Godzilla's earth-shaking roar collided head-on with the furious cries of Qingyun Sect's experts.
The soundwaves smashed together like raging tides, tearing through the mountains.
For a full hour, heaven and earth trembled.
Chang Le crouched tightly behind a massive boulder, his back pressed cold against the stone.
The ground quaked beneath him. Explosions thundered in the distance. Buildings collapsed. Beastly roars shook the air.
Every deafening impact made his heart seize—any stray shockwave or flying debris could end his life in an instant.
What sin did I commit in my past life…?
All he wanted was to refine a few pills, earn a little money, and grow stronger quietly.
How had he somehow blown up an entire sect on his very first day?
Wasn't there supposed to be a newbie protection period?!
An hour later, the chaos stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
It was as if an invisible hand had crushed all sound.
The roars vanished. The explosions ceased.
Only the wind whispered through the ruins, carrying faint groans that proved the catastrophe had truly happened.
The grand azure formation protecting the mountain flickered weakly before fading away.
Night fel.
The once-glorious sect lay in ruins—collapsed halls, shattered walls, scattered debris glowing faintly under moonlight.
Smoke and dust hung thick in the air, mixed with the metallic scent of blood.
Chang Le slumped against the rock, exhausted, freezing, and starving.
Shen Congfei's residence was gone.
His own shabby room had collapsed halfway.
A cold mountain wind cut through his thin clothes, making him shiver violently.
I'm doomed… This sect is way too fragile. Am I the first transmigrator in history whose sect gets destroyed on day one?
Where are the benefits? No insurance, no compensation—at least feed me before throwing me to death!
Just as darkness crept into his vision, a streak of light descended into the courtyard.
The glow faded, revealing a middle-aged Daoist.
His robe was torn, hair disheveled, face pale with exhaustion—but his eyes were sharp as blades, one hand resting on his sword.
"Who are you?" he demanded coldly. "Why are you here?"
Chang Le nearly cried in relief.
He hurriedly bowed.
"R-Reporting to Immortal! This lowly one is Chang Le, a Medicine Boy accepted by Immortal Shen Congfei! He told me to wait here while he went to report—b-but then that terrifying noise…"
The Daoist's gaze softened slightly.
"Heavenly Workshop Hall. Zhao Mang."
He sighed, his tone turning heavy.
"The sect has suffered a calamity. An ancient beast appeared and ravaged the mountain."
He paused, then added indifferently:
"Junior Brother Shen… perished. Body and soul destroyed."
Dead?
Chang Le froze—then joy nearly exploded inside him.
He's dead?!
That meant no evidence.
No witnesses.
No one to pin the mess on him!
The bounty, the pills, the disaster—everything vanished with Shen Congfei!
He barely suppressed his grin and forced a devastated expression.
"W-What?! Immortal Shen… how could this be…"
Zhao Mang sighed, clearly believing him.
"Since he's gone, there's no reason for you to remain here."
"Two choices," he continued calmly.
"First, I send you down the mountain.
Second, you go to the Servant Quarter and find work."
Down the mountain?
That was a death sentence.
Chang Le dropped to his knees.
"Immortal, please show mercy! If I leave the sect, I'll surely die! I'm willing to do any labor—carry water, clean stables, anything! I beg you!"
Zhao Mang studied him for a moment, then flicked his sleeve.
The world spun.
When Chang Le regained his footing, he stood before a crooked wooden sign:
Servant Quarter
Half the wall had collapsed. It looked more like a refugee camp than part of a sect.
Zhao Mang was gone.
A limping overseer eyed him with annoyance.
"Another useless mortal mouth to feed…"
Still, he tossed Chang Le a wooden token carved with the word Labor.
"Kitchen's that way. Grab food. Find a shack. Work starts at dawn."
Chang Le clutched the token like treasure.
Food. Finally.
The "kitchen" was little more than a thatched shed with bubbling porridge vats and rock-hard flatbread.
He devoured everything without complaint.
That night, he squeezed into a half-collapsed shack with other servants, listening to coughing and sighs until sleep took him.
Morning arrived cold and loud.
The devastation looked even worse in daylight.
Servants swarmed the ruins, clearing rubble under shouted orders.
Chang Le found the overseer again.
