The stone door creaked open, and the warm morning sunlight spilled across the threshold, chasing away the chill that had settled overnight.

Chen Ping took a deep breath. The crisp mountain air filled his lungs, carrying the sharp, bitter scent of wild herbs and damp earth.

Only half a month remained until the deadline set by the Duty Hall. He allowed himself no room for complacency. He immediately began making final arrangements for his parents and Yuan Jingtian.

Over the past six months, fueled by a steady supply of Qi Gathering Pills, Chen Ping’s parents had successfully broken through to the 2nd Level of Qi Condensation. Yuan Jingtian, building upon his already solid foundation, had surged to the 7th Level.

Chen Ping handed each of them a newly purchased Tier 1 mid-grade Breath Concealing Mask.

“These will mask your true auras,” Chen Ping explained, his voice low and solemn. “To any casual observer, you will appear to be at the 1st Level of Qi Condensation.”

He looked his parents in the eye. “When the duty disciple arrives, you are my personal attendants. Speak as little as possible. Stay in the shadows.”

Yuan Jingtian took the thin, cicada-wing mask, the cool material resting heavy in his palm. He nodded once, offering no questions. His parents carefully stored theirs away, their faces a mixture of nervous apprehension and absolute trust in their son.

During these final two weeks, Chen Ping did not spend his time packing. Instead, he scoured every dark corner of the nearby black markets, probing for any scrap of information regarding the Foundation Establishment Pill.

After days of searching, he received a disheartening confirmation from a well-connected old broker.

“In the black market, there is only one stable way to get a Foundation Establishment Pill,” the old man said, stroking his sparse beard. “The Great Auction. It’s held once every five years by the powers behind the curtain.”

“Once every five years?” Chen Ping’s brow furrowed. “When was the last one?”

“Heh, you’ve got bad luck, kid,” the broker chuckled. “The last one was just last year. Disciples from every sect for hundreds of miles showed up. If you want the next one, you’ll be waiting another four years.”

Four years.

The words sat like a cold stone in Chen Ping’s stomach. Four years was an eternity. Too many variables could shift in that time. The investigation into Li Yingyong was a blade hanging over his head, and only the strength of a Foundation Establishment cultivator could snap the thread holding it. He couldn’t afford to wait.

If the black market was closed to him, he had to look elsewhere. The Sect. Perhaps within the inner workings of the Qingyun Sect, there was a legitimate path to the pill. Joining the Outer Sect had just become a necessity.

The appointed day arrived. The same disciple in the blue duty robe appeared punctually before the stone hut. Seeing the 3rd Level of Qi Condensation aura Chen Ping purposely projected, the disciple gave a routine nod. His gaze swept over the three figures standing respectfully behind Chen Ping.

“And these are?” the disciple asked, his tone flat.

“Senior Brother, these three are old servants from my family,” Chen Ping replied with a polite bow. “They have looked after me for years and are skilled in domestic chores. I thought it best to have someone to handle trivial matters in the Outer Sect. If the rules forbid it, I will dismiss them at once.”

The duty disciple studied them for a moment. The Tier 1 masks were sufficient to block the Divine Sense of anyone below the Foundation Establishment stage; he saw nothing but three low-level cultivators. He waved a hand dismissively.

“It’s fine. Most Outer Disciples keep a few Mortal servants or low-level laborers to attend to their needs. Just ensure they stay quiet and out of trouble. Follow me.”

“Thank you, Senior Brother.”

Chen Ping stepped out of the stone hut in the Hundred Herb Garden, leaving behind the place he had called home for five years. He had already settled the affairs of the regular laborers under his command, but he hadn’t expected them to show up.

As he walked toward the path, a crowd of laborers stood waiting to see him off. Touched by the gesture, Chen Ping bestowed a Marrow Cleansing Pill upon each of them before saying his final goodbyes.

He had developed a genuine fondness for the place, but to protect his family, he had to climb. He glanced at Wang Fa. The man was too old to move; otherwise, Chen Ping would have taken him as a true confidant.

The mountain path wound upward. Occasionally, they passed other Servant Disciples who retreated into the brush, bowing in awe at the blue robes of the Duty Hall. Chen Ping kept his eyes forward. He had walked this mountain long enough to know its beauty was a lie—only strength mattered.

The Duty Hall sat at the heart of the Outer Sect, a massive, square fortress of bluestone that radiated solemnity. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of old parchment and ink.

The registration was clinical. An old, white-haired duty officer sat behind a heavy desk, a stack of registers and a pure white jade token before him.

“Name?” the old man rasped.

“Chen Ping.”

“Cultivation?”

The officer looked up, his cloudy eyes scanning Chen Ping.

“3rd Level of Qi Condensation,” Chen Ping replied.

The officer dipped a brush in cinnabar ink and marked a red check next to Chen Ping’s name. He then picked up the blank jade token. With a flicker of Qi at his fingertips, he began to carve.

Spiritual energy flowed like a needle, and moments later, “Chen Ping” and a unique ID number were etched into the stone.

“Blood.” The officer pushed the token and a silver needle forward.

Chen Ping pricked his finger. A single drop of crimson fell onto the jade. It was absorbed instantly, like water into a sponge. The token flashed with a brief, brilliant light before settling into a dull, unadorned white.

“This is your Identity Token and the key to your new cave dwelling’s Restrictions,” the officer stated. “Guard it. If you lose it, you’ll pay in Contribution Points to replace it.”

He looked at the three behind Chen Ping. “Names and origins for the servants.”

Chen Ping provided the pre-arranged aliases and Mortal backgrounds. The officer issued three simple wooden tags for them.

“Finished,” the officer grunted, closing the book. “Zhao Ning, explain the Rules to him.”

“Yes, Uncle-Master Liu,” the duty disciple—Zhao Ning—replied. He led Chen Ping into a small, quiet side room.

“Sit, Junior Brother Chen,” Zhao Ning said, gesturing to a chair. “The Outer Sect isn’t like Servant Peak. There are expectations here. There are laws. Listen closely.”

Chen Ping sat, his expression one of humble attention. “Please, Senior Brother. I am listening.”