when my leg was broken before, Steward Liu showed mercy and didn't throw me out. That's all."
"Showed mercy? Hmph."
Steward Wang let out a cold snort, clearly unsatisfied with this explanation. But he didn't explode in public. Instead, his tone shifted, and that nauseating fake smile reappeared on his face.
"Since you're such a 'capable' person, you should take on more responsibility."
He patted Mo Fan's bony shoulder—the force nearly drove Mo Fan to his knees on the spot.
"The Grand Ceremony is almost upon us, and the Inner Sect urgently needs a batch of high-quality Spirit Charcoal. There's a pile of Black Iron Wood branches that need processing at the logging camp on the back mountain."
At the words "Black Iron Wood," the servants around them collectively sucked in their breath.
That was no ordinary lumber. Black Iron Wood was as hard as iron—a regular iron axe would only leave a white scratch, and the shock would leave your hands numb for hours. Processing that stuff was absolutely the hardest, most exhausting, and most body-breaking work in the outer sect.
"Originally, this was a ten-day job for two people."
Steward Wang narrowed his eyes, his tone as casual as if he were remarking on pleasant weather. "But you know how it is—we're short-handed right now. Everyone's busy. So... you'll have to finish it in five days."
Five days?
Mo Fan laughed coldly inside.
A ten-day job for two people, done by one person in five days? That meant quadrupling the workload! Even a healthy, strong adult working around the clock would cough up blood from exhaustion—let alone someone playing the role of a critically injured invalid.
This was the classic workplace "soft knife."
No beating, no cursing—just assigning an impossible task. Can't finish it? Then punishment according to sect rules: docked pay, flogging, or even expulsion from the mountain.
"What? Is there a problem?"
Steward Wang watched Mo Fan's ashen face, a twisted satisfaction flickering in his eyes.
"I heard your leg is bad? This job is perfect—you can sit while you chop wood. No running around. You can't say I'm not looking after you, can you?"
Looking after him?
This was trying to work him to death.
Mo Fan was silent for two seconds.
He didn't immediately show anger or coldness. Before power, a weakling's rage was worthless—it would only fuel the oppressor's sadistic pleasure.
He slowly raised his head, his face showing just the right mixture of despair and pleading.
"Steward, sir..." Mo Fan's voice trembled. "Five days... this disciple's body truly cannot endure it. Could you... perhaps grant just two more days? Or let Da Hu help me?"
"No."
Steward Wang refused flatly, the smile vanishing from his face in an instant. "This is training for you! Da Hu and the others have their own duties. What? Are you defying orders?"
A damning accusation, slapped down like a heavy hat.
Mo Fan's mouth opened as if to say something more, but finally, under those aggressive beady eyes, he seemed to have his spine ripped out. His whole body crumpled.
"This disciple... dares not."
Mo Fan lowered his head, his voice filled with the helplessness of resignation. "This disciple... will do his best."
Seeing this "ant" finally submit under his pressure, Steward Wang felt a genuine rush of satisfaction.
This was the taste of power.
A melon twisted off the vine might not be sweet, but the process of twisting it off? That was truly stress relief.
"That's more like it."
In high spirits, Steward Wang casually tossed over a token. "Off you go. I've assigned you to the Scrap Pile Area on the far west side of the logging camp. It's quiet there, no one to bother you. Just work hard and don't disappoint me."
The Scrap Pile Area.
Deserted. Godforsaken.
Mo Fan caught the token, his fingers "trembling" with "emotion." Under the sympathetic looks of his peers and Steward Wang's mockery, he dragged his crippled leg out of the courtyard, step by agonizing step.
Only after he'd left everyone's sight and turned onto the small path leading to the back mountain—
—did the despair and misery drain from Mo Fan's face like a receding tide.
He straightened his back and glanced back at that noisy courtyard. A cold smile curved at the corner of his lips.
"The scrap pile area... quiet... no one to bother me..."
How was this punishment?
Black Iron Wood was indeed difficult to chop—but for a Necromancer with helpers who had unlimited stamina, this was practically a gift!
"Oh, Fatty Wang, Fatty Wang. You think you're making my life hell."
Mo Fan tossed the token in his hand, his eyes deep and knowing.
"Little do you know, your malice has done me a favor."
Sometimes, blind resistance only backfired. Going with the flow and making money right under the boss's nose—that was the path to happiness for any adult.
This was also the hard-earned lesson paid for in blood and sweat from Mo Fan.