"Check the board yourself," the man snapped. "Can't do it? Get lost."
The task board was packed:
Pill Hall Fire Attendant (Fire Spiritual Root required)
Artifact Pavilion Transport (Strength required)
Mountain Cleanup (High mortality rate)
Spirit Beast Garden (…death wish)
None were suitable.
Then he spotted one at the bottom:
Medicine Garden Hand – Plot C-7
Requirements: Careful, patient
Contribution: 0.5 per day
Low pay. Low risk.
Perfect.
He grabbed the token without hesitation.
Life settled into a dull routine.
Plot C-7 was remote, with thin spiritual energy. Only common herbs grew there—Heart-Calming Grass, Blood-Coagulating Flowers, nothing valuable.
His days were spent watering, weeding, recording growth.
Two elderly Qi Condensation servants worked alongside him and occasionally offered advice.
Life was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Chang Le grew anxious.
He needed herbs for the System—but touching sect property was suicide.
Contribution Points? That would take forever.
And the Spirit Stones the Wang Clan stole…
I'll settle that debt someday.
Then, opportunity came.
That afternoon, a batch of Blood-Coagulating Flowers ripened.
As they finished sorting them, sword-light descended.
Five Medicine Pavilion disciples landed gracefully—three men, two women.
Their robes were pristine. Their auras sharp.
They looked like immortals beside the dirt-covered servants.
Chang Le lowered his head.
Then he saw her.
Tall, elegant, icy.
Even the plain disciple robes couldn't hide her grace.
Snow-pale skin. Cold, clear eyes. A presence that drew all light toward her.
Chang Le's heart skipped.
Damn…
Beside her stood a smaller, prettier girl, but next to that icy beauty, she faded completely.
"Junior Sister Ye," one disciple said eagerly, "these contribution points sho
uld be enough for a Qi Condensation Pill."
Ye Yuetang nodded faintly.
The smaller girl scoffed.
"Qi Condensation Pill? With her low-grade Spirit Root? Even ten pills wouldn't help much."
She smiled sweetly, venom in every word.
"Some people rely on looks and act aloof, thinking they're special."
Ye Yuetang's fingers tightened slightly.
But she said nothing.
The smaller girl snorted and flew off.
The others followed.
Soon, only Ye Yuetang remained, standing quietly among the herbs as the sunset painted her in gold.
Chang Le's heart raced.
This is it.
He stepped forward.
"This one greets Fairy Ye."
She glanced at him coolly. "What is it?"
He steadied himself.
"This Disciple was once a Medicine Boy. My parents were alchemists and left behind some formulas… ones that can improve cultivation efficiency."
Her eyes flickered.
"You? Improve aptitude?"
"I cannot refine pills," he admitted quickly. "But I understand herbs and compatibility. Your aura gathers but doesn't circulate smoothly—there's a bottleneck. Perhaps… I could help."
Silence.
She hesitated.
Then a familiar mocking voice cut in.
"Oh? Senior Sister Ye is so desperate she's listening to mortals now?"
Shen Qiufeng landed nearby, sneering.
"Alchemy? Improving aptitude? How laughable."
Ye Yuetang's gaze turned icy.
Finally, she said calmly, "Fine. Come with me."
Sword light flared.
Moments later, Chang Le stood in a small courtyard halfway up the mountain.
Simple. Quiet. Isolated.
Ye Yuetang spoke coldly.
"The east room is empty. Clean it yourself. Don't disturb my cultivation. If you have ideas, write them down."
She shut the door.
Chang Le stood there, stunned.
Then grinned.
Success.
As he cleaned the room, his imagination ran wild.
A beautiful senior sister. A hidden genius. A slow rise to glory.
This was how novels began.
Unable to resist, he called out:
"Fairy, don't worry! From now on, your pills are on me—I'll make sure you're well-fed and thriving!"
The door creaked open.
Her icy gaze pinned him in place.
"Say one more word," she said calmly, "and I'll cut out your tongue."
The door slammed shut.
Chang Le swallowed and laughed awkwardly.
"…Right. Serious type."
Still, as he lay down that night, he felt hope for the first time.
A foothold.
A patron.
A future.
And this time—
He swore to heaven—
He would not blow up another mountain.