Morning came early in the Origin Harmonization Sect.
Not because the sun rose faster here, but because no one waited for late sleepers.
A sharp clang echoed through the outer disciple quarters, striking the wooden boards suspended at the end of the yard. The sound carried across the clustered dwellings, rough and impatient, as if warning anyone still lying down that consequences would follow.
Chen Yu was already awake.
The habit had formed without intention. Ever since stepping out of the forbidden grounds, his sleep had grown lighter, his awareness sharper. He did not feel restless—only alert, as though some part of him refused to fully lower its guard.
Around him, other new disciples stirred. Some groaned. Others cursed softly. A few sprang up in panic, scrambling into outer robes that were still stiff and unfamiliar.
The yard filled quickly.
A middle-aged man stood at the front, his outer elder robe faded at the hems. He did not raise his voice, nor did he rush. His eyes swept over the gathering with practiced indifference, lingering on no one for more than a breath.
"Outer disciples," he said. "Follow."
No further instruction was given.
They were led through winding stone paths toward a wide open ground carved into the mountainside. Wooden posts dotted the area, some cracked from use, others freshly replaced. At the edges stood boards inscribed with names and numbers, the characters etched deep and dark.
Chen Yu noticed the way some disciples instinctively glanced at those boards.
Not with curiosity—but with tension.
Training began without ceremony.
Simple movements. Strikes. Stances. Repetition.
Nothing mystical. Nothing that resembled the legends Chen Yu had read back on Earth. It felt closer to disciplined labor than enlightenment. Yet as time passed, he sensed something else beneath it—an invisible pressure that pressed inward with every breath drawn, every movement completed.
Some adapted quickly.
Others struggled.
A young man not far from Chen Yu collapsed to one knee after barely an hour, sweat soaking his back. No one moved to help him. The outer elder's gaze passed over him as if he were no different from a broken tool.
Only when the man forced himself upright again did the elder nod faintly and continue.
When the training finally ended, the disciples were herded toward the inscribed boards.
"This is recorded," the elder said flatly. "Effort. Attendance. Output."
He tapped the board with a knuckle.
"Contribution."
Murmurs spread instantly.
Chen Yu watched as disciples stepped forward one by one. Names were checked. Numbers were adjusted. Some faces brightened. Others darkened.
A sharp voice suddenly rose.
"That's not right! I completed the stone-carrying task yesterday!"
A thin-faced disciple stood stiffly, fists clenched. "I should have received more."
The elder did not argue. He only gestured.
A senior disciple stepped forward, his expression bored. "You completed it late. Half credit."
"That wasn't—"
"Argue again," the senior interrupted, "and you'll lose what you earned."
Silence fell.
The thin-faced disciple's shoulders sagged as he stepped back. When his eyes passed over Chen Yu, they carried something sharp and resentful—but said nothing.
Only then did Chen Yu understand.
This was not training alone.
This was accounting.
Later, as they dispersed, Jian walked alongside him, rubbing his sore arms. "Points," he muttered. "Everything here runs on those cursed numbers."
Chen Yu did not ask what they were for. He listened.
"You eat better with more of them," Jian continued. "Train longer. Live closer to the inner grounds. Without them…" He shrugged. "You stay where you are."
"Can you earn them easily?" Chen Yu asked.
Jian laughed once. Not humorously. "If you're lucky. Or useful."
That night, Chen Yu lay on his wooden bed, staring at the low ceiling.
Useful.
The word lingered.
Over the next few days, the pattern repeated.
Training. Tasks. Recording.
Some disciples volunteered eagerly for additional work. Others were chosen without consent. Dangerous errands, heavy labor, long hours patrolling the edges of sect territory. The rewards were inconsistent. The risks were not.
Chen Yu accepted what was given and nothing more.
Not because he lacked courage—but because he was watching.
He noticed which tasks were announced openly, and which were assigned quietly. Which disciples returned exhausted yet satisfied, and which returned empty-handed despite bleeding palms.
He noticed that certain names on the board climbed steadily, while others stagnated no matter how hard they worked.
And he noticed that no one complained for long.
On the fourth day, a small commotion broke out near the training yard.
A group of outer disciples stood arguing in low voices. At the center was a stocky young man with thick brows and a confident posture. His robe bore the same markings as the others, but the way he stood marked him as different.
"That spot's mine," the man said casually. "Check the board."
Another disciple hesitated, clearly torn. "But Elder Liu said—"
"Elder Liu isn't here," the stocky man replied. "And I have more contribution."
He smiled faintly.
The other disciple stepped back.
Jian leaned toward Chen Yu. "That's Luo Fan. Ranked high among outer disciples."
"Ranked?" Chen Yu echoed.
Jian nodded. "Based on contribution and performance. It's unofficial… until it isn't."
Chen Yu watched Luo Fan take the training position without resistance.
No one challenged him.
That night, as Chen Yu passed the boards again, he found his own name etched near the bottom.
A single, modest number beside it.
Not zero.
But close enough.
He felt no disappointment—only clarity.
If this place demanded payment for progress, then ignorance would be the most expensive cost of all.
Somewhere beyond the outer grounds, deeper within the sect, lights glimmered faintly against the mountainside. Chen Yu did not know what lay there yet.
But he knew one thing.
He would need to step closer.
And to do that, he would have to learn how the sect truly measured worth.