Brian Bolton unconsciously swallowed; the bit of black wheat steamed bun he’d eaten in the cafeteria that afternoon wasn’t nearly enough to fill the gap between his teeth.

The meals for menial disciples consisted of two black wheat buns per meal, a plate of random pickled vegetables, and a bowl of egg drop soup so thin you could see the bottom of the bowl at a glance.

Each bun was only half the size of a fist—barely enough for someone who didn’t move much, but for menial disciples like them who had to do hard labor, it was nowhere near sufficient.

Passing by a cliffside terrace, Brian Bolton paused, glancing sideways down from the platform.

A mass of dark clouds spread below the mountain; above, a crescent moon cast its clear light. The distant mountains were silent and still, only the wind howling through them.

Two nobles draped in sable stood in the right corner of the terrace, speaking softly. It was unclear whether they were admiring the moon or having a heart-to-heart.

By the light of the Daoist palace, Brian Bolton took a look—the brown fur of the sable coats reflected the light, glossy and smooth.

He had always thought sable fur was purple, but now he saw there was nothing purple about it at all.

“What are you doing here?

Don’t disturb the lay patrons!”

At that moment, a team of patrolling Daoists walked by behind him, rebuking him in low voices.

The leader, tall and powerfully built, with a face full of black beard, held a lantern in one hand and a long staff in the other.

From a distance, he looked like a tiger descending the mountain, his gaze fierce and imposing.

Brian Bolton sighed inwardly.

Menial disciples had no rights at all, but on the surface, he quickly bowed his head in salute, not daring to neglect proper etiquette.

“Yes.

I’ll leave right away.”

He replied.

That tall, sturdy Daoist’s Daoist name was Eric King, the team leader for this patrol shift.

Brian Bolton had seen him several times and had a deep impression of him.

This man was just over two meters tall, with a thick waist and broad shoulders, limbs strong and powerful. He had once sparred in the training ground, taking on three at once and still holding the advantage.

Daoist Eric King nodded, watching Brian Bolton hurry off toward the menial disciples’ dormitory area before shifting his gaze and continuing his patrol.

In the blink of an eye, another half month passed.

During this half month, Brian Bolton went back and forth daily between the laundry room, the training ground, the cafeteria, and the disciples’ dormitory area.

Every day he ate dry, oily food, and felt no sign of accumulating any attribute points.

He knew that every time he accumulated attributes, he could feel a faint warmth gathering inside his body.

But once he was too exhausted, that accumulating warmth would noticeably weaken.

For more than ten days, Brian Bolton had to wash barrel after barrel of clothes every day, consuming a huge amount of energy.

He understood in his heart that he had to find a way out of this situation.

But it wasn’t all bad news—after he paid some money, his name didn’t appear in the second round of menial disciple eliminations.

This allowed Brian Bolton to breathe a sigh of relief.

Daoist registration was highly valued in Great Ling; if he could rise higher in the future, his treatment would be much better.

Day by day, time passed, and in the blink of an eye, another half month went by.

Qinghe Palace had just sent off a group of distinguished guests who had come for a tea gathering and began the annual selection and assessment of new cultivation disciples.

Brian Bolton saw that his attribute points on his status panel hadn’t increased at all—they were still at 0—and he became even more aware that he couldn’t keep wasting time like this.

But for the moment, he couldn’t think of any good solution.

***April, 1183.

Brian Bolton carried two buckets of clothes, following the mountain path toward the drying field at the back of the mountain.

Dawn was just breaking. The entire Qinghe Palace was rectangular in layout; the drying field at the very back was pressed up against the mountain forest and stone cliffs, located outside the palace walls.

Other than Daoists coming to dry clothes, almost no one else came here.

All around were bare trees and piles of pale, jagged rocks.

Brian Bolton walked a few steps and rested, partly because the path was rough, and partly because the mountain mist was thick at this hour, making it hard to see ahead.

At times like this, he’d heard from the senior brothers and sisters in the laundry room that monkeys from the mountains might come out to steal clothes.

So he had to be extra careful.

When drying clothes, someone had to keep watch. This time, Brian Bolton was lucky enough to get this relatively easy job.

The two buckets of clothes weighed sixty jin in total, and he had to carry at least fifteen buckets back and forth—this was only part of the laundry.

Panting, Brian Bolton wiped the sweat from his forehead and prepared to move on.

Just then, from the mist ahead to his left, he faintly heard voices.

“.She didn’t come. What’s going on?

Did she suspect you before?”

A young man’s voice, lowered.

“I don’t know… I don’t think so. She was still confiding in me last night,” a woman’s voice replied, a bit flustered.

“Whatever the case, when you go to town for supplies this time, you’re responsible for creating an opportunity. This thing—before we leave, put it in her gourd,” the man said, voice as low as possible.

Brian Bolton’s heart tightened. It wasn’t the first time he’d overheard people talking in private, but this time… something seemed off.

In the Daoist palace, because of the strong wind, voices could carry for more than ten meters downwind, even if they were lowered.

And the people talking often wouldn’t notice.

Brian Bolton immediately froze, slowly backing away.

There was usually no one here. Since the others were conspiring about something, if he were discovered, the consequences could be dire.