Jiang Cheng followed the senior disciple through the pavilion’s corridors, the air thick with the scent of incense and aged wood. The structure was older than it appeared from the outside, its walls lined with faded murals depicting cultivators in various battle stances, Qi radiating from their strikes.

After a short walk, they arrived at another courtyard, smaller than the training grounds but no less imposing. A formation of carved stone slabs lay in the center, their surfaces glowing faintly with Characters too complex for Cheng to understand. Standing beside them was another disciple—this one clad in inner sect robes, a mixmatch of white and blue hues.

Not only that, they clearly were of much higher quality than the ones Cheng was wearing. His presence alone carried weight, an aura of calm authority.

He was likely a realm above Cheng, as he felt a pressure. It was not the terror of the outer sect Elder he had seen. But it was enough to make him understand, that for this senior, he was likely no more than an ant.

“I greet senior disciple Liu.” the disciple who had guided Jiang spoke, his previous disdain now masked by formality, as he cupped his hands and bowed slightly, Cheng following the gesture moments later.

“Step forward junior.” Liu Hong spoke. “Stand in the center of the formation.”

Jiang did as he was told, stepping onto the central stone slab. As soon as his feet touched it, the Characters pulsed, sending a faint vibration through the ground. Liu Hong moved his hands through a set of practiced seals, and immediately, the glow intensified, rising around Jiang in a soft, shifting haze of color.

“A cultivator’s Qi is not just energy, juniors.” Liu Hong began, speaking in a bored tone that betrayed the many times he had spoken about this.

“When one reaches Qi Condensation, their innate affinity begins to manifest. Some possess elemental affinities—fire, water, earth, wind. Others have rarer types—lightning, wood, metal. And then, there are those with unique constitutions, their Qi differing entirely from standard classifications.”

Cheng remained still as the light around him flickered, shifting between hues. He held his breath, unsure of what to expect.

When the color settled into a soft blue, the same color as Qi, Liu wrote something in what must have been some kind of record keeping book, and spoke.

"You possess no distinguishable aptitude for any element. But, I suppose you pass. Here."

He spoke, throwing a small wooden token that Cheng grabed, looking at him.

"You are now a proper Qi condensation cultivator of our sect, hence you have been given access to the first floor of the Tower of records."

He spoke, as Cheng really understood. He was ordinary. No supreme affinity for fire that would shock the sect. No water affinity, to move seas and lakes. He was ordinary. No golden finger here. he thought. What was even a golden finger? he thought again, perplexed by the sudden thought, that felt both completely foreign and completely reasonable.

Jiang Cheng returned to his modest dwelling with the wooden token still clutched in his hand. He turned it over between his fingers, feeling its rough texture, the edges worn smooth from years of use.

He let out a breath and tucked the token into his robe.

The following weeks passed in a blur of labor. Despite his newfound status as a Qi Condensation cultivator, he was still just an outer disciple. That meant work. Endless, backbreaking work.

One day, he was knee-deep in the muddy fields, harvesting spirit herbs under the supervision of a senior disciple who barely spared him a glance. The next, he was hauling buckets of water up the mountain path to replenish the sect’s reserves. Some mornings, he split firewood until his hands were raw, while in the afternoons, he worked alongside others repairing broken buildings or clearing debris from the outer sect’s training grounds.

As he did, thoughts popped in his head. Those foreign yet familiar inquiries that bugged his head. HE felt he should know and remember exactly what he was thinking about.

When he carried water, he thought. Could you use Qi to replenish the sects water reserves? if yes, why force him and many others to haul bucket by bucket? Was it too taxing on their QI reserves to attempt? did they simply not care?

When he cut logs, he wondered if You could use fire and wood afinity to make charcoal, instead of bothering to cut trees, and all that. Was it just not possible? or like a part of himself, these people just didn't bother thinking about weird solutions, like his brain?

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

Or was it the if it ain't broke, don't fix it mentality? he struck the wood, as he thought about this saying. It felt foreign to think, yet he knew exactly what it mean. or should anyway.

As day by day went, things got better gradually. Now in the realm of Qi condensation, Cheng could pull these motes of Qi into his dantian by himself, without the use of a pill. Slowly, he felt himself improving.

Before, this work had been exhausting. Draining. Every day had felt like a slow death to his young body. But now, with Qi flowing through him, everything was different. His muscles no longer ached as much, after hours of labor. He could carry heavier loads, work faster, push himself beyond what should have been his limits.

