Chen Ping adapted quickly.

The heavy labor from Mao Hour to Shen Hour each day was no longer a burden that could crush him; instead, it became a crucible to temper his muscles and bones.

For the first three days, his arms were so sore he could barely hold his rice bowl. But he gritted his teeth and persevered, integrating the breathing techniques of the Vitality Technique into every swing of the hammer and every exertion of force.

The steamed Spirit Rice and roasted Wild Boar meat from the Jade Pendant space provided potent nutrition, nourishing his weary body and accelerating the recovery of his Physical Strength.

On the fourth day, he smashed four cubic meters of crushed stone.

On the fifth day, just before the gong signaling the end of work at Shen Hour sounded, his hammer split the last piece of rubble with precise force. The rock cracked open and rolled onto the finished pile.

Five cubic meters. No more, no less.

Foreman Li strolled over as usual. His dark, thin face showed no expression as he simply used a calloused finger to cross out the record representing Chen Ping on the wooden board he carried.

This meant today’s wages were secured.

After finishing work, Chen Ping received his first-ever payment.

A small gray cloth bag containing a heavy hundred copper coins.

The coins clinked lightly against each other, a sound both unfamiliar and weighty to Chen Ping. He weighed the bag in his hand; it felt substantial.

One hundred copper coins…

He remembered his life with his parents before… In the small town, a coarse grain steamed bun cost only one copper coin. This bag of money was enough for an ordinary family of three to eat their fill for seven or eight days.

The Immortal Sect indeed treated Regular Disciples much more generously than Servant Disciples.

Chen Ping tucked the money bag close to his chest. The sect’s “generosity” was built upon labor that far exceeded what an ordinary human could endure; it was earned with blood, sweat, and raw Physical Strength.

As for Fatty Wang…

Chen Ping gnashed his teeth in silent fury.

That beast withheld their rations, used whips to extract their last ounce of strength, and treated them like livestock to be discarded at will. If not for the Spirit Rice and Wild Boar meat in the Jade Pendant space, he, Chen Ping, would have been nothing more than a corpse thrown into a mass grave within a few years.

He remembered this debt. Every single grudge was carved into his bones.

Life seemed to hold a glimmer of hope now. The two-plus hours after work each day were his most precious time.

Under the stone cliff behind the Shack, he never ceased practicing the Vitality Technique. The movements were still difficult, but with every lift of an arm or twist of the waist, he could feel a faint yet steadily growing surge of power deep within his muscles.

Combined with the food from the space, he could clearly perceive the changes in his body; his Physical Strength was steadily climbing.

One thousand pounds… That goal no longer seemed so distant. He looked forward to the day he could stand openly before Fatty Wang and break him.

However, this brief period of peace was shattered one afternoon.

Chen Ping was swinging his hammer, the rhythmic clang echoing against the cliff face. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the scorching hot stone block with a faint sizzle.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bloated figure sneak furtively into the entrance of the Stone Quarry.

It was Fatty Wang!

That face piled with coarse flesh—Chen Ping would recognize it even if it were burned to ashes.

Fatty Wang didn’t venture deep into the quarry pit. Instead, he headed straight for Foreman Li’s temporary resting shed.

The two conversed in low voices within the shed’s shadow. Fatty Wang wore his usual obsequious expression, mixed with a hint of barely concealed viciousness. Foreman Li listened expressionlessly, occasionally nodding slightly.

Chen Ping’s heart sank heavily. A sense of foreboding seized him like a cold hand around his throat.

Sure enough, not long after, Foreman Li strolled over to the pile of stone material where Chen Ping was working. Without even glancing at the crushed stone Chen Ping had just finished processing, his raspy voice cut through the air.

“Chen Ping, stop smashing. Pack up your tools and report to the Spirit Mine District. They’re short-handed over there. Go this afternoon.”

Spirit Mine District!

