Outside the door, pleading and accusations tangled into a noisy mess.

  “Senior Brother Yun! I swear I never spoke ill of you—I’ve always believed you were destined for greatness!” a scrawny disciple said hurriedly.

  “Bullshit!” someone beside him shouted angrily. “Zhao Si’er, you were the one who followed Liu De around spreading rumors the loudest! ‘Cliff-jumping trash,’ ‘a toad dreaming of a swan’—weren’t those all your words?”

  “Li Laowu! You—you’re slandering me!” Zhao Si’s face turned deathly pale as he retorted desperately. “Senior Brother Yun, don’t listen to him! He’s the worst gossipmonger! He even said things about your parents—”

  “I was just telling the truth!” Li Laowu shouted back. “Senior Brother Yun, please judge fairly! I may have a sharp tongue, but I’ve never disrespected you! Please—just give me a lighter task!”

  “Senior Brother Yun,” another male disciple with fairly delicate features chimed in, forcing a flattering smile and softening his voice deliberately. “I’ve been weak since childhood… I have heart pains and really can’t handle hard labor. How about—how about I fetch water for you every night? Wash up for you? Make your bed?”

  Among the registered disciples of the Frost Condensation Sect, female disciples were rare—less than one in ten. In the harsh life of menial labor, any woman with even modest looks often received “special consideration.” Some even managed to attach themselves to outer disciples, earning much easier duties.

  At this moment, a rather attractive female disciple named Liu Ying swayed forward, her eyes rippling as she spoke in a sweet, coquettish voice:

  “Senior Brother Yun~ please calm down. When Senior Brother Liu was still here, he treated us sisters very… considerately. He never let us do heavy work—so long as we came over at night to ‘serve’ him.”

  She deliberately emphasized the word serve, casting a sideways glance at Yun Che before smiling coyly again.

  “There are several sisters I’m close with. If Senior Brother doesn’t mind the noise, I could bring them along tonight to ‘pay our respects,’ hmm?”

  In an instant, the courtyard erupted into chaos—some exposing one another’s faults, others desperately declaring loyalty, some crying and begging, and still others openly seeking shortcuts. The air was foul and turbulent.

  Already irritated, Yun Che’s brows knit tightly, a surge of dark anger rising within him. He slammed his palm onto the table beside him with a dull bang and barked:

  “Enough. Shut up—all of you!”

  The courtyard fell instantly silent. Everyone stared at him in frozen fear.

  Yun Che’s face was cold as iron as his gaze swept across the crowd. Then he began issuing his “unreasonable” assignments.

  He casually pointed at a burly disciple who had once mocked him to his face as “delusional.”

  “You. Starting tomorrow, you’ll fetch water. Thirty vats a day. One vat short—and you don’t eat.”

  Fetching water from the Cold Nether Pool was already among the most grueling tasks. The usual quota was ten vats. Thirty was nearly impossible.

  The disciple shuddered violently, face flushing red. He opened his mouth, but when Yun Che’s gaze grew colder, he swallowed his protest and lowered his head.

  “…Yes.”

  “You.” Yun Che pointed to another disciple known for slacking and spreading rumors that Yun Che had “entered through connections.” “You’ll wash all the sect’s clothes and bedding. At least five hundred jin per day. If it’s not clean, or not enough weight—you’ll live by the laundry pool.”

  Five hundred jin meant working nearly nonstop.

  The disciple’s vision went black, legs buckling as he muttered unconsciously, “Five hundred… that’s impossible…”

  “You. Sweep every stone step from the mountain gate to the dining hall. Spotless. Same rule—if you’re unhappy, go complain to the elders.”

  “You. Clean every latrine in the menial quarters and nearby. If I see even one fly, you’ll live there with them.”

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  Finally, Yun Che pointed at a medicinal garden disciple who had once sneered that Yun Che was “only fit to play with herbs.”

  “You. Go gather herbs in the back mountains. Fifty jin of Green Spirit Grass per day—or equivalent low-grade spirit plants. Try passing off weeds, skimming for yourself, or cheating…”

  His voice turned icy.

  “I’ll break your legs and throw you down the mountain.”

  This last disciple collapsed to the ground with a thud, face drained of color. Fifty jin of Green Spirit Grass meant venturing deep into dangerous areas, risking encounters with low-grade spirit beasts—and even then, a full day might not yield ten jin.

  This was outright pushing someone to death.

  The courtyard was deathly silent, broken only by heavy breathing and suppressed gasps. Everyone stared at Yun Che like he was mad. This wasn’t harassment—it was naked revenge, driving people into despair.

  Yun Che remained unmoved. One by one, he pointed out every face he remembered mocking him, assigning tasks that were either impossible or utterly repulsive. After each order, he coldly added:

  “Unhappy? Go find an elder.”

  This was exactly the effect he wanted. He wanted them desperate. He wanted resentment to pile up until it exploded.

  After “taking care” of all the familiar faces, Yun Che looked at the courtyard full of despair, rage, and numbness. He calculated silently:

  They won’t be able to finish these tasks. Their only option will be collective unrest.