With each log he split, each bucket he carried, each step he took under the weight of his tasks, his Qi flowed stronger, steadier. His endurance grew. His control sharpened. It was subtle, but it was there, As he tried to Use his Qi as much as possible, lest he injure his young body from the strain of the work.

HE could tell he was slowing his Cultivation. Cultivation, senior Wu had said? yes. it sounded correct.

Every day, he spent Qi. gathered some during the night, as he found it practically replaced the need to sleep in the traditional sense.

As he absorbed the motes of Qi around him, that allowed his body to rest. Of course, he still needed to sleep, every few days or so.

The other outer disciples had noticed his growth, though few spoke to him directly. After all, the workload left no time for small talk.

Still, no one challenged him. Not yet. Apparently fights we prohibited. Likely the Upper sect didn't' want these workers to fight more than they worked.

By the last day of the month, Jiang found himself finishing his assigned work earlier than usual. He wiped the sweat from his brow, looking up at the sky. The sun still hung high—he had time.

His fingers brushed against the token in his robes. The Tower of Records.

If he was ordinary, then he would have to rely on knowledge. If he had no grand talent, then he would carve his own path through understanding. He was sure. That with these weird thoughts that always popped in his head, that he must be able to think of different ways. better ways to grow.

Making his decision, he changed direction, heading toward the one place in the sect he had never been before.

The Tower of Records stood at the far end of the outer sect, an imposing structure built into the mountainside. It was taller than any other building in the outer sect, its dark stone walls rising in layers, each level separated by sloping eaves adorned with hanging talismans. The entrance was guarded by two robed cultivators, Their robes a clear indicator of the inner sect.

It was clear that they were there to make sure no idiot tried to get in without Qualifications.

Showing his token, along with a respectful bow seemed to satisfy the two, that opened the wooden doors.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and ink. Rows upon rows of wooden shelves stretched toward the high ceiling, packed with scrolls, books, and jade slips.

Jiang Cheng looked in wonder, at what must be hundreds, thousands even. So many years. Just how many people have been here. how many people wrote their thoughts out. and this. this was supposed to be just the first floor?

Cheng turned his attention to a really small shelf near the entrance, next to some seats, Clearly aimed for one to read these ten books before anything else. picking one up, he froze, as he realized. he. he didn't know how to read. his parents were farmers. they didn't know anything about writing. What to do now.

Jiang Cheng frowned at the small book in his hands, the inked characters staring back at him like an impenetrable wall. He ran his fingers over them, tracing their strokes, but they remained meaningless.

For a moment, frustration welled up in his chest. What use was the Tower of Records if he couldn't even read? He had thought knowledge would be his path forward, but how could he even begin if the words themselves were foreign to him?

God. he was so stupid. But was he really to blame? a part of him was assured he in fact did know how to write. two whole languages actually. but they looked nothing like the ones he should remember how to write.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm down. There was no use crying and breaking down. he had cried himself to sleep too much already, in the confines of his crude cabin.

There had to be a way. There were thousands of texts in this place, which meant there had to be people who could read them. And if people could read them, then people had to learn how.

But who would teach him?

Perhaps another outer disciple had already learned? But even if they had, why would they teach him? Everyone here was competing for a place in the sect, struggling to rise above the others. Knowledge was power, and power was not shared freely.

Jiang turned his gaze back to the shelves, his mind working through the problem. If he couldn’t rely on others, then he would have to find another way.

Then, something caught his attention.

A set of wooden tablets, different from the scrolls and books around them. Unlike the others, these had simple, large characters carved directly into the wood. Some even had small illustrations beside them.

they were left half hazardly on the table right next to the small shelf. he had been so centered on the books, that he missed them.

His heart pounded as he reached out and took one. The carvings were rough, as if they had been made hastily, but they were clear. A symbol. A picture. A meaning.

He picked one up, a hastly carved tree on it. he rubbed the rough surface of the wooden tablet. Still, he felt nothing. And then, he smacked his face. He was a cultivator. There was a reason why they only let Qi condensation disciples in here.

And so, he gathered his Qi. From his dantian, to his body. from his body, to his hand.

And then, to the small wooden tablet.

Instantly, he felt it. Tree. it was like this tablet was passing knowledge to him. how to say the word tree, in this language. And more importantly. How to read the word.

Excitement stirred in his chest, And he took a deep breath, Calming himself down. He didn’t know how long it would take. Days. Weeks. Months, maybe.

But he had time. Hopefully.