Rain came that night in sheets, hammering against the patched roof of the main hall like a celestial drumline testing Chen Yuan's amateur carpentry. The leaves they'd woven bent and bowed but mostly held, turning what would once have been a flood into a persistent, annoying drip in only three places. For a sect barely four days old, that counted as a miracle.
Chen Yuan sat at a low, uneven table he'd cobbled together from fallen beams, a dull knife in hand as he shaved wood into something that resembled bowls. Lin Mei and Zhang Wei were in the courtyard despite the drizzle, practicing the Four Foundations under the soft glow of early-morning spiritual haze.
"Back straighter, Wei," Chen Yuan called through the open doorway, not looking up from his carving. "You're carrying a mountain, not trying to become one."
Zhang Wei adjusted his stance, the horse posture so natural on him now that the correction made his shoulders settle rather than strain. Lin Mei, a few steps away, moved through the first sequence of Flowing Water, her footwork hesitant but increasingly sure as she traced imaginary currents across the wet stone.
A soft chime appeared at the edge of Chen Yuan's perception—System feedback that he'd started to recognize the way a craftsman recognizes the sound of a good hammer strike.
"Qi's moving smoother between you two," he said. "Good. Keep breathing. Mei, don't rush the turn; let your weight follow your heart, not the other way around."
He finished the second bowl—a shallow, slightly crooked thing—and set it beside the first. They weren't pretty, but they wouldn't splinter in anyone's mouth, and in his book that already put them ahead of half the disposable cutlery his company had used in corporate events.
"Master!" Lin Mei's voice cut through the rain. "There's… someone on the path."
Chen Yuan's heart gave a small, traitorous skip. Visitors this early could only mean trouble or fate, and he'd never been fond of either without coffee. Still, he pushed himself up, joints muttering, and walked to the courtyard edge.
A figure had indeed appeared on the mountain path—a small shape, leaning heavily on a stick, clothes plastered to their body by the rain. As they drew closer, Chen Yuan saw that it was a boy even younger than Lin Mei, maybe ten at most, with a shaved head and eyes too calm for his age.
He walked like someone who had learned to stretch every step, conserving strength with a monk's efficiency. At his side swung a cloth bundle, sheltered under his tattered cloak.
The boy stopped a few meters from the courtyard, bowed with shaky formality, and spoke in a voice that was thin but steady.
"Disciple candidate Li An greets Sect Master."
Chen Yuan blinked. "You… know who I am?"
"The mountain told me," Li An said simply. "The wind carried your name. The 'Restart Sect.' A place for people no one else wants."
Zhang Wei shifted uneasily; Lin Mei's grip on her trowel tightened. Chen Yuan exhaled slowly, then motioned the boy closer.
"Come in before you drown," he said. "We don't stand on ceremony in the rain. That's how people catch colds and die dramatically for no good reason."
Inside the main hall, the air was warmer—thanks to Zhang Wei's careful fire-tending—and smelled faintly of damp wood and spiritual millet. Chen Yuan guided Li An to a cushion, noting the boy's limp and the way his left leg dragged just a fraction behind the right.
"Let me see that leg," he said.
Li An hesitated, then pulled up the soaked cloth. The limb beneath was thinner than it should have been, the muscles uneven, an old scar twisting along the calf where something sharp had once torn through flesh.
"Accident?" Chen Yuan asked.
"Punishment," Li An replied, tone matter-of-fact. "I was a novice at Silent Cloud Temple. I asked too many questions. Tripped a senior during meditation when they struck another novice for moving."
Chen Yuan's jaw set. "So they crippled you for having better priorities."
"They said a useless leg would teach me stillness."
Zhang Wei looked away; Lin Mei's eyes burned. Chen Yuan, for his part, took a slow breath and let his anger settle into something dense and steady instead of hot and sharp.
"Li An," he said, gentler now, "the Restart Sect doesn't take disciples because they're useful. We take them because they're people. You understand that?"
The boy studied him with those too-calm eyes, searching for mockery or hidden cruelty and finding neither. "I would like to," he said at last. "But I have to know the terms."
"Smart kid," Chen Yuan murmured. "Alright. Terms."
He motioned for Lin Mei and Zhang Wei to come closer, then sat cross-legged opposite the three of them. Rain pattered against the patched roof; the fire crackled softly. For the first time, the ruined main hall felt properly like a sect's heart—a place where words mattered.
"In normal sects," Chen Yuan began, "you kneel, swear your life and death to a master you barely know, and promise to obey even if they tell you to jump off a cliff for 'temperance training.' We're not doing that."
Lin Mei's shoulders eased a little. Zhang Wei's eyes flickered with relief.
"Here's how it works," Chen Yuan continued. "I'll make an oath, and so will you. Not about blind obedience, but about how we treat each other."
He raised his right hand, palm up, feeling faint warmth stir in the air—the System listening, the mountain listening, whatever it was that kept tally of these things.
"I, Chen Yuan," he said, voice quiet but firm, "Sect Master of the Restart Sect, swear three things."
He looked each of them in the eye as he spoke.
"First: I will never treat you as tools. You are people, not swords or spirit stones."
"Second: I will never force you into danger you do not understand. If I ask you to risk yourself, I will tell you why and what it may cost."
"Third: I will always give you the chance to start again. If you fail, if you falter, you are not broken. You are learning."