  But to be absolutely certain, he needed to add fuel—to make things uglier, more irredeemable.

  His gaze shifted and settled on a timid-looking disciple he barely knew.

  “You,” Yun Che said slowly, pointing at him. “You’re lucky. Your job is simple—collect gifts for me.”

  The crowd froze.

  Yun Che continued calmly, “From today on, anyone who wants lighter work—or fewer duties—hands their ‘sincerity’ to you. Keep records: who gave what, and when. Store everything with you. On the first of every month, bring me the list.”

  He sneered.

  “If you skim even a bit—or record anything wrong—you know the consequences.”

  The disciple froze, then ecstasy flooded his face. This was an incredible opportunity. He dropped to his knees and kowtowed repeatedly.

  “Senior Brother Yun, I swear I wouldn’t dare! Everything will be recorded clearly! Thank you, Senior Brother Yun! Thank you!”

  The courtyard exploded into uproar.

  Even Liu De had taken bribes discreetly. This man was demanding them openly, brazenly. His appetite was a hundred times uglier.

  At that moment, a quick-witted disciple reacted immediately, pulling out several coarse grain cakes he’d saved. Holding them up with both hands, he smiled obsequiously.

  “Senior Brother Yun, just a small token… about my water-fetching duty—”

  Yun Che glanced at the dark, rough cakes, gave a nasal “hm,” accepted them casually, and tucked them away.

  “What was your task again?” he asked flatly.

  “Th-thirty vats a day.”

  “Make it fifteen.”

  The disciple nearly burst with joy. Fifteen was still brutal—but infinitely better than thirty. He bowed repeatedly.

  “Thank you, Senior Brother Yun! Thank you!”

  With proof of effect, the others’ eyes turned red. Several were already preparing to step forward.

  Yun Che raised a hand, stopping them.

  “Enough. Disperse.”

  He stood lazily, dusted off nonexistent dirt, and said:

  “From now on, gifts go through proper procedure. Write down your current duty, desired duty, and sincerity. Hand it to my appointed man. Every ten days, I’ll adjust assignments based on ‘performance’ and ‘sincerity.’”

  Without another glance, he turned and shut the door behind him with a bang.

  Outside, suppressed murmurs and curses buzzed. Faces twisted with resentment. Many mentally cursed Yun Che’s ancestors eighteen generations back—but none dared speak aloud.

  When the courtyard finally fell quiet, Yun Che slipped out again. Under moonlight, he thoroughly inspected every corner of the menial courtyard.

  Behind the main building, he found a narrow storage room piled with broken tools and trash.

  Dust thick, webs everywhere, mold in the air.

  Unsatisfied, but it was the most secluded spot. He cleared a small area, locked the door from inside, and blocked it with junk.

  Sitting cross-legged on the dusty ground, Yun Che exhaled slowly and took out the gray-white stone bead hidden on him. Moonlight barely reached here, but as long as he focused, the cloud patterns still faintly responded.

  Without hesitation, he sank his consciousness into the milky-white void that granted him tenfold time.

  Mountain days seemed slow—yet passed swiftly.

  Nearly two months had gone by since Yun Che became supervisor of this menial area.

  Aside from the first days spent “establishing authority” and “creating chaos,” he devoted nearly all his energy to cultivation.

  He barely cared whether tasks were completed.

  Every ten days, he reviewed the gift records—mostly crude food, occasional fragments of low-grade spirit stones, even half-worn clothes. He kept what he could use, discarded the rest, and randomly adjusted duties—sometimes heavier, sometimes lighter, without logic, entirely by whim.

  Those who failed quotas would come crying or begging. He’d merely snort coldly. They would naturally offer more “filial respect.”

  Yet what unsettled Yun Che most was this—

  Despite the chaos, the resentment, the decline in efficiency of the Cold Nether Pool and herb gardens…

  The sect’s upper levels did nothing.

  No disciplinary disciple. No elder rebuke. Not even Zhang Mingyuan—who had assigned him here—appeared again.

  Like a stone dropped into deep water: ripples above, but silent below.

  “What are those elders thinking…?”

  Sitting in the dim storage room after another void session, Yun Che frowned deeply.

  Had he underestimated the sect’s indifference? Or was this position tied to something deeper he hadn’t yet seen?

  Or… was this itself a test?

  He couldn’t tell.

  His confidence in “ruining things to escape” was now clouded by unease.

  Interrupted constantly by bribes and pleas, his cultivation suffered emotionally, even with extra time.

  “I can’t keep waiting passively.”

  His gaze sharpened as he touched the stone bead.

  Perhaps… it was time to probe the sect’s bottom line.

  Or find another path out.

  His eyes drifted to the pile of “junk” gifts in the corner.

  A vague idea quietly took shape.

  deliberate descent into moral grayness.

  Not for gratification—but for testing:

  ?? Testing the sect’s indifference

  ?? And testing how far he himself can go

  1?? Is Yun Che being cunning—or courting disaster?

  2?? Does the sect’s silence mean tolerance… or something far more dangerous?

  3?? Could those discarded “gifts” become a turning point?