The three words pierced Chen Ping’s ears like ice spikes. His hand gripping the hammer instantly tightened until his knuckles turned white.

All sorts of terrifying rumors circulating among Servant Peak about the Spirit Mine District flooded into his mind—descending deep into dark underground depths, breathing air mixed with dust and toxic miasmas…

Digging those stones said to contain “Immortal energy,” and then… then one’s body would slowly deteriorate, coughing blood, skin festering until finally dying silently in some mine tunnel, wrapped in a straw mat and tossed out like refuse.

It was said to be the assignment with the highest mortality rate for a Servant Disciple!

Chen Ping abruptly looked up at Foreman Li. The other man’s dull eyes held no emotion whatsoever—only a customary indifference.

Chen Ping’s gaze swept toward where Fatty Wang had been. The obese figure had already disappeared from the quarry exit.

It was Fatty Wang! Definitely that scum!

He hadn’t managed to beat Chen Ping to death on Servant Peak with whips before; now he had colluded with Foreman Li to send him into this death trap.

A violent surge of killing intent erupted from deep within Chen Ping’s heart, rushing straight to his head. His teeth nearly ground to dust; the handle of the hammer groaned under his grip.

He wanted to charge forward and smash Foreman Li’s skull with this iron hammer, then rush up Servant Peak and chop Fatty Wang into mincemeat!

But he couldn’t.

Not far behind Foreman Li stood two foremen holding short clubs, their eyes alert. At this moment, their gazes had already subtly fallen upon Chen Ping—scrutinizing him like wolves watching a wounded deer.

Chen Ping took a deep breath and forcibly suppressed the rage threatening to incinerate his reason. He lowered his eyelids to conceal the turbulent ferocity in his eyes and replied in a low voice.

“…Yes, Manager.”

He silently set down the heavy iron hammer and picked up the steel drill rod from the ground. His movements were slow—seeming filled with immense reluctance, yet also as if struck powerless by this sudden order.

Seeing this, any last trace of suspicion vanished from Foreman Li’s eyes; he simply assumed Chen Ping had been frightened out of his wits by the Spirit Mine District’s fearsome reputation.

He gestured toward a nearby foreman with his chin.

“Take him there.”

No explanation whatsoever. Not an inch of leeway given.

The path leading toward the Spirit Mine District wound downward. The air gradually grew cold and damp, carrying faint mixed scents—earthy mustiness combined with something metallic and pungent.

The foreman brought Chen Ping before the entrance leading into an enormous mine tunnel, handing him over to a mine district Manager wearing a dark gray short jacket, a leather whip hanging at his waistband.

The entrance gaped blackly like a maw leading down into abyssal depths.

Guards stationed at the entrance wore matching dark blue martial attire, longswords hanging at their waists, expressions indifferent. They were genuine sect disciples, true “Immortals.”

Their gazes swept over Chen Ping and the accompanying foreman as if looking upon roadside stones, devoid of any warmth whatsoever.

“Newcomer. Chen Ping,” the accompanying foreman told the mine district Manager.

The mine district Manager was a lean middle-aged man with a long scar running down his face, his eyes sinister. He looked Chen Ping up and down, pausing especially upon his slender frame, the corners of his mouth twitching with a hint of barely perceptible scorn.

“Rules are simple: Go down the mine, dig raw ore. Each person has a monthly quota of one hundred pounds.”

The scarred Manager’s voice was raspy, like grinding stones.

“Tools are in that shed over there. Fail to meet the quota, we deduct Spirit Stones. After deductions, we continue deducting next month. Three consecutive months of failing to meet the quota, or dying inside… that counts as your bad luck. Don’t think about slacking off, and don’t think about secretly hoarding ore slag either. If the guards catch you, you’ll be beaten to death on site. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Chen Ping’s voice was flat, without inflection.

“Get inside then. Tunnel Bing-Seven.”

The scarred Manager waved his hand, shooing him away like a fly.