The air hummed softly, the way it did before a summer storm. A faint, translucent ripple spread outward from his hand, sinking into the cracked stone of the floor.
"In return," he said, "if you want to be disciples of this sect, you'll swear your own."
Zhang Wei swallowed. "Wh-what do we swear, Master?"
"Nothing you can't keep." Chen Yuan smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes soft. "Three things, to match mine."
He held up one finger.
"One: You will not call yourselves trash in my presence. You can be weak, tired, scared—but not worthless. Not here."
A second finger.
"Two: You will not abandon your fellow disciples for the sake of convenience or fear. If you run, you run together. If you stand, you stand together."
A third.
"Three: You will try. Not succeed, not excel—*try*. That's all I ask."
Silence pressed in for a heartbeat, broken only by the rain and the small pop of sap in the fire.
Lin Mei spoke first, voice shaking but clear. "I, Lin Mei, swear to follow those three things as a disciple of the Restart Sect." Her hand trembled as she mirrored his gesture, palm up, but the light that answered her oath was soft and steady, like moonlight on a pond.
Zhang Wei straightened, the old habit of bowing to cruel masters replaced with something different—respect without fear. "I, Zhang Wei, swear the same." The air around him felt heavier for a moment, his oath sinking deep like a stone into rich soil.
Li An watched them, then nodded slowly. "I have nowhere else to go that is not a cage," he said. "If this is a garden instead…" He lifted his small hand. "I, Li An, swear those three things as well."
His oath was quiet, but the answering resonance was sharp and clear, like a chime struck in a temple at dawn.
The System's notifications brushed against Chen Yuan's awareness, but he didn't check them yet. Some moments deserved to stand on their own.
"Good," he said simply. "That's that, then. You're mine. My headaches, my pride, my kids."
Lin Mei flushed at the word; Zhang Wei looked down, hiding a quick, startled smile. Li An just blinked, then, very carefully, allowed the corners of his mouth to lift a fraction.
"Now," Chen Yuan added briskly, clapping his hands once, "since we've made everything all solemn and spiritual, it's time for highly advanced, secret sect techniques."
All three straightened.
"Roof patching, version two." He pointed upward where a fresh drip had started in the far corner. "Today, we learn how to build scaffolding. Foundation training for the Body of Stone, practical application."
Zhang Wei huffed a short laugh. "Master, that sounds like normal work."
"Exactly," Chen Yuan said. "Cultivation that doesn't help you fix a roof isn't worth much in my book. Move, move. Mei, you're in charge of measuring. Wei, lifting. Li An…" He eyed the boy's bad leg. "You're our safety inspector."
"What does a safety inspector do?" Li An asked.
"Points out when everyone else is being stupid."
For the first time, the ten-year-old actually grinned. "I can do that."
They spent the afternoon turning fallen beams into a shaky but functional scaffold, Chen Yuan correcting stances and grip as they worked. Every lift became resistance training for Zhang Wei; every careful climb became movement practice for Lin Mei; every angle Li An checked trained his eyes and balance on uneven terrain.
By evening, the worst leak was patched, the three disciples were coated in mud and sawdust, and the Sect Harmony bar—when Chen Yuan finally glanced at it—had ticked upward again.
They ate from the new carved bowls, the spiritual millet marginally less awful this time. Li An took tiny, precise bites; Zhang Wei devoured his portion with the focus of someone who'd learned never to waste a meal; Lin Mei ate slowly, glancing now and then at the others as if reassuring herself they were really there.
"Master," Li An said quietly, when the bowls were mostly empty, "in Silent Cloud Temple, they said attachment leads to suffering. That caring too much makes you weak."
"And do you believe that?" Chen Yuan asked.
Li An thought for a long moment. "I believed that being alone hurt."
"That's an answer." Chen Yuan leaned back, joints protesting. "Some people think cutting themselves off from others will save them from pain. They forget that loneliness is also pain. And it doesn't build anything."
He gestured at the patched roof, the makeshift table, the three bowls. "This sect is going to be built on attachment. On caring too much. We'll suffer for it sometimes. But we'll suffer *together*. That makes all the difference."
Outside, the rain eased to a gentle drizzle. Inside, three children who had been treated as tools and defects sat a little closer without quite realizing it, drawn by shared warmth and the unfamiliar safety of being seen.
Later, when they slept—Lin Mei curled protectively around her trowel, Zhang Wei sprawled like someone who still expected to be kicked awake for work, Li An on his side with hands folded neatly—Chen Yuan finally opened the System panel fully.
Lines of text floated before him:
[Sect Harmony: 65/100]
[New Sect Tenet Registered: "Second Chances for All"]
[Unique Oath Mechanic Unlocked: "Shared Burden" – When one disciple faces mental strain, others recover 10% faster when supporting them.]
[Host Realm Progress: Mortal Caretaker – 15%]
[Title Acquired: "Oathbound Grandfather" – Increases disciple trust gain from honest promises.]
Chen Yuan snorted softly. "Grandfather, huh? Took you long enough to notice."
He dismissed the screen and lay back on his own thin cushion, listening to the steady breathing around him. For the first time since waking in this world, he didn't feel like a stranger squatting in someone else's ruins.
This wasn't just a mountain anymore.
It was home.