Chen Ping descended the bluestone path swiftly.

His footsteps struck the stone stairs with a rhythmic, solid cadence. With every step, he felt an unprecedented sense of stability grounding him.

Behind him, high atop Servant Peak, Manager Wang’s furious curses and the pained groans of the Scarred Foreman struggling to stand were scattered by the mountain wind.

Chen Ping did not look back. He didn’t need to.

He had walked that path enough.

The Servant Management Office at the foot of the mountain was a stone house, slightly larger than Manager Wang’s residence on the peak.

In the open clearing before the door lay a dark, heavy stone lock. Next to it stood a stone stele inscribed with three bold characters:

Five Hundred Pounds.

This was the entry threshold for Regular Disciples.

The area was quiet. Only a few servants moved sundries in the distance. An elderly man with graying hair, dressed in slightly worn managerial robes, dozed on the doorstep.

Hearing the crisp sound of footsteps, the old man lifted his heavy eyelids. His murky eyes held little emotion.

“What is it?”

The old man’s voice was dry, like sandpaper on wood.

“Disciple Chen Ping applies for the Regular Disciple assessment.”

Chen Ping stood motionless, his voice clear and steady.

The old man looked him up and down, his gaze lingering for a moment.

Chen Ping wore a coarse cloth short jacket, washed so many times its color had faded to a pale gray. His frame was thin. One sleeve was rolled up, revealing a slender arm, yet faint lines of defined muscle were visible beneath the skin.

His face lacked color, but his eyes were exceptionally calm. They were devoid of the shifting timidity or fawning ingratiation common among servants.

“From up the mountain?”

The old man asked a redundant question, his tone flat.

“Yes.”

“Know the rules? Lift the stone lock. Raise it overhead once. Hold steady for three breaths.”

The old man pointed a gnarled finger at the dark stone lock and closed his eyes again, seemingly unconcerned with the outcome.

Every year on Servant Peak, several overconfident fools came to try their luck. Most couldn’t even budge the stone lock.

Chen Ping said no more.

He walked to the stone lock.

It was dark and jagged, its surface rough, exuding a palpable sense of density. He squatted down, his hands gripping the cold handles. The stone felt like ice, carrying the unforgiving hardness of the mountain itself.

Taking a deep breath, he engaged his core and planted his feet, as if taking root in the earth.

The muscles in his arms instantly tensed. Veins faintly bulged beneath his thin skin.

“Up!”

With a low shout, the stone lock left the ground!

A dull grinding sound echoed as Chen Ping steadily lifted the weight to his waist.

Without pausing, he straightened his back. Pouring every ounce of strength into his limbs, he hoisted the massive stone lock high above his head!

His arms trembled violently. His bones bore the immense pressure, emitting faint, terrifying creaks.

Sweat immediately beaded on his temples and slid down his cheeks.

But his gaze remained focused. His arms were like cast iron, firmly supporting a weight far exceeding anything from his past life.

One breath…

Two breaths…

Three breaths!

Time seemed to stretch into eternity, yet passed in a heartbeat.

Clang!

Chen Ping guided the stone lock back to the ground with a heavy thud.

He straightened up. His chest heaved, his breathing rapid, but he stood as straight as an arrow.

The old man on the doorstep had opened his eyes. A flicker of surprise passed through his murky gaze.

He stood up and slowly shuffled over to the stone lock. He examined where Chen Ping had placed it—steady, controlled—then looked back at the youth’s calm eyes.

“Hmm.”

The old man grunted a syllable of acknowledgment.

He turned and walked back into the stone house, returning with a thin wooden plaque and a folded piece of gray cloth.

“Take this plaque. Regular Disciple identity token. And the clothes. Regular Disciple uniform.”

The old man handed the items to Chen Ping; his voice remained dry.

“West end of the shack area. Find an empty shack yourself. Tomorrow at Mao Hour, report to Foreman Li at the Back Mountain Stone Quarry. He will assign your work.”

“Thank you, Manager.”

Chen Ping accepted the items.

The wooden plaque was very light. Carved into its surface was a blurred number: “79”.

The clothes were ordinary coarse linen, slightly thicker than servant attire, dyed a dusty gray.

“Remember. Once you’re a Regular Disciple, the work is heavier, and the rules are stricter. Make mistakes, and you’ll be punished or driven out.”

The old man tossed out the warning before sitting back down on the doorstep, closing his eyes as if nothing had happened.

Chen Ping clutched the identity token and clothes, turning to leave.

The residential area at the foot of the mountain was much larger than the crowded peak above. He headed toward the west end.

On the way, he encountered several Regular Disciples hurrying along. They glanced at him, their gazes lingering briefly on the uniform in his hands, before losing interest.

Just another newcomer.

As expected, the west end had more vacancies. He chose a shack tucked into a corner that looked relatively intact and ducked inside.

