His eyelids felt heavy, as if weighted down by lead.

Yet, the sound of a voice—drifting in and out of focus—forced him to struggle against the darkness. He pried his eyes open, greeted only by a blurry, spinning world filled with shadowy figures…

Suddenly, he felt strong hands hoist him upright. His vision slowly sharpened.

“Dea… Deacon Li… cough… Deacon?”

Wang Ba was stunned. Deacon Li was standing right by his bedside, his thick, muscular arms supporting Wang Ba’s weight with surprising gentleness.

But what shocked him even more was Deacon Li’s demeanor. The man, who usually looked down his nose at everyone as if he were the king of the mountain, now looked like a frightened dog. He was shrinking into himself, radiating an aura of desperate fawning.

Squeezed into the narrow gap between the bed and the table, the Deacon bent his massive, fleshy waist in a respectful bow. He gripped Wang Ba’s arm, trying to drag him off the bed and onto the floor.

“Quick! Get on your knees! Pay your respects to the Immortal!”

Immortal?!

A Sect Disciple?!

They’re actually here?!

A jolt of pure adrenaline shot through Wang Ba. The grogginess of his fever vanished instantly.

He didn’t dare look in the direction Deacon Li was bowing. Terrified, he let himself be pulled, scrambling to drag his weak legs off the bed to kneel.

Just then, a clear, melodious voice—one that sounded terrifyingly familiar—spoke with a tone of utter disappointment.

“Forget it. Look at this wretched mess. It’s not him.”

“The bastard from that night was taller, broader. He looked decent enough, and he was wearing purple robes. I mistook him for a Senior Brother from the sect, which is the only reason I let him…”

Another voice, humble and deferential, chimed in immediately. “…Yes, my lord. Shall we check the other—”

“Fine. Lead the way, Deacon Mei…”

The voices faded, drifting further and further away until silence returned to the room.

Only then did the iron grip on Wang Ba’s arm loosen.

“Whew—”

Deacon Li collapsed onto the bed, ignoring the grime and the sour stench of sickness. He wiped a layer of cold sweat from his forehead.

Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed Wang Ba, who was teetering on the edge of collapse, and pulled him back onto the mattress.

Wang Ba slumped against the bedframe. Through the lattice of the window, he caught a glimpse of two figures—one in green, one in white—vanishing through the manor gates.

The green figure was undoubtedly Deacon Mei, the overseer of the laborers.

The white figure… that was naturally the Outer Sect disciple Wang Ba had pointed in the wrong direction that fateful night.

How petty can one man be?

Is someone with a heart that small even worthy of cultivating Immortality?

Wang Ba cursed inwardly, his heart still hammering against his ribs.

I just pointed the wrong way. Do you really need to hold a grudge this deep?

To personally come down here, wasting precious cultivation time, just to hunt down a random guy who gave bad directions?

Is there something wrong with his brain?

Perhaps sensing the incredulity radiating from Wang Ba, Deacon Li leaned in. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his expression dark.

“That one… he may technically be Outer Sect, but he’s already the personal disciple of an Inner Sect Elder.”

“Rumor has it he’s never suffered a single setback in his life. A few nights ago, he was apparently heading to the Merit Hall to claim a high-reward mission. But a laborer tricked him, sent him down the wrong path, and caused him to miss the deadline.”

“He was so furious he marched into the Laborer Quarters and beat Deacon Mei half to death. Deacon Mei manages tens of thousands of laborers, yet he was whipped in public like a dog. He lost all face, yet he still had to smile and thank the man for the lesson…”

Deacon Li let out a hollow laugh. “Hah! Without a Spiritual Root, we are nothing but ants in the end!”

“But that laborer… tsk. Impressive nerve.”

Deacon Li shook his head. A complex mix of resentment, indignation, and weary sorrow flashed across his face.

It was a side of the slick, opportunistic Deacon Li that Wang Ba had never seen.

Or perhaps, the slickness was the mask, and this bitter, defeated man was the reality.

Wang Ba opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat. He was terrified the disciple hadn’t gone far enough.

Deacon Li seemed to see through his hesitation. He sneered, his eyes narrowing.

“You’re a cautious one, aren’t you? Smart. But I take it you don’t plan on being a chicken-shoveling laborer for the rest of your life, do you?”

“Cough… Deacon Li… cough… This lowly one just wants a safe place to survive…” Wang Ba rasped, playing the part of the terrified invalid.

