The dust-choked square of Azure Cloud Sect's outer handyman quarters smelled of damp wood and dry grass. The stone slabs were cracked and uneven, and the wooden huts around them leaned like tired old men. In the distance, the golden spires of the inner sect glinted in the sun—a vision of beauty and power that might as well have existed in another world.
Chen Fan stood there, holding a bamboo broom, feeling as small and insignificant as a grain of sand.
Three days ago, he had left his remote village behind. He'd walked for days, carrying nothing but a few coarse buns and a heart full of hope. To him, Azure Cloud Sect was immortality itself—a chance to escape endless labor, to grow strong, to fly, to live forever.
But hope had died the moment his palm touched the spirit-testing stone.
It had stayed completely dark.
"No spiritual roots."
"No bone talent."
"No spiritual sensitivity."
The elder had waved him away like a bothersome fly. "A complete mortal. You have no place in cultivation. Go to the handyman quarters. Sweep floors. Do chores. Be grateful you have a roof over your head."
The surrounding new disciples had exploded into laughter.
"A mortal? In Azure Cloud Sect? What a joke!"
"Trash like you should go back to your fields!"
"He'll sweep for the rest of his life. No way he even touches Qi Refining!"
Chen Fan had said nothing.
He was the kind of person who took life as it came. No complaints, no protests, no desire to fight. He'd just clenched his broom and walked toward the most neglected corner of the sect.
For three days, he swept. He mopped. He cleaned latrines. He watered weeds that grew in the inner sect's flower beds, while outer disciples practiced sword arts, chanted scriptures, and absorbed spiritual energy like it was air.
He watched them from a distance, his eyes lingering on their glowing talismans, the crackle of their sword qi, the way they moved with grace and power.
It was a world away from his own.
And he truly believed he was just a useless mortal.
Until today.
The outer sect's central square rang with shouts. Dozens of disciples clustered around a wooden practice post, hacking at it with a basic sword technique called Falling Dust Sword.
It was the most useless, most looked-down-upon art in Azure Cloud Sect—a ancient move so weak even new disciples scoffed at it.
Their swings were clumsy. Their stances off. Their sword qi thin and wispy.
"Faster! You're swinging like an old woman!"
"Your form is wrong! Concentrate your Qi!"
"This is pathetic. I'll be a Qi Refining master by next month, and you're still messing up the first strike!"
Chen Fan leaned against a stone pillar, resting his broom. He watched them out of boredom, his eyes drifting over their messy forms, their frustrated grunts.
It was useless. He'd heard the disciples mutter about it—no power, no range, a waste of time.
He almost looked away.
Then a quiet thought flickered in his mind:
This move is wrong.
Not a shout. Not a jolt. Just a calm, certain truth—like how he'd always known how to plant rice just right, or how to carve wood without a single mistake.
Before he could stop himself, his hand lifted.
He'd found a rusted iron sword in the handyman's shed—weak, useless, better for chopping firewood than fighting. But he held it now, his fingers wrapping around the hilt.
And he swung.
It was a casual motion. No focus. No channeling spiritual energy. No attempt to be impressive.
Just a lazy slash, like swatting a fly.
But the moment the sword left his hand—
BZZZZZT!
A golden wave of qi exploded through the air.
A blade of pure, blinding light sliced through the wooden post in a single, clean stroke, then continued flying, slamming into a boulder ten yards away and reducing it to dust.
Silence.
Every disciple froze. Their swords clattered to the ground. Their mouths fell open.
Chen Fan stared at his hand. At the rusted sword. At the smoking boulder. At the splintered post.
At the wide-eyed disciples staring back at him.
He'd… just done that.
With a useless art.
With a rusty sword.
With zero effort.
"W-What…?" someone whispered.
Chen Fan blinked. He raised the sword again, and this time, he chose to follow the movements he'd just seen the disciples make. The same clumsy swings, the same stilted stances.
But when he swung, the golden qi became a razor-sharp blade.
When he parried, it sent a disciple flying ten feet back, stunned but unharmed.
When he blocked, it shattered a brick wall like it was paper.
He wasn't trying.
It was like walking—automatic, natural, perfect.
By the time the head handyman stormed over, red-faced and yelling, Chen Fan had already sheathed the rusted sword. He'd dropped back to sweeping, his movements slow and unassuming, as if nothing had happened.
"WHO DID THAT?!" the elder roared. "WHO DARES USE SPIRITUAL ENERGY IN THE OUTER SQUARE?!"
The disciples pointed at Chen Fan, their voices trembling. "H-He's the mortal! The handyman! He did it!"
The elder's gaze locked onto Chen Fan, sharp and furious. "You? A mortal? How dare you—"
But he never finished.
A soft golden light bloomed in Chen Fan's chest.
A hidden root, buried deep since birth, stirred awake.
His spiritual roots—long thought nonexistent—unfurled like a flower, drinking in spiritual energy until the air around him glowed.
[Ding!]
[Eternal Supreme Insight — Passive Talent Activated.]
[Effect: All skills and techniques are instantly mastered to peak level. Evolutions unlocked.]
[Hidden Chaos Root Awakened.]
[Current Realm: Mortal (Hidden Potential: Unbounded).]
Chen Fan's eyes widened.
So that was it.
He wasn't ordinary.
He wasn't trash.
He was just a mortal hiding the strongest talent in the history of cultivation.
The elder sputtered, pointing at him. "You… you're not a mortal! You're a—"
But Chen Fan just kept sweeping.
He swept dust. He swept leaves. He swept embarrassment from his face.
He kept his head down, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
So this was what it felt like to have a heaven-defying talent.
Quiet.
Easy.
Effortless.
He didn't want to cause trouble.
He didn't want to be noticed.
He just wanted to live a calm, relaxed life—sweeping, watching, learning.
But the world was not done with him yet.
A cold voice suddenly cut through the crowd.
"Stop."
It was the Sect Elder in charge of the outer sect—a tall, imposing man with a beard like snow and eyes like ice.
He stared at Chen Fan, then at the broken boulder, then at the split wooden post.
His lips tightened.
"Come with me."
Chen Fan froze.
The crowd murmured.
Disciples whispered.
Everyone thought he was about to be executed.
But Chen Fan just lowered his broom, nodded, and followed.
He had no idea where he was going.
No idea what would happen next.
No idea that his life was about to change forever.
He only knew one thing:
From this day on, the cultivation world would never be the same.
And it would all start with a simple sweep.
A quiet glance.
And a secret that had been hidden in his soul since the day he was