It was simple—just a pile of dry grass for a bed—but it was far superior to the drafty, leaking hut on the mountain.

He carefully placed the gray uniform on the grass and tucked the identity token close against his body.

Regular Disciple status: Achieved.

This meant he no longer had to endure Fatty Wang’s endless harassment. He no longer had to perform the grueling, cliff-side tasks that could cost him his life at any moment.

Although it meant heavier workloads and stricter rules… life wasn’t constantly threatened.

Most importantly, he would receive a monthly ration of coarse rice and meager wages.

Wages?

Chen Ping touched the warm Jade Pendant against his chest.

He didn’t need wages to buy anything.

He needed time. He needed undisturbed space.

Regular Disciples had relatively fixed working hours: start at Mao Hour (5 AM), finish at Shen Hour (3 PM).

This meant nearly three hours of free time every single day!

Moreover, Regular Disciples were relatively independent of each other, unlike servants who were constantly watched by foremen.

For Chen Ping, this was the greatest treasure of all.

The next day, before Mao Hour arrived, he reached the Back Mountain Stone Quarry.

The scale here was far larger than the operations on the peak.

The huge quarry pit looked as if it had been gnawed by a giant beast, exposing layers of bluish-gray rock. The air was choked with dust, filled with the sounds of clinking chisels, work chants, and the rumble of rolling stones.

Foreman Li was a lean, dark-skinned man. His face was etched with deep lines, and his eyes were sharp.

He glanced at the identity token Chen Ping handed over. He didn’t ask much, simply pointing to a pile of waist-high boulders and several heavy iron hammers.

“Newcomer? Strength looks passable. Break these stones.”

Foreman Li’s voice was hoarse and brooked no argument.

“Smash the large stones until they are fist-sized. Uniform size. Pile the finished ones over there. Daily quota: five cubic meters.”

He glared at Chen Ping.

“Finish by Shen Hour. If incomplete, wages are deducted. Damage the tools, you compensate with money. Slack off, and get lost!”

Having said his piece, he paid Chen Ping no further attention.

Chen Ping turned to inspect the others.

Breaking stones was pure, labor-intensive work. It wasn’t dangerous like mining or clearing steep slopes, but it required sustained endurance and precise force application.

Chen Ping picked up a heavy iron hammer. The metal felt cold and dense in his hand.

He walked to a large, bluish rectangular stone that would require two people to encircle. Without hesitation, he chose an angle and swung the hammer.

Thud!

A dull, loud impact echoed. Stone chips flew.

An immense recoil traveled up the handle, shaking his arm and vibrating through his entire body. The muscles in his arm instantly tensed to dissipate the force.

Only a shallow white mark remained on the rectangular stone.

He adjusted his breathing and swung the hammer again.

His action was not fast, but each time, he poured his full strength into hitting the same stress point.

Soreness quickly accumulated in his arms. Sweat soon soaked his back. But his gaze remained focused on that single point on the stone.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The monotonous, heavy striking sounds merged into the quarry’s massive din. Other Regular Disciples were busy with their own tasks; nobody noticed the newcomer in the corner.

On his first day, Chen Ping worked slowly.

He needed to adapt to the hammer’s weight and the draining nature of the labor. When his arms became so swollen he could barely lift them, he stopped for a brief rest.

He practiced the Vitality Technique breathing method, trying to mobilize a faint warm flow from the depths of his body to alleviate the fatigue.

Then, he swung the hammer again.

When the gong sounded to end the shift at Shen Hour, there were less than three cubic meters of crushed stone in his pile.

Foreman Li walked over, expressionless. He glanced at the pile and didn’t speak. He simply marked a stroke on his personal wooden board.

The meaning was clear: Task incomplete. No wages today.

Chen Ping silently put down the hammer.

His arms felt like they were filled with lead, burning with pain, but his heart held little discouragement.

He estimated his current strength and skill. Five cubic meters was his limit. He just needed to adapt for a few days. Plus, with the Spirit Rice and meat from his pocket dimension to supplement his diet, he could definitely complete it.

He returned to his shack. The sky was not yet dark.

He didn’t immediately enter his portable space. Instead, he walked to a sheltered spot behind the shack, facing a leeward rock wall.

He assumed the stance and began to practice the Vitality Technique.

His movements were slow and difficult. He had smashed stones for a whole day; every muscle pulled against his spirit. Every lift of his arm, every twist of his waist tugged at sore tendons and bones.

But he gritted his teeth and persisted.

Five sets of the Vitality Technique. This was the iron rule he had set for himself. He must complete it!

It was directly related to whether he could quickly become top among the servant disciples.

“Once my Physical Strength exceeds one thousand pounds…”

He exhaled sharply, sweat dripping from his chin.

“…I will settle accounts with Fatty Wang!”