“Hah. If you only wanted to survive, you wouldn’t have come here for that scam of a book, the Physique Strengthening Scripture.”

Deacon Li’s words were sharp, his beady eyes seemingly piercing right through Wang Ba’s defenses.

“A scam…?” Wang Ba feigned confusion. “Is the scripture fake?”

“It’s a cultivation method for mortals that takes several thousand years to master,” Deacon Li retorted dryly. “If that’s not a scam, what is?”

Wang Ba fell silent.

He couldn’t argue. Deacon Li was absolutely right. Unless one was a peerless prodigy sent by the heavens, relying on the Physique Strengthening Scripture to forge a Spiritual Root was a fool’s errand. A mortal would need to reincarnate a few hundred times to finish it.

That applied to everyone—including Wang Ba, before he unlocked his panel.

Deacon Li stood up and walked to the doorway. He clasped his hands behind his back, gazing out at the distant, misty mountains. His voice grew heavy with longing.

“Who among us doesn’t dream of the day we can cast aside the mortal dust? To dine on wind and drink the morning dew… to ride the gale to the North Sea at dawn and rest in the mythical lands of Cangwu by dusk…”

“It is a cruel joke. How many laborers stay in this sect, clinging to that extravagant hope? They toil like oxen and horses for a lifetime, only to end up as a handful of yellow earth in an unmarked grave.”

“I entered the sect at eighteen, full of fire. Now? My ambitions are unfulfilled, and I have grown soft… my thighs have regained their flesh from idleness.”

“The Physique Strengthening Scripture… it ruined me.”

Wang Ba’s heart trembled.

He took the “thigh flesh” comment with a grain of salt—Deacon Li was built like a brick house, so a few extra pounds wouldn’t show regardless.

But the vulnerability was jarring. This man was a chameleon, always playing the angles. Why was he baring his soul to a lowly chicken farmer?

Did he truly see Wang Ba as a kindred spirit? Or was he testing him?

The Sect disciple had just left. The timing was too suspicious. Wang Ba couldn’t afford to be careless.

So, he simply forced a foolish, confused smile. The kind that said, ‘I don’t understand your profound words, sir, but you sound very smart.’

Seeing Wang Ba’s weak, timid, and dull reaction, a flicker of disappointment crossed Deacon Li’s face.

“Forget it,” the Deacon sighed, shaking his head. “Rest well.”

He stepped over the threshold, then paused. Without turning back, he muttered, barely loud enough to hear:

“Perhaps… if you ever have the chance to reach the Ninth Layer, you’ll understand…”

With a flick of his sleeves, he was gone.

What does that mean?

The Ninth Layer? The Ninth Layer of the Physique Strengthening Scripture?

Wang Ba stared at the empty doorway, his expression shifting like storm clouds.

He couldn’t decipher the intent behind those parting words.

Does something special happen when you reach the Ninth Layer?

A memory surfaced—Old Man Sun, the previous owner of this hut, was rumored to have reached the Ninth Layer before he died.

Is it a coincidence? Or is there a connection?

He had too little information. He filed the thought away in the deepest corner of his mind for later.

He wanted to check on the four Spirit Poultry hidden in Old Man Sun’s secret room, but he didn’t dare. What if Deacon Li pulled a feint and came back?

Dragging his sick, heavy body, he managed to scrape together some leftover rice to eat.

Later, Old Hou came up the mountain to deliver chicken feed, kindly bringing it all the way to the door.

Then came Niu Yong, the ‘Dung Tyrant’. Usually, the man hated climbing the hill to collect the waste, preferring to yell from the bottom. But today, after getting no response, he hiked all the way up. Seeing Wang Ba bedridden, Niu Yong actually cleaned the coop himself and even pressed twenty taels of silver into Wang Ba’s hand before leaving.

Watching the ‘honest and simple’ Niu Yong drive his donkey cart away, Wang Ba’s eyes darkened with complex emotions.

He had a profound new understanding of the ‘reality’ of the Sect.

If not for the illusion of the ‘Sallow-faced Taoist’—the mysterious expert Wang Ba had pretended to be associated with previously—would Niu Yong be showing such devotion today?

Absolutely not.

The warmth and coldness of human relationships were dictated solely by where the benefits lay.

Three days later.

Wang Ba, his health somewhat restored, squatted in front of the chicken coop.

His eyes shone with pure, unadulterated joy.

The egg—the one laid by the Rare Fowl after being favored by the male Spirit Poultry—had finally cracked!