The purple text of [A Tooth for a Tooth] pulsed in his vision, a dark, tempting heartbeat. Visions flashed in Alaric's mind, sharp and violent: tripping Marcus on the training grounds, stealing his rations, slipping a venomous spirit-centipede into his bunk. Each scenario played out with cinematic clarity, and in each one, he saw the same brutal conclusion: his own broken body lying in a deeper, darker corner of the sect, with even Elder Song shaking his head over the paperwork.
The rage was a hot coal in his chest, but the logic of survival was a bucket of ice water. His VIT was a pitiful 4. His HP was stalled at 49, his body screaming from the night's unauthorized cultivation. Marcus was a bully, but he was a healthy, Mortal Realm Stage 3 bully. A direct confrontation wasn't a fight; it was suicide with extra steps. The system's promise of 'emotional yield' felt like a sinister lure, baiting him into a trap that would see him harvested for his own righteous anger.
No, Alaric thought, forcing the purple quest to the corner of his consciousness. Not yet. The game doesn't reward stupid plays.
The system, as if reading his disciplined refusal, cleared the dark prompt and replaced it with its usual, cheerful blue.
[New Daily Quest Generated!]
Quest: [Perseverance]
Objective: Complete your morning sweeping assignment without interruption.
Reward: +3 System Points, +0.1 permanent VIT.
Failure: Loss of Elder Song's minimal goodwill.
[New Weekly Quest Generated!]
Quest: [The Forager]
Objective: Gather ten (10) [Silverleaf Herbs] from the lower western foothills within seven days.
Reward: [Basic Healing Salve] x3, +10 System Points, +0.5 SPR.
Warning: Foothills contain minor spirit beasts (Rankless). Proceed with caution.
This was more like it. Controllable parameters. Clear objectives. A weekly quest with a tangible reward—healing salve was a currency more valuable than food here. But the warning was key: minor spirit beasts. To a healthy outer disciple, a Rankless Badger-Tusk or a Glimmer-Snake was an annoyance. To him, it was a lethal predator.
This was where his modern mind engaged, shifting from patient to strategist. He wasn't a cultivator; he was a player with a broken avatar, and he needed to game the system.
First, the daily. 'Without interruption.' The bullies were the interrupters. Therefore, the solution was to be where they weren't. He waited until Marcus and his gang had left for their own chores—likely something less tedious—and only then did he emerge, broom in hand. He worked not with diligence, but with speed and minimal coverage, focusing on the most visible areas. The system didn't define 'satisfactory standard'; it only tracked completion. He finished in half the usual time, the reward chiming as he leaned the broom against the wall. +0.1 VIT. A microscopic, permanent reinforcement of his body. It was nothing, and it was everything.
Next, the weekly. 'Gather ten Silverleaf Herbs.' His inherited memories gave him a basic image: a small plant with metallic, serrated leaves, usually found in damp, shaded rock crevices. The Map showed the lower western foothills as an expanse of fog, but it did mark one location: the "Mossy Glen," a known, relatively safe foraging spot for outer disciples. It would be picked over, but it was a start.
But 'gathering' didn't mean 'fighting.' His [Flawed Form] gave him a +5% cultivation speed, a joke of a bonus. But it had another line: Synergizes with 'Meridian Weaving (Passive).' He pulled up that passive skill. It was still at Lv. 0, 0.00% progress. Its description: Converts ambient Qi and specific nutrients into spiritual sutures.
Ambient Qi. That was the thin energy he could now faintly perceive. The form was meant to draw it in. His flawed version was terrible at it, but what if he focused entirely on that one aspect? Not for cultivation, but for fuel for the repair skill?
He found his secluded spot behind the Scripture Depository. Instead of trying to mimic the stances, he assumed the simplest, least painful meditation posture he could manage. He closed his eyes and ran through the intent of the Four Seasons Form in his mind, focusing solely on the breathing rhythm and the imagined draw of ambient energy. He wasn't trying to channel it through his meridians; he was trying to let it seep into his body like mist, offering it directly to the passive, hungry process of [Meridian Weaving].
For an hour, he sat. The progress bar for the skill didn't move. But when he checked his Status, he saw it: his Qi had ticked up from 1/10 to 1.1/10. An infinitesimal gain, not from a pill, but from the environment. The system, ever literal, chimed.
[New Interpretive Action Recognized.]
[Meditative State Achieved: 'Focused Receptivity.']
[Synergy Bonus Activated: 'Meridian Weaving' progress: 0.00% -> 0.01%.]
[Quest: [Meditate for One Hour] - Completed!]
[Reward: +0.1 VIT, +2 System Points.]
A slow smile spread across Alaric's face. He'd found a loophole. The system had given him a quest to meditate, expecting the traditional, active cycling of Qi—an impossibility for him. By redefining 'meditation' as passive, receptive soaking, he'd fulfilled the letter of the quest's law. The rewards were meager, but they were free. They came from exploiting the system's own rigid definitions.
This was his edge. Not talent, not power, but a player's mindset. He could complete objectives in the most efficient, least risky way possible, often bypassing the spirit of the challenge entirely.
The rest of the day became a series of optimized grinds. He collected water from the well, fulfilling a minor fetch quest by making three trips instead of one heavy, dangerous load. He sorted a pile of discarded training dummies, not by strength, but by identifying which ones were least damaged—a logic puzzle that earned him a +0.1 to SPR for 'attentive analysis.'
By nightfall, he was exhausted, but his System Points had grown to 18. His VIT now read 4.3. His HP had regenerated to a shaky 53/100, helped by a crust of bread he'd managed to hide and eat in secret.
Lying in his bunk, listening to the snores and jeers, Alaric planned. The Silverleaf Herbs were the key. The salve could heal minor wounds, maybe even be traded. To get them, he needed to minimize risk. He needed a tool, a distraction, a way to be unseen. He couldn't fight a beast, but he could perhaps avoid it, or outthink it.
The [Map] was his first tool. The Mossy Glen was a start, but the best herbs would be in riskier, less-trafficked crevices. He needed more data. That meant observation, asking careful questions of the few non-hostile disciples, like the perpetually tired kitchen boy.
As he drifted into a fitful sleep, the purple [A Tooth for a Tooth] quest was still there, a smoldering ember in his quest log. But it was now surrounded by the cool, blue light of daily completions and a growing plan. The anger hadn't vanished; it had been compartmentalized. Filed away as a long-term objective, to be addressed when his stats were higher, his skills sharper, and his understanding of the game's rules was absolute.
The path forward wasn't through brute force. It was through code. Through finding the gaps in the system's logic and slipping through, collecting every microscopic advantage along the way. The grind was monotonous, painful, and slow. But for the first time, Alaric felt the controller in his hands. He just had to learn all the button combinations.